Lost in Thought

Chapter 3

Climbing in the car the next morning, I try to reason with myself. "Today will be okay," I think as I close my eyes. Even as I was thinking it, I knew I was just lying to myself. I turn the key in the ignition and slowly back out of my space, starting my trek into hell. It's only Tuesday and already not sure who I will make it through the entire week.

The drive was the same boring, uneventful drive it always is. Smooth and calm until the bottleneck leading into the downtown area. Sitting in what equates to a multi-lane parking lot, I notice my radio is starting to buzz and break up. The radio show I had been listening to has now been replaced almost exclusively by static with the faint sound of the radio host's voice chiming in once in a while.

The static intensifies for a moment before it happens. "Peter," the radio says. I freeze. Did the radio just say my name? Maybe the hosts of the show I had been listening to were talking about someone named Peter and it just happened to cut in at that moment. I'd had moments where I felt like I might be going crazy, but I would always quickly realize that my mind was playing tricks on me.

Inching forward with the "flow" of traffic, I shake the moment from my mind. It's the show cutting in and out. It has to be. We'll move forward little by little and I'll be back in range. The static will disappear and the show will resume. All will be normal once again.

The static gained and lost intensity like waves crashing to the shore. Some moments, it was powerful, some it was feeble. I began growing impatient with both the traffic and the radio. If only we could just move forward a little more so this static would dissipate.

Then it happened again. "Peter," said the radio. A voice continued to speak, but the message cut in and out. "Peter...hear me...isn't what you..." the static fizzed and popped once again. Suddenly, it seemed out of control. The sound became more and more harsh, seemingly on the verge of deafening me. I tried to turn down the volume, but regardless of what the screen read, it just got louder and louder. And just as suddenly, it was gone. Replaced by the sound of the talk show hosts, bantering about whatever the topic of the hour was. I sat there puzzled, wondering if my mind had finally betrayed me.

From behind me, a car horn blared and I was jolted from my trance. My gaze shifted up from the radio to the road in front of me. I hadn't noticed that traffic had begun to move a bit more briskly and there was a sizable gap between myself and the car in front of me. Giving the car a little gas, I caught up to the rest of traffic.

My mind raced as I pulled into my parking spot. It had been the entire time since a weird voice spoke to me on the radio. After that thought entered my head, I stopped for a second and looked at myself in the mirror. I still looked the same, so I wasn't obviously hallucinating or delirious. Maybe I'd suffered brain damage at some point. I was looking for some kind of logical answer to explain what had just happened, but for the life of me, I couldn't find it.

A short walk later, I was at my desk pulling off my coat when it hit me: the stress. It had to be the stress. Of course it was. I mean, after all, life at work sucks and then I go home to the worst person in the world living above me and even the cops are basically crapping on me when all I'm asking for is a little help. The stress of it all had finally pushed me into crazy territory and now I was hearing people talking specifically to me on the radio. If Hulk weren't the only other thing in my life that loved me, I'd swear I was about to be committed and it would have absolutely been the right thing to do. I was losing my mind.

To be fair, I kind of envisioned that this is how my life would go. I'd muddle through life unhappily and end up in psych ward somewhere, flinging my poo at the orderlies trying to get me to take my latest batch of pills. I'd desperately tell everyone that they had it wrong, that I wasn't crazy and I needed to be released immediately. They would naturally ignore my cries for help, assuming I was just the crazy guy rambling on and on again. Then they'd throw in the padded room and let me bounce it out. The idea of a padded room appeals to the eight-year-old in me, though he obviously has no idea how not-awesome those rooms actually are.