Rush Hour

I work as a coroner. My job is simply to examine dead bodies in the 'pit' and find out how these people died. Changing from my scrub clothes to my street clothes, my mind was still thinking about the last case I had completed. It was a headless floater, meaning that the head of the deceased was removed after death, and the body had been found in the sea. It was already 6 PM and I was ready to leave for home. Dressed in a sleeveless black shirt and jeans, I said goodbye to my colleagues and headed for the carpark which was at the basement of the building.

I whistled and walked past various rows of BMWs, Jaguars, Mercedes, Porches, Toyotas and Rolls Royces. From a distance, I spotted my own pride and joy leaning against the wall. I quickened my steps and stood in front of it for awhile, admiring it. Unlocking it, I got on my new 314-hundred bicycle and started cycling out of the building.

Rush hour -- the time of day when the roads are atrociously crowded with vehicles. I took my bicycle to the road. The air was filled with the terrible noises of rush hour traffic. Frequent ear-drum busting horns were heard amidst the constant rumblings of the motor vehicles. There was also plenty of headache-inducing squabbling of the Indian taxi-drivers, white Americans in their posh cars and the truck-driving blacks.

The backdrop of the busy New York City streets was the blood-red sky. The sun was setting with uncharacteristic slowness. I wasted no time in manoeuvring my slim vehicle between the other bulky ones which dominated the street. As I got around all those cars and toward the traffic light, I could smell that the air was a thick soup of poisonously pungent hydrocarbons, wastes of fuel combustion and dust from the roads. Stepping up the pace, I got to the traffice light and rode as fast as I could the moment it turned green.

By now, my eyes were already red and sore with dryness. My leg muscles ached fiercely as I forced myself to go along with the mad speed of traffic. My hands were throbbing uncontrollably as I tightened my already firm grip on the handle bars in order not to lose control of the bicycle.

Cars swerved around me, while I tried to keep myself alive on the road. My colleagues have always thought I was crazy to be riding a bicyble through the insanely congested streets of the concrete jungle of New York City. They half-joked and half-threatened me by saying that one day I might be the one on the autopsy table instead of carrying out the autopsy! Part of me did it for the thrill, while the other part of me was not afraid to die. I have lost my wife and three children in a plane crash, and deep inside, I wanted God to allow me to join them in Heaven.

The traffic lights turned red all of a sudden and I was forced to brake immediately. I was almost thrown off the bicycle, not only because of inertia, but also because a white Mercedes bumped the back wheel of my bicycle. I waited patiently for a few seconds for the traffic light to turn green. Then, without hesitation, I turned around and gave the driver the finger before pumping furiously on the pedals of my bicycle and escaping from that junction.

I took a turn to a relatively quiet lane and rode up to my house. My shirt was soaked in sweat and my jeans clumped uncomfortably on my legs.

I laughed to myself.

Another day had passed and I escaped the claws of death once again. And, it looked like I would not be entering my workplace feet-first anytime soon.

I cringed while reading this because of how childish the tone is. However it is with regret that I look back and realise that I'm not as good as I was 5 years ago.