THE IMPORTANCE OF THINGS

The clock on the dashboard reads 11:11, but Jeff is not making any wishes because he is not paying attention to what time of the night it is. There are more important, pressing issues at the moment.

“Thucking thit.”

Jeff just spent five dollars and seventy five cents on something he really didn't need: a grande cup of organic shade grown Mexican coffee he bought at the last java joint before the open road.

Decidedly more disappointing and more important than spending that much on a cup of joe, regardless of the apparent exoticness of the blend, is spending that much on a cup of joe only to have it be wasted. Well, not entirely wasted. Wasted aside from one small, tongue-synching sip immediately followed by lisped swear words.

“Thethsus christht.”

Significantly less amusing but still more important than the misfortune of merely wasting a five seventy five cup of organic shade grown Mexican coffee grande and burning a tongue is spilling it in the lap of a forty-four dollar ninety-nine cent pair of weekend relaxed fit khakis that Jeff picked up when his wife forced him to go shopping three Sundays ago instead of watching the Pittsburgh Steelers play the Oakland Raiders on his forty two hundred ninety nine dollar liquid vision sixteen by nine aspect eych-dee tee-vee. If he was back in time this Sunday for the game with major playoff implications against the New England Patriots, he’d probably have to miss the first half to go buy new weekend relaxed fit khakis. But that’s not really important right now.

“Thuck. Toh thgod.”

This is because Jeff had no time to mourn the spilling of his coffee or the staining of his trousers or potentially missing that football game because of a much more important, pressing issue. Had Jeff been wearing stain resistant relaxed fit pleated khakis instead of a pair of weekend relaxed fit khakis, then the organic shade grown coffee would have been deflected from his lap, instead of soaking through his khakis and his briefs onto his unsuspecting, previously comfortable crotch. Even just purchasing an Italian roast iced coffee for three fifty could have averted the scalding pain to Jeff's genitals.

“Thuck, thuck.”

However, Jeff, despite it being a Tuesday on which he had not relaxed but worked, had thrown on his weekend relaxed fit khakis in his haste to leave his house and his wife. And he had, despite the price, been successfully lured by the apparent extravagance of shade grown Mexican coffee, and had thus burned and blistered his crotch moments after spilling his exotic beverage.

Astoundingly, there is a matter of more pressing importance than the loss of coffee, khaki, and even all the future potentially pleasurable sensations originating in or around Jeff's inner thighs, penis, and testicles. And that is, of course, that Jeff, along with his graphite pearl hybrid front wheel-drive sedan, is now in the middle of a rather serious car accident.

“Thucking christht.”

In the continuing theme of mildly ironic but mainly catastrophic factors that have led to Jeff's predicament, he had stopped by the gas station across the street from the last java joint before the open road and filled up the twelve point seven gallon gas tank in his hybrid sedan, which, by the way, is good enough for five hundred and fifty three miles on highway road, which, by the way, would take him five hundred and forty one miles away from his wife. Because of this very unpredictable car accident, Jeff only made it roughly thirteen miles away from her and instead of being on the open road, he is hanging upside down, suspended by a seat belt -- stained khakis, burnt crotch, and all -- under what should be the most pressing issue of the moment; the weight of two odd tons of gasoline soaked metal with a crumpled graphite pearl body which is currently sliding across a mostly deserted asphalt stretch of fluorescent-lit highway.

The crushed graphite body with Jeff suspended inside eventually loses momentum and comes to rest in the opposing lane of traffic. After all that violent noise and movement and the lisped swear words, Jeff has a few moments of silence and he spends them with calm and stillness without any more lisped, shouted, panicked swear words. Instead:

“Thlease thgod. Thnot thlike this. Thnot thonight.”

Even over the smell of gasoline, Jeff can still smell his wasted organic shade grown coffee grande. And even over the scalding, throbbing pain in his crotch, Jeff can still feel a slight pulsing in the left pocket of his weekend relaxed fit khakis. He assumes it is his wife calling and he thinks maybe his luck has changed.
Maybe by leaving his ringer on vibrate instead of silent and by it being past nine o'clock qualifying for free evening and weekend minutes, he has broken the chain of misfortune. Maybe now, despite the pressing issue of the hybrid sedan slowly crushing him or the potential for an errant flame to turn graphite pearl into graphite blazing inferno, he will finally be able to control at least something.

He can answer the phone. He can tell his wife that it wasn't his fault, that he didn't mean it, and this time maybe she'll believe him. He can tell her that despite a full tank and good gas mileage, he wasn't really going to leave her. He can tell her he's sticking with iced coffee from now on and that he's not going to wear khaki's anymore, that the Steelers game really isn’t that important, that he doesn't want to get a new hybrid now that this one is totaled -- that all he wants is to spend every moment with her, in her, near her, until he forgets every other pressing issue but the importance of her.