In The Middle

Jack pulled latex gloves over his wrists and assembled the change—two ones, for those who gave him fives; two ones and a five, for those who gave him tens, and; two ones, a five, and a ten, for those who gave him twenties. As he creased the currency and constructed the piles, he glanced out the tollbooth window at the incoming sports cars, SUVs, trucks, and sedans, searching for one car in particular.

Jack’s supervisor assigned tenders to the same booths each day, and allowed employees to personalize what amounted to mini-offices. Workers who wished to decorate their interiors chose a variety of objects. The middle-aged woman in the booth to the right of Jack taped family pictures above her money drawer. Jerry, who manned the booth to Jack’s left, alway wore a Washington Redskins cap, and maintained a collection of mini bobbleheads—Michael Jordan, John Riggins, Cal Ripken, and five others. Occupants from other shifts had added Ronald Reagan, Barack Obama and Martin Luther King to the collection. On Jerry’s sixty-fifth birthday, Jack presented Jerry with a jiggling Socrates, and received a hearty, though confused, thank-you.

When Jack took the job a year ago, he’d intensely watched each approaching vehicle, unsure if it would slow down, unsure if it would enter the correct lane, unsure if it would slam into the concrete barriers in front of his booth, unsure the barriers would hold. How could you know if drivers were looking?

For Jack, a philosopher, each day provided food for thought, but spending eight hours in the middle of a super highway wasn’t always easy. Multitudes passed through each day and most drivers didn’t look him in the eye. But, the job paid well and he’d learned to cross several lanes of traffic to reach the men’s room.

Today, Jack searched for Jane. He had a crush on her. Jane wasn’t her real name, at least he didn’t think it was. He had named her Jane, as in Jane Doe, which was a bit morbid, though there was nothing morbid about Jane. The name just seemed appropriately mysterious.

Jack dreamed about Jane as he dispensed change, provided directions, counted and organized money, and cheerfully thanked each person passing through his lane. Jack had not been trained to be cheerful, but he believed everyone was basically good until life pushed them in evil directions. When he noticed weaponry attached to a Harley Davidson, he suspected the rider might be heading toward the dark side, but the feeling didn’t stop him from being friendly, as he delivered two ones and a five, though he couldn’t help staring at the rider’s tattooed arms, conscious of his own un-calloused hands. He was certain Jane had neither tattoos nor weapons.

#

Jane dragged herself out of bed and dressed for her paralegal job at Gett and Opher, a firm specializing in drunk drivers. She hated her job. She pulled on black slacks and a white knit sweater, slipped into well-polished shoes, and tied a predominantly red, silk scarf around her neck. She locked the door of her small third floor, walk-up apartment, drove to Sweet Starts drive-thru for coffee, and then past gas stations, a drug store, and a Walmart, before reaching the entrance ramp to I-95. She hummed along with the radio, which played Eric Clapton’s romantic cover, “Autumn Leaves.” On the highway, she buzzed by pine trees and mountain laurel and, now and then, small industrial plants, before arriving at the toll booths.

Jane had chosen the same Cash Only lane every morning for six months. The first time she’d been through, she’d opened her door and said to the tender, “Sorry, the window won’t go down.”

“No worries,” the tender had said with a big grin. He’d accepted her five, which she pushed through the space between the open door and the roof, and took his time handing over two ones, folded lengthwise. His eyes looked sleepy, steady, and a little sparkly when he told her to have a nice day. Distracted by the directness of the tender’s gaze, the unnatural eye contact, Jane flicked her black hair away from her forehead, closed the door, and drove away.

Today, Jane neared the toll plaza, turned down the radio, and aimed for the Cash Only lane. She glided into the space parallel to the booth and shot a bright look toward the tender. His expression reminded her of a five-year-old watching a bird hatch from an egg for the very first time. The tender stepped out of the tollbooth and carefully opened her door. Jane handed him three dollars, wishing she required change, so as to prolong her visit. She felt a giggle bubbling up from deep inside. There was something about this guy, who was younger than most tenders, and much better looking in an undernourished sort of way, neatly disheveled. Other toll tenders were polite, but this guy oozed authenticity, mindfulness. When he told her to enjoy her day, she looked him straight in the eye and said she would.

At three o’clock, Jane sat at her computer studying breathalyzer results, wishing it was five o’clock and the work day was over. In her job, Jane saw too many reckless people with no remorse, and had noticed an inverse relationship between the amount of money intoxicated drivers invested in their defense, and how little regret they had for their foibles. She did not believe people were basically good. Her boss, Mr. Opher, appeared to have downed more than a few bottles of gin himself, but was well known for successfully reducing charges, sentences, and fines.

Jane had become a paralegal because she couldn’t decide on a college major and was fearful of college debt. She’d enrolled in paralegal school online, correctly believing the profession would allow her to afford an apartment of her own, though she still could not afford courses at the local private university. She’d been married briefly. Her husband, Larry, had moved into her apartment, but then moved out before they’d found a place large enough for two. Outside of work, Jane read history books and never tired of learning, secretly hoping she was privately pursuing the equivalent of a four year degree. Her favorite topic was the American Civil War, which she believed was still being fought.

#

After parking in the underground garage, Jack rode the elevator to the apartment building’s fifth floor. He marched down the thinly carpeted hallway to number 513, dangling a plastic bag, which contained a bottle of wine and a frozen dinner. After an eight hour day in the booth, he looked forward to sitting on his tiny balcony and staring out at the distant blue hills. He ate an early dinner, cleared the dishes, and brought his laptop from the bedroom. He’d been working on his dissertation, “Philosophy, Linguistics and Love,” for two years. The process gave focus and structure to his life, and he knew if he didn’t finish, he would never secure a university position. He read the first few lines of the introduction aloud to himself.

“This dissertation is based on the hypothesis that the use of the word love for so many types of relationships prevents meaningful conversation, shared assumptions, and logical thoughts about love. Philosophy has historically sought to prove many suppositions about love, as they relate to partners, friends, spouses, parents, children, and God, but the job in modern society is more complex. People say they love their new car or they love their book group. My own parents love their poodle, Lucy, in a certain way that I don’t completely understand. I’m not sure if I should be jealous or not. I once thought a beautiful young woman loved me, but then was told she didn’t. Maybe she only loved me the way she loved her book group, a collection of women known for raucously eating and drinking, rather than discussing literature.”

Jack paused to retrieve the wine bottle from the kitchen, thinking about Jane. He wondered if she drank. Probably in moderation. He was bringing logic and love together in his thesis, but did it matter in the real world? Jane epitomized all Jack personally knew about the force of love. She was a delightful movie playing over and over again, strapped into the small dented car with the broken window, always driving a notch too fast. Jack wrote three pages, all indirectly about Jane. He contrasted the physical and emotional effects of romantic love with the love of shopping. There were some commonalities, he asserted, but when a customer left a store, the sights and smells and ability to feel the merchandise disappeared. Jane didn’t need to be present for Jack to feel the accidental brush of her hand, or to conjure her saintly gaze. He thought about her when he extinguished the lights and closed his eyes. He could see her face peeking through her slightly open door, black hair, blue eyes, soft looking skin, long slim, filed, unpolished, fingers.

#

At the end of the day, Jane drove home, made an egg salad sandwich with lettuce and tomato, and poured a glass of white wine. Her apartment was in an old, wood-frame house, three large rooms and a bath. Some of the kitchen appliances were turquoise blue, some mustard yellow, and the floors, mostly covered with braided rugs, had been painted several times.

Jane craved the quiet after dealing with clients, colleagues and court officials all day. She didn’t even turn on music. Instead, she drew a bath in the clawfoot tub, picked up a Hemingway novel set during the Spanish Civil War, and eased herself into the hot water. All civil wars interested Jane, who feared her own country might again decide that tearing itself apart was the patriotic thing to do. But the Hemingway book was a love story, not just history. Before she started to read, she wondered if she and Jack would always have a drive-by relationship. Maybe it didn’t matter. Her interactions with Jack brightened her outlook on life. Maybe that was enough. She read and thought and then thought more. She liked to think—it was one of the reasons Larry left her.

“You spend too much time analyzing life and not enough time enjoying it” he’d said. In fact, he’d said that on their wedding night. More than once.

Jane’s final words to Larry still satisfied her.

“You preferred intelligent women until you lived with one. Me!”

“Actually, I still like intelligent women, the ones who are smart enough not to make it obvious.” he’d replied.

It wasn’t funny at the time, but over drinks with Jane’s girlfriends, there’d often be a contest to see who could do the best imitation of Larry delivering the line. Sometimes he was portrayed as a monster, sometimes a twit.

Jane imagined Jack in his home. Maybe it was in Baltimore, near where she worked, perhaps in the historic district, in an old house, not updated. Maybe he had a successful architect girlfriend who knew the correct name for every feature of the building. Maybe they lived a quiet life. He was definitely not the carousing type.

#

Jack rose at 6:00 to a pelting rain. He put on the kettle to make coffee in his plastic french press, and then sent the previous night’s pages to the printer. He made a ham sandwich and packed it in his scuffed up backpack, along with the pages. While the coffee steeped, he gobbled a piece of toast, then filled a thermos, speeding through his routine in order to be at work by 7:00.

He drove on a secondary road which paralleled a reservoir. When he got close to the entrance ramp for I-95, he turned into a motel parking lot. Behind the motel, was the unmarked road that led to the employee parking and the toll booths. It was raining hard and all the gray made the outside walls of the booths appear more neon than usual. Deep puddles formed in the lanes and Jack wished he’d worn boots. He took up his position exactly on time, and shortly after, the first of the nearly two thousand drivers he would encounter that day, pulled up and pushed money toward him, most not saying Hello, Good Morning, or Thank-you.

#

Jane felt exhausted, even more so when she saw the morning rain. She rarely watched television, but the night before, she’d stumbled onto an internet documentary about cliff jumping. She thought the sport both ridiculous and intriguing. Were these men and women jumping to get away from something or to get to something? The photography had been breathtaking, but she couldn’t imagine herself stepping off the cliff. Wishing she’d gone to bed earlier, she treated herself to three mini-donuts at the Sweet Starts drive-thru.

It was 8:30 when Jane finished her second donut, licked her fingers, and waited behind five other cars in the Cash Only Lane. Jack stepped out as usual, but his elbow caught his lunch bag and sent it splashing into the deep puddle beside Jane’s car. Jane opened her door and picked up the bag, but the bottom gave out and sandwich fell into oily water. She peered at Jack through her half-open door.

“You can’t eat that.”

“No, guess not.”

“Here, I have an extra donut. It will keep you going for a little while.”

“I don’t want to take your food.” he said, though he looked as if he wanted to take her food.

“I don’t need it.” Jane said. “I insist.”

Someone blew their horn. Jane handed Jack the bag containing the third donut and the three dollar fare, closed her door, and watched Jack return to the booth to activate the green light. As she drove away, she saw him carefully place the donut on a stack of papers.

Jane felt her relationship with Jack had reached a new level. This made her generally happier, but more irritated with her boss, who often stood beside her and rested a hand on her shoulder. It felt more creepy today.

“You’ve been working hard. Why don’t you let me buy you a drink after work?”

“No thanks, Mr. Opher.”

“Mr. Opher? You know I’d rather you call me Bill.”

“I’ll be finished with this draft by the end of the day, Bill.”

“And then you’ll let me buy you a glass of wine?”

“I think I said no thank-you. Now, I’m just saying no. If that’s a problem, perhaps you and I and Mr. Gett should sit down and review my responsibilities?”

“Well, I…Well, you seem tired today. No problem. By the way, great job on the O’Brien brief.”

“Thank-you, Mr. Opher.”

Jane wondered how much longer she could stay at the firm. She needed the money, and in a few long months, she’d have enough to move north where the summers weren’t so oppressive. But her boss was a jerk.

#

Jack and Jane had lengthier conversations after the food sharing incident. Jane listened to Jack suggest ways to fix her window, while they both eyed the growing number of vehicles lining up behind Jane’s car. One day, Jane noticed Jack was listening to Willy Nelson.

“I love Willy Nelson, especially his version of “Stardust.” she said.

Jack appeared absorbed in thought for several seconds before he finally replied.

“Yeah, to me he’s a truth teller.” he said.

Each considered asking the other to meet somewhere away from the highway, but neither did. Jane, despite her attraction to Jack, had sworn, after Larry, that she was through with serious commitments. Perhaps her attraction to Jack was simply a way to compensate for the fact that her place of employment, where she spent most of her life, was unsatisfactory?

As for Jack, it was the love thing. He understood that Jane could love coming to his toll lane, that she could love their conversations, that she could love feeling a bit special. But that didn’t mean she was falling in love with him. That didn’t mean she wanted to change a thing. She might love things just the way they were.

#

Two weeks later, Jane approached Jack’s lane, dressed for a job interview. She wore a navy blue suit with a Mandarin collar, a teal silk blouse underneath, and a pearl necklace. She’d posted her resume online and received an interview request from a Family Law establishment with offices in Baltimore and Boston.

When Jane was parallel to Jack’s Cash Only booth, she was met with a blank stare from a woman in her fifties wearing blue eye shadow. Jane opened her door and pushed a twenty through the gap above the window, paused to process the situation, and then explained her window was broken. The woman took her money and gave change. Jane, disoriented, hesitated again before shutting the door and driving past the green light. She glimpsed Jack in the booth to her left, where he extended his arm downward toward a silver Corvette. Why had he deserted her? She wished she had a donut, to help her be calm, to help her think.

Jack was not in his booth because the Supervisor had decided, after attending a training, that rotating positions would increase efficiency. Jack was grumpy and distracted, and constantly turned to look at the next lane for a Jane sighting. Several times, impatient drivers beeped their horns or waved their money to get his attention. He was polite, but didn’t look at anyone’s face. When he noticed the blue Chevy and the blurred image of Jane, he felt lonely and trapped, his space suddenly smaller. He wanted to smash Jerry’s bobble heads.

Jane drove north, but veered off the highway at the first exit. Her change lay in her lap— two ones, a five, and a ten. She turned left and drove over the highway to reverse direction, to drive back south. In five minutes, she was in the southbound Cash Only lane, receiving two ones, after shaking her five at a grey-haired man with a Baltimore Orioles baseball cap. Proceeding one exit south, she turned around again and headed north. She slowly approached the toll plaza for the third time that morning, veering toward the booth containing Jack.

Jack wore a look of amazement when he stepped from the booth. He didn’t open the door for Jane. Instead, he stepped out and marched around the front of Jane’s car, then stopped, returned to the booth for his backpack, then jogged around the headlights. He opened the car door and slid into the passenger seat. Jane put the car in park, but revved the engine. Both had questions they decided not to ask.

“Willie Nelson?” said Jack, pulling a CD from his backpack and sticking it in the player.

Jane put the car in gear, nodded, and drove them off to a new life in the fast lane, “On the Road Again” playing in the background.

Acknowledgement: This story was first published online at Typishly.com.