One Pacific Away

1 || Elissa

I'm so going to be late for work.

But before I get murdered by my boss, I have just one thing to say: LA traffic is no joke. As in, no ha-has or gut-busting laughter anywhere. More like cusses and swears everywhere. 

Three accidents in eight miles. Very swear-worthy, especially when it's 7:30 in the morning.*¹

"Hurry up..." I mutter under my breath. The traffic starts moving a little, at about the pace of a sick snail.

Frankly, I'm just glad the traffic is moving.

Horns sound all around me as I gradually inch towards the nearest exit and pull out gratefully. Thank God I'm out of that hellhole. Now to get to work as fast as possible.

Nope. Not physically possible. I'm still going to be five minutes late, even if I go without my morning double shot espresso.

Or will I?

I swerve down the nearest avenue, taking a shortcut that will probably shave those five minutes off my previously traffic-laden commute. "Thanks, LA streets," I say out loud, grinning.

As I drive past my favorite cafe, London Fog, I'm wishing that I had the time for that double shot espresso. Sadly, I don't. If I don't stop driving, I'm going to be late for work. And my boss will kill me and I will die a bloody death, leaving behind little to nothing.

I almost don't notice the red light. I slam on the brakes, groaning. Another minute wasted. I have seven minutes to get to work now.

Making a left, I see my work building come into view. "Yessss," I mutter under my breath. "Come to Mom."

I pull into the medium-sized parking lot next door to work, driving up and down the rows of cars for a parking spot. Five minutes. Crap. My cubicle is on the third floor. I'm going to be late. I'm totally going to be late. I'm definitely...

Then suddenly, as if somehow my fairy godmother from above had performed a miracle, I see a parking space. A very compact one at that, but still a parking space. 

So I do the most sensible thing to do: I drive forward as fast as I can in a parking lot so that I can snag that space. No way am I letting anyone else get that precious space just so they can be a whole hour early.

But just as I put my car in reverse, all ready to back into the glorious space, I see something. A baby blue Fiat-shaped something with the license plate PRTYGRL.

"Fuck!" I slam a hand onto the dashboard. That Fiat belongs to Kirsty Theodore. Otherwise known as the biggest suck-up in my department. Everyone hates her...except for our boss. One popular office joke theory is that she bribed him with two cases of Fig Newtons.*²

I turn around fiercely and go back the way I came. Thank God the curb is wide open. I pull up beside a non-red area and park my car, then check my phone.

Three. Fucking. Minutes.

Getting out of my car as fast as possible, I slam the door, work my key into the trunk lock, and twist. It doesn't move. I jiggle it around a few times. "Damn it, damn it, damn it..."

It gives way and I swing the trunk open, the top almost hitting the rear windshield. I ignore the near death of the rear window and pull out my backpack, dark red plaid. I've had it since junior year in college. It's survived. Somehow.

I dash to the glass doors, fumble in my backpack's front pocket for my ID lanyard, and mumble a hurried "hi" to the security guard. I slap my lanyard on the barrier sensor, which beeps loudly. It doesn't let me through.

"Damn, damn, damn, damn..." I slap the lanyard down again. This time, it lifts and I hurry through. Two minutes. No way am I going to make it.

Well, maybe if I run.