16

Being a toll taker takes a toll.

Here I stand stupidly in the booth, fearful that my desperate intoxicating hopeful feeling will be dashed to pieces on the asphalt of reality. For the 30th time this month, I took her ticket, smiled and said nothing.

Tedious. Endless white noise. Long periods of dead time. Then, rows of cars, hands. Sometimes faces. Finally home to collapse.

That’s life.

My days are rote, monotonous, and empty of meaning. I know people in other jobs feel bad for me, but although they collect higher wages and get to move about a bit more, their lives are equally empty. Unlike me, they have more distractions and therefore fail to notice.

In any case, my love created a desperate sadness. Oh, to want nothing again and remain lost in a perpetual far away gaze. It was too late for that. For the first time in years, I must show initiative, take action and risk what little esteem I have left. In a day or two.

The day has come. This fool picked April 1st to talk to her.

“Good morning,” I said, a little too cheerfully.

She handed me the ticket and a bill, but looked startled at being addressed.

“Uh, good morning,” she said, speeding off before I could say more.

The next day I tried a different tactic. “Nice gloves,” I said, noting her plain black—but sleek—driving gloves. I smiled and prepared to inhale fumes.

She smiled back. “Thank you. See you tomorrow.”

Did I hear right? “See you tomorrow?!” If I wasn’t on cloud nine, I was on cloud eight and gaining altitude. It would be hard to sleep that night.

Next morning, no sign of her. Finished my cheese puffs. Cell phone down to one blinking red bar. Out of diversions. Only daydreaming.

She pulls up in the red convertible. “Hi!,” she said. “I know you like gloves so I wore fancier ones today.”

Sure enough, they were fancier. Three-toned leather with tiny tassels. But it was her perfume that reached me first. Nice. Refreshing to smell something other than motor oil.

“They’re lovely,” I stuttered. “I’d offer you some cheese puffs, but I’m fresh out.” I was clearly flustered. The conversation ended on that awkward note.

In the months that followed, the conversations became less awkward. We spent time together. We even had sex in the booth.

We’re married. Her daddy gave me a big job with his company. My wife and I go to work together. I drive the red convertible. Some might say there’s a lesson to be learned here about hope. But I think it’s just luck.

The new guy in my old booth looks almost comatose as he takes my ticket. Along with the ticket and a bill, I hand him a big bag of cheese puffs. Poor bastard. It’s the least I can do.

We drive on leaving a trail of fumes. In my rear view mirror, I see the toll taker staring into space with a weak smile.