Wake Up!

Wake up!

This is what Perkins tells himself to do. He knows the voice inside his head is right. He knows he needs to open his eyes.

The trick is doing it. For some reason he can't.

But you have to! You have to wake up, you damn fool. You're in terrible danger.

Sure, sure. He understands he's in danger. He's going to do something about it too—but later, when he feels better. Right now he has a splitting headache. He just wants to lie here and rest.

You can't rest. Open your eyes and see.

He'll open them eventually. But, please, if he could only have a few more minutes to sleep…

No! You have to look!

Just a few more minutes…

Your car is driving itself!

That's silly. A car can't drive itself. Someone's foot has to be on the accelerator, unless he or she has decided to activate the cruise control. Someone's hand—preferably both hands—has to be on the steering wheel. Someone has to tell the car where to go, for goodness sakes. How on Earth can a car drive on its own? It can't. That's the answer.

So leave me alone, Perkins tells the pitiful, frantic, wailing voice. Let a guy catch some Z's.

No, listen!

But Perkins does not wish to listen.

The voice fades…

Perkins dreams. No, wait. It's not really a dream, is it? It's more of a replay of earlier events—He was in his residence's master bedroom, packing a suitcase. He had to catch a flight. His expertise in financial restructuring in the wake of bankruptcy was needed by a firm in Chicago, Illinois. A flight was available tonight, departing at eight-thirty. It was nearing seven o'clock when his wife, who was helping him pack, said, "I wish you didn't have to go."

"Me neither, but duty calls."

"Jennifer's upset you'll miss her game tomorrow."

"She seemed okay to me."

"She just wants you to think she's okay."

"Well, Francine, what am I supposed to do?" Perkins snapped. "Not go? This is my work. This is what I have to do to keep us in the lifestyle we're accustomed to. And I hope Jennifer will remember that I've been able to watch her play a lot more this year than I did last year. Besides, it's not like I want to be away. I don't really have a choice in the matter. When Jennifer's an adult and has a family of her own, she'll see what I'm talking about. Now, have you seen my burgundy tie?"

Perkins licks his lips, shifts a bit to get more comfortable. He sounds a bit harsher in that exchange with his wife than he might have liked. Something about having to travel on short notice makes him irritable. He recognizes he ought to get a better handle on this irritability. His daughter, Jennifer, is twelve years old. Why should she have to put herself in the shoes of an adult with her own family and a job that requires shuttling across the country and sometimes even across the world? Isn't she entitled to the emotional responses of any other twelve year old who wants her father to watch her play in a softball game? Sure she is.

Beneath Perkins' body, there is a sharp and sudden bump. He wonders what it is but doesn't wonder all that much. It's still better just to sleep, what with this awful headache.

He drifts away again…

The dream continues—

Francine offered to drop him off at the airport. No, he said. He didn't expect to be gone for more than a couple of days and he liked being able to get into his car the moment he disembarked from his return flight. But thanks anyway, he said.