Sesquipedalian on wheels

Last night, I received a call from a company I had given up hope on. They stated that I was to be in the office at 10 am the following day to fill out paperwork and receive an identification number. On a Saturday. If I know anything about the 9 to 5 crowd around mid-December is that once that clock is punched on Friday, everything else can wait. This poses an issue, as I would love to be training and pulling in a check asap. Mind you I would be a produce clerk, but I just thrilled to have anything at this point. Being fired from your last jobs (here's hoping they aren't the prying type) might as well be the scarlet letter in a puritanical society. In fact, adultery is looked upon with less disdain than being fired at least when seeking employment. Anyhow, I completed the provided forms and am now to wait for another summons. My id number is still pending (learning to despise that word, but two months without work or income of any kind has made me desperate), so who knows when I'll be hearing back from them. Patience is a virtue. That can't be said for the traffic on the return home. I really don't like driving. In fact if the bus were more accessible from where I live, that would be my ideal mode of transport. I have more faith in a professional driver than I have in my own reflexes, and the bulk of such a vehicle commands much more respect than my third hand Mazda 626. I believe that's the reason why the massive pickup truck is synonymous with road rage. This isn't always the case, but more often than not the most aggressive drivers I've come in contact with favor this vehicle. I can't see the advantage of owning something that requires a running start to enter. The mid-south is the kind of place where a large truck is considered heritage. Where one arm is more tanned than the other and a person's arrogance can be gauged by how much elbow is jutting from the window. And they have a knack for always being behind me during inclement weather, high beams illuminating the interiors of the three cars ahead of them. If I had things my way, anyone who is purchasing one of these eyesores should have to prove that they will be hauling something at least 15 percent of the time. Besides the 3 cases of Busch light and the scared looking feral children clinging desperately to the sides as Pee-pa makes a left at 45 miles per hour across three lanes of traffic. Alright, that's enough vitriol for today. Time to stare longingly at the phone.