Food for Vultures

I need new tires on my car.

Their treads are worn flat and their sides are cracking.

I get paid in a week. I can afford to replace them then.

Life is expensive. New city. New job. New apartment. And now this?

I’m at my desk and I’m fiddling with my keys.

I’ve finished my work and now I’m contemplating.

When will I start getting medical school interview offers? Will they even come? How long will I have to wait to get a series of heartbreaking emails? Another week? Another three months?

I get up and leave work early to beat the traffic.

I see my car in the garage and inspect the tires. They could blow at any second.

Oh well.

I get in and head toward the highway. Cars everywhere. Bumper to bumper.

I put on a podcast.

The president is getting impeached, the world is literally drowning, and the country is in a bottomless pit of debt.

Yikes. That’s tough.

I shuffle some music instead.

My car ride is smooth through the slow traffic.

Each tired tire is doing just enough to keep up.

One giving out is all it would take and then the whole world would have to stop for me to fix it.

I don’t want those eyes on me.

Everyone is moving at five miles per hour for as far as I can see, so I pull out my phone.

Status update.

My last love is with a new man. I’ve only ever seen her look at me like that.

I stop. Open the door. Vomit.

Food for vultures.

I ignore the looks of neighboring cars and slam on the gas until I’m back at five miles per hour.

After an hour I pull into my driveway.

I get out of my car and inspect all four tires.

You did just enough to get through today, I tell them.

Just give me one more week, I ask, then I promise I’ll get ya fixed.