Chapter 1: Good Morning America
Four lanes packed with stale bumper to bumper traffic awaited the morning LA commute. As though the traffic were one whole body of a cold ocean, the cars moved at a slow pace like waves without wind or the sky without rain. There were no car accidents or construction, just the simple crowdedness of people making their way to 7 a.m. to 8 p.m. day jobs in towering cubicles waiting to clock out of the cycle with an excuse following a questionable series of whys to avoid whatever office part awaited them. Sitting in her 1987 Mercedes, she held herself in a dazed position on the leather interior. Fitted with a tight business top, with its white shade and a coat made with a similar beige lining design, she tugged at her skirt at an attempt to dig further down her leg. The skirt was plaid and within the latest trends of the late 90s, but fashion wasn't related entirely with comfort; the constant hitting of car breaks and pedals made her feet begin to swell. The road along with its surroundings seemed to melt the car from within as though she were a turkey on thanksgiving morning dry and cracked from deprivation. The AC was cranked on full blast and the faint sounds of radio hosts spelling out their opinions in incoherent blabbering could be heard as she reached down in a pecking motion at her high heels. Slipping one heel off after the other, her nails began to dig into the already swollen foot. Like the start of a fan, her face began to relieve itself of all tenseness. The black pantyhose was dotted with red blisters along the bottom of her foot. It was nothing new rather, it was the modern callous of a working woman. The added height helped her in the world of business and financial literacy, but it caused an inescapable numbing pain in her toes. The car began to lurch forward once more, and after a mile or so had passed, the boredom began to emerge again. Looking into the mirror above, she poked and prodded the bumps of her skin which were stained a pale white powder from the continuous use of three or so layers of makeup and hairspray.
An eight-hour work shift awaited her day and the urge to wipe off the costume of bodily layers stung, but she couldn't call in sick, no, today was a great deal of change. Straightening out her once curled brown hair, she tied it up into a bun as an attempt to combat the summer heat and strangling effect of her locks gripping her frown. Along the wooden dashboard, papers littered the car and as the traffic came to a complete stop once more, she began to organize the heaps. Used to a life of strict scheduling and organization, the car became her small place where perfection seemed non-conducive to the three pillars of her life, those being work, happiness, and family. Family, something she never really craved as her parents had been fine tuned in work just like herself, it was something that was just more money and evermore lessening of her time. Her life was never meant to be a story of staying home in the rotten suburbs, taking care of children, or loving what is thought as appropriate only by the husband, but rather success was her purpose. Work was about to start, and the traffic seemed to sway with her schedule like the temptation of speeding down the middle path. Soon enough without any indication, the road became clear and her laze became once more the strict and resilient apparatus of productivity. Driving along she thought of nothing as boredom never occurred to her. From self-mediation, the thoughts of "what is the meaning of life" rarely accompanied her as she had learned in the beginning of business school to isolate those feelings in order to better approach any situation. It wasn't so much that she lacked emotion, rather it was a lack of compassion, and quite possibly passion for wanting to enjoy the less than perfect things of life. With pale red lips, she sped up hitting upwards of 73 mph to arrive on time. The police seemed busy as ever today, and not a single patrol could be seen.
After a few more turns onto roads with names unrecognizable, she arrived in the downtown financial district. Mumbling numbers to herself, she began to calculate figures as a systematic approach of where to park in the towering garage. Order was her religion and predictability were the desired livelihood for her. In a world built upon laws and rules that help to guide every way of life, she was prepared from birth. Society was her safety belt in the car, her flashlight in a storm. Arriving in the parking lot, she curled around the parking garage columns scanning for a spot. The light sound of the doors locking with a click broke up the sound of other cars roaming around the floors.
