The Commute

He just couldn’t find the darkness. Seaman Johnson squeezed his eyes shut. All because of that fucking streetlamp, always humming. He could see the reds of his eyes, veins webbed, pumping blood, sapping it from his brain. It made it hard to think, hard to sleep. His heart thrummed inside his chest. Pounding.

Just as he began to drift, his alarm sounded. With a start, his hand sailed from beneath the unwashed comforter narrowly missing the empty bottles as he fumbled for the right button. Now, any serenity was lost. The haze dissipated, and the aches ebbed their way back into in his knees and spine. He lay still, his sides like iron. He could feel the sting of sleeplessness around his eyes. He imagined a ring of molten lead placed upon each eye as they sunk into his skull. He knew the longer he took, the less time he had. He swung his feet to the floor, then buried his face in his hands. Just a moment. 

Stepping onto the deck, he felt a dull throb morphing into a jolt of pain, shooting up his leg. He smacked his leg like the dashboard of an old car that refused to turn over. His knees crackled as he moved, each pop a microscopic piston firing within his joints. He swiped the whisky from his nightstand and downed a handful of Motrin, before limping to the bathroom. 

In the entryway he caught his reflection. He always liked to imagine others’ rituals. The pep talks, the flexing, the fake smiles, perhaps a slap to the face. He fixated on his crow’s feet. They looked like wings poised for flight above the dark circles beneath his eyes. They came about so suddenly, yet it was as if they’d always been there.

He smeared shaving cream onto his jaw, and, as he rinsed his hands, felt the warm water trickle down his ring finger. With his thumb, he brushed the exposed skin. It felt so plain. Some guys still had permanent impressions from their rings, not him. Not even a fuckin’ tan line. 

“0423” pulsed on the microwave, the diamond-edged numbers mocking him. He’d have to hurry; muster was at 0700. His eyes fell to the crumpled uniform carelessly tossed into the corner. As he began to blouse his boots, he lamented their condition. Scuffs were embedded through the polish and into the leather. No amount of elbow grease could fix them. Ironic, the ones who did the most work always caught the most shit. He grabbed his seabag and headed for the door.

It was always fuckin’ dark. Dark when he left for work, dark when he got out of work, and dark when he got home. He only saw the sun when his friends saw theirs, on weekends and holidays. He’d have to remember that one.

His unlit cigarette bounced between his lips, as he made his way to his Civic. He wasn’t like those other assholes, blowing their enlistment bonuses on Chargers and crashing them within the week. The parking garage was a testament to their recklessness. At each level his headlights revealed more metallic carnage. Months of grueling work at sea converted into scuffed paint, bent bumpers, doors like crumpled paper, and shattered windshields. No, he’d spent it on a wedding. Should’ve just bought a fuckin’ Charger. 

He clenched his jaw and stepped on the gas. It wasn’t long before he met the usual line of cars stacked along the highway. It was a slow and cutthroat chaos. Every man for himself, right up until muster. He’d once thought about buying a bicycle, it would have undoubtedly been a faster commute, but he needed a car. Should’ve bought a fuckin’ Charger.

Soft morning jazz faded from his car radio, and the dulcet tone of a man’s voice began reading poetry. Johnson felt his body relax. The words drifted out like the silvery wisps of morning steam in early autumn, bringing him back to those mornings when his father would pull him from school to go partridge hunting in northern Maine. When it rained, his father would read to him from old novels he found in the camp. Johnson always wished he could tell stories the way those books did, but he didn’t have time to read anymore. A quick flash of red light from the car ahead caused Johnson to stomp on his brakes. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Fuck this asshole and his stupid poetry.

Johnson’s insomnia was powerless against the tidal sway of traffic. The cars eased back into a predictable rhythm and warm ruby brake lights lulled Johnson toward the sweet abyss. What’d be the harm in giving in? Maybe someone would honk, he’d be jolted awake, and continue this nightmare. Or perhaps he’d drive full speed into a telephone pole. Either sounded fine. Just as he started to succumb, the pulsing red lights began to flutter, and sirens sounded ahead.

It was a scene as common as the uniforms seated in the passing vehicles. The overhead streetlamp illuminated the road, indicating to passing gawkers that the show was underway. A nearly unrecognizable sedan, resembling a half-crumpled beer can, had beached its way onto the median. Its trunk was folded like an accordion, its rear windshield lay scattered on the roadway shimmering under the lamplight. Behind it a lifted truck with an equally concerning scuff on its bumper. Two paramedics treated someone he recognized. The lucky bastard looked fine, a broken leg or something, but severe enough to miss ship’s movement.

The old brick guardhouse was in sight now and beyond it, the harbor. Johnson remembered the first time he flew into Norfolk. It was night, and from the plane the piers looked like concrete fingers, reaching out and clutching the Atlantic like a sheet, greedily pulling it away from the rest of the world. The ships drifted purposefully about the body of shimmering ink, oblong silhouettes marked only by their dim pulses of red and white light. Waves surged against the hulls of moored aircraft carriers, the colossal sub-cities forged from steel, steam, and uranium were monuments to human ingenuity. Slumbering upon their decks the mechanical insects, their wings stowed, eagerly anticipating the next flight order. It was like they did it on purpose, flying new recruits over the harbor at night. How could you not fall in love? 

The guard clutched his rifle close to his chest and signaled for Johnson to drive forward. On his approach Johnson held up his ID. The sentry leaned forward and lowered his aviators, reflecting the lamplight into Johnson’s eyes, and forcing him to squint. His eyes shifted from the card to Johnson, then back to the card. His helmet was too big, he looked like a fuckin’ mushroom. He’s the reason a ten-minute drive took two hours. The guard stiffened and aimed his sights to the endless stream of cars that snaked down the highway before waving Johnson through.

Finally, on base and moving now. He managed to find a spot among the other enlisted peasants’ cars. Their parking lot was only a brisk mile walk from the ship. The idle time before the walk was always hardest. He might have time for a nap but the pit in his stomach kept him awake. Johnson pushed his seat back, cracked the window and stared blankly at the ceiling. He raised his hand and gazed at the plainness of his finger, lit a cigarette, and waited for the day to begin.

by Troy Ashcroft

Born and raised in Maine, Troy was brought to the Capital Region after an eight-year stint in the Navy. He’s currently a Sophomore in the English department, double minoring in creative writing and philosophy. During his time at UAlbany he’s found his passion in writing fiction and aspires to become a full-time author.