Uncharted An On the Island Novella by Tracey Garvis Graves
As long as you don’t look too closely.
2
chris
On Monday morning, I stop for coffee on the way to the airport. The line for the drive-through at Starbucks reaches clear around the building and tapping impatiently on the steering wheel does nothing to make it move faster. I take a deep breath and remind myself that I’ve allowed plenty of time to get to the airport, and I’m in no danger of missing my flight.
Stopping at this Starbucks has become part of my new routine, and worrying about my rapidly increasing caffeine consumption accomplishes nothing, so I don’t. I don’t let myself worry about all this travel, either. I didn’t have any choice. Claire understands; she gave me her blessing. Reluctantly, but still. The kids, though. That’s another story. I try my best not to think about it.
I’m grateful to be able to spend one day at company headquarters, but my cube’s chest-high walls provide zero privacy. I loathe open-plan offices, but a lot of the big software companies have embraced it like it’s the next big thing. Whoever said it was better for company morale and collaboration has never tried to get anything done. The constant interruptions are a productivity killer, at least for me, which is why I don’t arrive at the office earlier than 8:00 a.m. on Fridays; I get more done at home.
I miss my old company, which had one thousand fewer employees than this one. I miss my old office, with its four real walls and a door that closed.
I miss my kids and my house, and even though she probably wouldn’t believe me if I told her so, I miss Claire.
I miss a lot of things.
3
daniel
Traffic is light on the parkway a little after 10:00 a.m. on Monday morning. Drivers who aren’t speeding slow down anyway, and the ones who are going too fast slam on their brakes when they notice my police car in their rearview mirrors. I pull them over and listen to the same worn-out excuses before I write them a ticket. A man wearing a three-piece suit and driving a BMW rolls his eyes and mutters under his breath when I hand over the citation for speeding. I stand there until he looks at me. “Slow down,” I say, and I don’t smile when I say it.
The next car I pull over has a woman behind the wheel. She gets pissy almost immediately, exhaling loudly and glancing at her watch like I’ve ruined her morning on purpose. “Do you have any idea how fast you were going, ma’am?” My guess is no, because using her rearview mirror to apply her makeup and talking on the phone probably used up all her awareness. “The speed limit on this stretch is fifty-five. I clocked you going seventy.”
She opens her mouth, ready to protest, but then hands me the documents I asked for and sighs loudly. “I’m going to be late,” she says. She pulls a lipstick out of her purse and goes to town on her mouth as I walk back to my car.
I patrol the parkway until lunchtime and then pull into Subway to grab a sandwich and a Coke to take back to the station. Later I’ll head toward the suburbs, hoping that it’s quiet and that there are no unpleasant surprises waiting for me, like a missing child or a domestic dispute.
I think back to the woman I pulled over the other day. The pretty blonde in the SUV with a burned-out taillight. I remember her smile and how nice she was.
And how for the rest of my shift I kept picturing her face because she reminded me so much of Jessie.
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Tracey Garvis Graves, Uncharted An On the Island Novella
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