Copyright 1994(c)

                            COMMUTERS
                         By Michael Hahn
 
     The only down-side of this job is the time I spend commuting. 
Five days a week I sit in traffic, coming and going. It's very
tedious to sit in a slow-moving line of cars for an hour each way,
and my mind and my eyes tend to wander. 
     This morning I came to a complete stop trying to get out of 
Sterling. The minivan in front of me had tinted windows, so there
wasn't much of interest in that direction. I glanced in the
rearview mirror, and saw something that didn't look right. 
     Behind me was a green Jaguar; the driver was a CEO-type, grey 
hair, grey suit, red tie, steel-rimmed glasses. His passenger was
a thin, pale fellow with long, greasy hair. They both sat staring
straight ahead, neither speaking.  The driver sat clutching the
wheel with both hands, his knuckles white. As I watched, the
passenger slowly turned his head toward the driver, stared at him
for a long moment, then again faced front. 
     I glanced away from the mirror to check the progress of the
traffic in front of me, but no one was moving. When I returned my
attention to the car behind me, the passenger was climbing out of
the car. He closed the door, stepped down off the road and across
the ditch, and disappeared into the trees lining the street. The
driver still sat there, white-knuckled hands wrapped around the
steering wheel. He hadn't even twitched when the pale, scruffy
fellow closed the Jaguar's door. 
     From the corner of my eye I saw the taillights in front of me
go dark, and I shifted my attention to creeping forward a
car-length or two. When I again looked into my rear-view mirror,
the Jaguar hadn't moved. The drivers behind him were beginning to
honk their horns, but the CEO-type seemed oblivious to them. As
the line of commuters ahead of me moved forward again, a couple of
cars went around the Jaguar. As I moved slowly around a bend, I
saw someone leave his car to pound on the Jaguar's window. The
impatient commuter pulled open the driver's door, and as I
disappeared around the corner, I saw the driver's body slide out
onto the pavement. 
     That image bothered me all day. I scanned the newspaper the
following morning, catching the small box detailing the discovery
of a heart-attack victim in his car on Dranesville Road. My morning
coffee suddenly seemed very bitter. I thought about the thin, pale
hitchhiker, and his drawn face and lifeless eyes now seemed
sinister. 
     That's a terrible way to start a morning, I thought to myself,
and grabbed my briefcase. Twenty minutes later I was sitting in 
traffic, watching the cars and drivers around me. I passed the spot
where the Jaguar had been, and where the pale passenger had 
disappeared into the trees. I watched the trees, but no one was 
there. I rolled my eyes, chiding myself for being an alarmist, and
returned my attention to the road. The traffic crept forward. 
     The tap on the passenger-side window brought me out of my 
morning reverie. On the other side of the glass was the face of the
Jaguar's passenger, silent, pale, and frightening. I cut my wheels
sharply to the left, jammed my foot on the accelerator, and made
a tire-squealing U-turn, narrowly missing a pickup truck moving in
the opposite direction. A timid glance in the rearview mirror
showed the figure of the pale hitchhiker standing at the side of
the road, watching me speed away. 
     I drove quickly back to my apartment, unlocked the door, and
dropped my briefcase on the couch. I walked to the bathroom, 
loosening my tie as I went. I splashed water on my face, startled
at the way my hands were shaking. I put down the toilet lid, and
sat there trying to calm down. When my heart slowed and my hands
stopped shaking, I smiled a rueful smile at the face in the mirror,
and headed for the phone to call my office, sure they'd ask me why
I was late, and unsure as to what I would tell them. 
     I picked up the kitchen phone, dialed the number, and stepped 
around the corner to the living room. The phone fell from my
fingers. From very far away, I could hear the ringing, and the
voice of my secretary. 
     The thin, pale man stood in my living room. His eyes locked
on mine. And then he smiled. 
                               END