The Fear: Eight

Jamie opened his cell as he merged onto 101 from 380. He could see a 747 thundering to a stop on an SFO runway on the other side of the highway.

“Hey. I’m gonna be late getting there this morning, something came up,” he told his manager. “Won’t make the staff meeting.” He listened as the voice on the other end spouted meaningless unhappy words. “Can’t be helped. Have to help a friend down in Mountain View. With any luck I’ll be there by 1:00.” After some more babble he clicked off. At least he was late enough to have missed the morning traffic mess. He drove on, listening to some classic Springsteen.

Until he saw little red and blue flashers in his rearview mirror. From the front of a California Highway Patrol motorcycle. What was the reason for being pulled over? Not speeding, missing registration sticker, or a broken taillight. He pulled over and waited for the cop to explain. Could the day be getting any weirder? He put his window down.

“Get out of the car slowly, walk around to the shoulder, and sit down.” Jamie felt something he’d never, in 35 years of living, felt before, a gun at his neck and the words registered, barely coming through the fog of fear. He had his wallet in his right hand, ready to get out his license, so he popped the lock and opened the door with his left. Slowly pushing the door open, he slid his legs onto the ground. At least that was still were it was supposed to be. He noticed the cop had backed off, giving him room to get around the car, with the gun down at waist-level. Once he sat down away from traffic and took a dep breath, the cop walked over and leaned against the car, looming over him. Smiling, though not in a very happy way.

“I’m not a Highway Patrol Officer. We don’t have time to waste if you’re going to live to make it to your office by 1:00, so calm down and listen to me.” The not-cop put the gun back in it’s holster.

“Live? What the fuck do you mean by if?” Jamie couldn’t help but blurt out the words. “And how do you I just told my boss I’d be in at 1:00?” The energy in his voice started trailing off as a certain realization set in. The guy knew what he’d said on the phone not 15 minutes before.

“Pal, you do not know what you got yourself mixed up with in that coffeeshop. Do you think the coffee spill was an accident? Or your fault? Or that you weren’t picked for this? Hell no.

“You got picked by a pretty slick group and if you hadn’t stopped at the coffeeshop they would have found some other place to bring you in. They’ve been pickin’ over your life pretty good for weeks now. Lara was trailing you since yesterday, waiting for an opportunity. I was following her.” His captor spat out some bad taste from his mouth.

Jamie was getting a sinking feeling in his stomach and something else was rising in his throat. He leaned away from the car, hands on his stomach, and retched. The non-cop surprised him by handing over a handkerchief to wipe off his face.

“This is the real world, not some TV show, and why would anyone want to use me for any fucking thing?” The voice was rough but his vehemence came through.

“Maybe it’s not your reality, but it’s my reality. And now you’re in it, pal, make no mistake about that.”