Leaving the door open, she jammed the key in the ignition. The car gargled to life. She pressed the button to roll down the windows. The mechanism gave a half-hearted groan and the glass fell off the track after only opening halfway.
“Crap.”
Scanning the vacant lot, she removed her student ID and ducked behind the car door for modesty’s sake, as she swapped out her scrubs for a pair of cut offs and a Jimbo’s T-shirt.
The car was still a million degrees, but she had to get moving. She hissed as the scorching upholstery burned her thighs.
The Steaming Turd—named aptly for the POS car it was—hissed through the vents in a sad attempt to push out a breeze. The air conditioner had died with Prince, and now that the windows weren’t cooperating, she was essentially driving an oven.
Ah, the real life luxuries of a late blooming college student. She relied on the Steaming Turd and, though ugly, noisy, and smelly, the old girl rarely let her down. Sure, the windows only worked when they wanted, the passenger door never unlocked, and one of the the taillights was framed in duct tape, but she loved the old girl and needed her to keep working until she finished school and got a better paying job as a medical assistant.
Sweat beaded at her hairline as she wove through traffic. Her speakers moaned as Elton John’s muffled declarations for Norma Jean scraped from the radio. Her car wasn’t equipped for the digital age, but Annalise’s voice accommodated for what the speakers and old radio lacked.
Her mother had believed that even the worst luck was the best possible outcome at any given moment, so Annalise took her misfortune in stride, always reminding herself these little challenges were preparing her for something great. That theory had worked for most of her life—until her mom passed away. In no universe had that been the best possible outcome.
The Steaming Turd rattled at a traffic light as she reached into her book bag for her water bottle. It was freaking sweltering. After a long swig, she pulled the collar of her shirt away from her chest and sniffed. Still good. The light changed and her car chugged on.
There were two weeks until graduation. She was transitioning nicely into the second year of her five-year plan. Soon she’d trade in her waitress apron at Jimbo’s for a permanent career in the medical field.
By this time next year, once her lease ran out, she’d have enough money saved to get out of her cockroach-infested apartment and move to a nicer area. Sometime in the middle of all that, she would be replacing the Steaming Turd as well. But for now, she was right where the universe wanted her to be... Stuck behind some geriatric, in the middle of rush hour, trying to make a left turn from the right lane.
“Move, you fucking asshat! It’s green!”
This too shall pass. Breathe through it.
If she kept telling herself that fortune cookie bullshit, she might eventually believe it and get over her road rage. But really, she wanted to ram her car into the one with strobing brake lights in front of her. Her stress meter had peaked around lunatic levels and she wanted to snap at every idiot that got in her way.
Glancing at the clock radio she blew out a breath. She had time. Wait. That was the same time she saw five blocks ago.
Digging in her bag, she pulled out her phone. “Fuck.” Add broken clock to the list. “Fucking go, you morons! I’m gonna be late!”
For a Thursday night, Jimbo’s was hopping. The corner bar was a well-known fixture on Street Road that somehow managed to stay afloat during Bensalem’s redevelopment stage. The same regulars occupied the same torn vinyl stools since the debut of the iPod—which they still had no interest in owning. Darts, Bud, and denim—that was Jimbo’s.
The pay was dependable, and the job was simple. Evenings consisted of flirting with men twice her age, emptying ashtrays, refilling drinks that were never fancier than draft beer, and delivering plates of greasy food.
She stashed her bag under the counter and searched for an apron. During her downtime she could study at the bar. Everyone at Jimbo’s treated her like family—a big, grizzly, flannel covered family of foul-mouthed men.
She scanned the tables, doing a quick head count and check of whose beer looked empty. Her regulars appreciated her ability to anticipate a refill before they requested one.
“Hiya, Anna,” Tim greeted, eyes glued to the game and nose plunged into his pint glass.
“Hey, Tim. Your team winning?” She had no idea who was playing.
“Not yet.”
“It’s early still.” She looked for Kyle as she tied on an apron.
“Annalise, can I get a refill?” one of the regulars asked as she cinched the ties at her back.