Rumbling vibrato in my throat is my beat in the morning cloud of traffic, audible only to me. I’m having a grand ol’ time, heels clicking in time with my funky vocal stylings. I’m killing it.
“Left a good job in the city…Working for the man every night and day…”
I’m groovin’ now, get a little shoulder action in there.
“Big wheels keep on turning–“
Screeching wheels, screaming horn, urgent dinging explode behind me. A tram is gliding on a collision course with a pedestrian.
The man is a zombie with earphones, gliding coolly in the spotlight of the tram’s headlights. The tram is still moving, and he isn’t reacting.
I shriek an expletive over my shoulder and recoil, convinced this is the Nightmare Moment. Morbid curiosity holds my gaze to the scene.
The tram’s nose has halted, narrowly missing the zombie’s legs. No reaction whatever; he has no idea that he almost met his maker.
Passersby look askance at me for standing in the sidewalk, taking up space. I’m part of the morning pedestrian traffic flow, how dare I deviate?
My boots click more irregularly now, and my voice is caught in the hollow of my throat. False notes squeak out: “Proud Mary keep on burnin’…”
And then there is no more music. I’ve been smacked back into reality. My eyes start burning, and I am silent the rest of the way to work.
What the hell is wrong with us?