Hello?

            The roads were mostly deserted except for the occasional freight truck speeding along on the other side of the double, yellow line. It was a two lane passer-by with tall evergreens decorating both sides of the road. Street lights were strategically placed at every mile.
            Don shifted the steering wheel as the road began to bend right. His other hand lay limp on the window sill with a cigarette resting nicely between his two fingers. Lying slightly beside him on the black leather seat, was a street map. The map outlined the outskirts of Nesting Park Lane.
The street’s lights grew closer to each other marking every quarter mile now. Don took a lick from his cigarette as his speedometer read 110 mph. The black corvette blared past a street sign: Nesting Park Lane one mile. Don swiped his handkerchief from his breast pocket to wipe the sweat from the nape of his neck. As his arm tangled from the window sill,he let his cigarette drift behind him in the wind. Slowing slightly to 80 mph, Don made a quick turn, and took his foot off the gas pedal for the first time in the past hour.
            He rolled into a poorly paved parking lot, maneuvering into the first available spot, and turned off the ignition. Taking in the white moonlight, he pulled out his second cigarette, inhaling the tobacco smoke. He closed his eyes letting the eerie silence drip over him. A coo circled through the trees, as Don drifted into a steady sleep.
            Dawn was breaking, as the vibration of his telephone quivered in his pocket.
            “Hello,” Don said answering it, his voice rough.
            “Don? Oh my goodness, I’m so glad you are okay!” the lady exclaimed, her voice wavering.  Don pulled back his shirt sleeve to reveal a wristwatch that read 8:00 am.
            Tipping back his head, Don replied, “Yes, ma’am, I’m fine.”
            The breathing on the other line became more rapid as she stated, “Fine, that’s it? That's all you have to say to me? I’ve been waiting patiently for the past 12 hours, waiting for this stupid, old landline to ring and yet-”
            Breaking his wife’s sudden rant, he inserted, “I understand, I just went for a little drive to clear my head.”
            “Clear your head! You went on a drive to clear your head, and yet ironically you have sent my head spinning, worrying about your well-being,” she was almost yelling at this point, “Where are you?”
            “Just at this park, right outside town, maybe 20 miles out,” irritated.
            “Do you even have enough gas to make it home in one piece or do I need to send AAA to come pick you up?” returning to the tone she used, when she first rang.
            “No, I don’t need some mechanic picking me up, and I especially don’t need you calling to scold me like I’m a sixteen year old,” almost yelling at this point.
            “You listen to me, Donald, get your butt in gear, instead of driving all over this god forsaken town,” yelling, now, too.
            Not looking to argue anymore, he hung up the phone, and lit another cigarette.
            Don peered out his windshield into the army of evergreens that lay before him. Taking another lick from his cigarette, he clutched the cell phone in his hands. He peered down at the screen to see one missed call from his wife, two minutes ago. He rolled down the window and let the breeze sting the outer corners of his face. He glanced one more time at the telephone, and within an instance, chucked it out the window.  Assuming that the AAA guy was probably on his way, he pulled out of the parking lot, leaving what was left of his home behind
…
            All tucked up in his black, cotton suit and red, patterned tie, Don piled into his black corvette. His body had become in tuned with this commute, taking the first left and second right, without even a thought of hesitation. Pulling into the parking spot marked by his name, he turned off the ignition. His wife’s voice rang clear in his ear, “Sweetheart, make sure to be home by dinner; I have a special announcement.” Shaking his head, he can only imagine what her “special” announcement could be. Probably a new roast recipe she found in her cookbook this morning.
            How had his life become so predictable? The finely dressed wife, with a roast in the oven, in a two bedroom cottage wedged perfectly between two other two-bedroom cottages. The only redeeming grace in this typical world, was a news column he was able to call his.
…
            The world was an opened road, filled with twists and turns but no sense of direction. Don was nearing 80 mph, 80 miles out of town, 80 miles away from his inescapable future.
            Driving is easy. It’s your stew to manipulate, turning left, driving forward, and reversing its all dependent on you. Why wasn’t life this easy?
            Don was reaching the city limits when his glove compartment sprung open. Papers went flying as he sped towards the side of the road. His eyes traced along the intricately webbed words. Flashes of “I’m sorry” and “congratulations” were printed on the papers, a jobless, soon to be father is definitely not the exit he chose to take.
            While folding the papers back into his glove compartment, he reached for another cigarette, hoping to flood his past couple days with clouds of smoke. However, even the densest cloud could not disguise the bassinet that was rocking back and forth, shaking every nerve ending.
…
            Don pulled into the driveway at precisely 5:00 pm, mentally preparing himself for the awful conversation he was about to have with his wife. Grabbing one last deep breath, Don reached for his brief case, and began climbing the concrete steps.
            He opened the door to reveal a very impatient Sally with an envelope in her hand. Fluffing her dress, she ran to Don’s side, lightly placing a kiss on his cheek.
            While she handed him the envelope Don commented, “What's this?”
            “Will you just open it; I’ve been waiting all day!” she said rapidly, almost jumping up and down.
            “Alright, alright,” Don responded, ripping the envelope open to reveal a small, white card with a baby rattle on it.
            “We’re pregnant,” she shrieked.
            Don stood unwavering, letting his eyes rest on the small, round rattle. Pregnant, the word echoed around in his head. His knees began to shake, and he faltered to the ground.
            “Sweetheart, are you alright?” Sally said concerned, while reaching down to checking his forehead for a temperature.
            “Sally, I was laid off," Don panted.
            “What? I thought the meeting was a promotion,” Sally said shocked,helping Don to his feet, “Well, there are other jobs, and this isn’t the end.”
            “Sally, we’re expecting," annoyed at her rational tone.
            “Not for another 7 months, I’ll just call my father, and he’ll get you a job in the mailroom,” confident in her response.
            “The mailroom, Sally, are you joking? I’m not a mail man,” disgusted at the recommendation.
            “Well excuse me-"
            Before she could finish her sentence he grabbed his coat, and headed towards the car.
…
            Writing was like driving you were in charge. You have the steering wheel resting neatly beneath your hands, directing the flow of the story. Writing was easy; writing for someone else was the hard part. All Ken wanted was your basic news piece on the re-opening of Nesting Park Lane. Don was already on a thin ice after his controversial piece on suburban life. The last straw was with Don’s final remarks “Nesting Park Lane is a symbol of our wasted tax dollars.”
…
            “Don, this paper is the voice of the people, and I’m afraid your voice is just not that of the people, we are going to have to let you go,” Ken stated, sitting promptly under the fluorescent lighting of his office.Grasping a number two pencil, Don sat quietly letting the silence seep into the empty space. So keen to the punch, Ken had been waiting for this moment. Tall and mighty he looked down at Don as if he was a feeble, little mouse ready to be snatched. Smirking at this weak mouse he had made his nest out of a bed of illusions, and held Don's neck between his curling talons.
Fed up by Ken's satisfaction, Don slammed his pencil on the desk, and said, "Come on, Ken, how long do you want to keep feeding people lies?"
"Don, get out!"  shouted the vulture, crushing the neck of the small mouse.
...
"This isn't the end" complimented the silent hum of the engine. "You are just not that voice." The yellow fuel light went off, as Don rounded another bend. A call box lingered in the distance, while the ticker continued to make its triumphant march towards empty.
Stopping just short of the box, Don hesitated. She was right. What was he doing, driving across this god forsaken town, like he is some man on the run?
    He had lost control, as the ticker rested on empty. Hoisting himself out from under the steering wheel, he made his way to the call box. "This isn't the end." Reaching for his phone book, stashed away in his jacket's pocket, he pulled out the number. His numb fingers dialed quickly, while his head rested on the cool, plastic of the telephone.
"Hello?" a lady answered from the other line.
"Hello? Yes? Is this Joan of the United Mailroom?" he asked nervously.
"Yes, this is her," Joan responded patiently, "May I ask who's calling?"
"This is Donald, George's son-in-law," Don stated, unenthusiastically.
"Just one moment, let me patch you over-"
Before Don could dare hear the end of the statement, he pressed down on the key, and listened to the vacant sound of the dial tone.