WHEN THE CLOUD LIFTS

She was on her way to work.  The commute took an hour and twenty minutes, so she needed to leave her apartment by half past six in the morning.  That would put her in the parking lot of the bank by ten to eight, just enough time to put her lunch in the refrigerator, hang up her coat, stash her purse, and clock in.  It was always a rush, the bank guard standing at the door, waiting to open it for employees and lock it again as they passed through.  She would say, “Hello, Whittaker, nice day, isn’t it?”  And he’d reply, as he always did, “Gorgeous.”  Even if it were snowing.  Then, after punching in, she’d go to her window, check the bills for the right amounts in each denomination, then do the coins, make sure her computer was up, run through all the pages she would call up during the day to make sure everything was operating; then she’d do the routine housekeeping, which involved checking on the deposit and withdrawal slips in their bins, the pens in their cups, the information sheets with current interest amounts for CDs, Gold Checking, and Savings Accounts.  When all was done, she had fifteen minutes for a cup of coffee with the other women.  Then the guard unlocked the doors, and people would start coming in. 

     That was her day.  It was as unvarying as the clock on the wall behind her.  It depressed her only when she thought about it, which she tried not to do when she was driving, especially when she was in heavy rush-hour traffic.  Most especially in the morning.  She was regretting not taking a cup of coffee with her this morning.  She bought Starbuck’s French Roast whole beans and ground her coffee every morning, making enough to take a cup with her to sip while she was inching along to work.  The coffee soothed her because she loved the taste of that French Roast.  And every time she sipped from her stainless steel travel cup she smiled at the thought of the difference between what that cup cost her to make at home and what it cost at the local Starbuck’s.  She figured it out one day driving to work, doing the numbers in her head.  At home, each cup cost her twenty-four cents, but at the coffee shop the same cup cost three fifty-nine.  Always the practical one, and always the penny pincher, she felt both wise and thrifty when she thought about it, and that made her enjoy the coffee more.  But this morning she was so rushed, she didn’t have time to grind the beans and brew the coffee, so she just had a glass of milk with a slice of toast, put on her make-up, and dashed out of the apartment.  She thought of the coffee the women made at the bank, which was more like tea than coffee, tasteless and barely dark enough to obscure the bottom of the cup.  There was a Starbuck’s in the neighborhood of the bank, and at lunchtime she would have to run over there and get her coffee then.

     At the moment, however, her thoughts took flight as the cars in front of her suddenly slowed to a stop.  She hit the brakes, holding tightly to the wheel, and cursed under her breath.  She wouldn’t have to pay any penalty for getting in late.  Everyone who worked there commuted, even the manager, and they all faced the same problems coming in.  Whenever there was an accident, or a road crew repaired a stretch of road, or a truck slowed to a crawl on a long upslope, with everyone’s trying to get around it making conditions worse, someone would call in on her cell and explain the holdup, and one of the women at the bank would punch her in just before eight.  This happened so often it was routine.  No one troubled about it.  But the slowing down and stopping irritated her.  It made her feel like she was wasting her life.  Nothing hit her with that feeling harder than getting stuck in traffic on the way to work in the morning. 

     She was twenty-seven years old, hadn’t dated in months and months, didn’t even have a man in her life right now, and had few opportunities of meeting anyone.  Sitting on the highway seemed without her even thinking about it like an exact expression of the state of her life, and so she huffed and puffed, shook her head, and made a little moan.  Just then her cell began to chirp. 

     She lifted it out of her purse on the seat beside her.  She was stopped on the highway at the moment, so she looked at the LCD to see who was calling.  It was her friend Sandy. 

     “Hello,” she said, putting the phone to her ear.

     “Marge,” Sandy said, her voice sounding all excited.  “Guess what.  I went out with Rod Flanders last night.  He took me to dinner and we went to a show afterward!”

     “Great,” Marge said.

     “He wanted to go to the Highland Lounge after the movie and have a few drinks.  Then guess what, Marge.”

     “What?”

     “He asked if I was free next weekend and would I like to go to the Hamptons, he has a friend we could stay overnight with.”

     “Wow, Sandy, sounds like you’ve got your car started and you’re just rumbling down the highway!”

     “Oh, Marge, don’t get sarcastic.  I thought you’d be excited for me.”

     “I’m so excited, Sandy, I can’t breathe!”

     The cars in front of her began to move, just rolling at first, but after a few seconds beginning to pick up speed.  She tended to the road and stayed with the traffic, but she had to deal with Sandy as well, and doing both taxed her.

     “Listen, I’m on my way to work and the traffic is heavy.  I’m glad for you Sandy.  I am.  But I need to concentrate on the road.”

     “Ok, I’ll ring off.  But your sarcasm has hurt me, Marge, I just want you to know that.”

     “Go stand in the sunshine, Sandy, and get glad.  Maybe Rod will pass by and ask what you’re doin’.  Bye for now.”

     Sandy had a way of rubbing her success with men in her face, and she worked hard at suppressing her jealousy.  This guy, Rod, came out of nowhere.  He more or less bumped into Sandy in the parking lot of the supermarket and started up a conversation.  Now she’s going to the Hamptons with him.  Things like that never happened to her.  And Sandy was a skinny, meek looking blond, while she was tall, full bodied—though not fat—and auburn-haired.  It killed her.  Nobody ever came into the bank and started a conversation with her, asking her out to dinner and a movie, and then to the Hamptons.  It killed her.

     Traffic picked up to near normal speeds as she dropped her cell into her purse.  Good, she thought.  Moving again.  Getting somewhere.  Getting nowhere, really, she thought.  Sandy’s call was just what she needed right now, feeling low already over the state of things in her life.  Now she felt really down.  She thought she would stop at Starbuck’s before going to the bank, since she was going to be late anyway.  Might as well, she thought.  And just then traffic slowed down again, from fifty to forty, then to thirty, and now, once more crawling to a stop.  Damn, she thought.  What is going on?  There must be something blocking thru traffic up ahead.  She thought about getting off the highway, but she realized that once she got onto the county roads, traffic lights every intersection would slow her down to a walk, and she had at least fifteen more miles to go.  

     As she sat in the middle lane of the highway, she looked out her driver’s side window and noticed a man sipping coffee from a travel mug just like hers.  He was middle aged, bald, weary looking.  She looked out the other window to her right and saw a guy looking at her.  He appeared to be her own age, had black hair and a short stubble-length beard, and smiled broadly at her when she glanced at him. 

     “Hmmm,” she said to herself, smiling back at him.  She looked ahead at the car in front of her, then looked at him again and nodded, smiling.  He nodded back but then looked ahead as traffic began to roll again.  She did the same.  Over the next fifteen minutes, they stayed side by side in traffic, then, as they approached the exit for Wantagh, he actually waved goodbye as he steered his car up the ramp.    

     “Well,” she thought, perked up and alert, “that was interesting!” 

     It was the first time anything like that had happened.  She smiled to herself, thinking of how Sandy met Rod.  “Hey, Sandy,” she imagined herself saying, “Guess what!  I met this guy on the highway, and he asked me to go to Paris with him!”  That made her laugh.  Sandy would fall down dead.  She laughed out loud.  She laughed out loud now.  Her mood had changed.  She felt fine.  She noticed the brightness of the morning and wondered that she hadn’t noticed it until now.  Her exit was coming up.  In ten minutes she would be counting bills.  That thought took her smile away, and suddenly the day seemed dull again.