The Road Less Frazzled

“OK, I should be there soon. Bye. Bye.”

The call ends and I turn my attention back to the road. Shouldn’t be too long now. It’s not that I’m late, or even in danger of being late, but I like to be ‘on-time’. I pride myself in being ‘on time’. I don’t like to be late. Hate it, in fact.

“Where’s this turn off?” I mutter.

“Exit 14A. Come on, where are you?”

It’s hard enough driving on a highway, on the wrong side of the road, in an unfamiliar country, at night, but don’t these people have proper signage? And lights!? Come on! It’s like I’m floating through inter-stellar space out here!

Another car roars past me at what seems like one hundred and fifty kilometres per hour.

“Jeez! These people drive like maniacs!” I exclaim.

“Slow down, Ayrton! It’s not the Grand Prix!”

The sign for Exit 14A must be coming up soon. I checked the map on my phone before leaving – no local sim card, so no soothing robot voice to guide me – but I must have missed it in this stygian, vantablack darkness.

“Fuck. FUCKKK!” I hiss, irritation rising in me.

How the hell is anyone supposed find anything in this stupid shithole? And back the hell off, you idiot. Do you have to drive right up my rear end?

“Go around, moron!” I shout. “GO AROUND!” He veers around me and speeds off into the light-absorbing night.

Great! Now it’s starting to rain. Just what I need at this precise moment.

Wipers? This one? No! Shit, that’s the high beam. That one? No, NO! Rear fucking wiper. Holy shit, this is an Audi, made by Germans. Sensible bloody Germans, but apparently, they can’t design a stupid switch for the wipers that a normal effing human being can find and operate. Jesus!

“Ah! Got it” I say, calming a little.

Wipers on and now I actually stand some chance of finding this exit, notwithstanding the fact that my headlights seem to stop dead about ten metres in front of this car.

BEEP!

“What! WHAT!” I yell.

Stupid bloody rental car! What now! WHAT!

Oh! Low fuel. OK, no problem. I can fill up tomorrow (provided, of course, I can work out how to open the fuel cap). That’ll be the next goddamn challenge. Jesus Christ! Does this car need fourteen fucking levers for things, and two hundred buttons for the radio? How the hell do I turn down the stupid radio?!

“Blah, blah, blah! SHUT UP!” And with that, my trembling finger finds the button to finally silence the disembodied chatter.

Aha! A sign coming up. Jesus Christ, it’s obscured! Somebody has graffitied all over it. How the hell are you meant to read a dark, painted-over sign against a murky, bottom-of-the-ocean black sky all while travelling at one hundred kilometres per hour? What’s ‘exit’ in this godforsaken language?

“Thirteen! Thirteen!”

That was definitely thirteen something. That’s good. Good! I must be close. The sign could be bigger, mind you! It’s pitch-fucking-black. It’s raining! I’m in some stupid, Jesus-Christingly obscure place!

“Make the fucking sign bigger!!” I bellow, chest tightening.

Could it be any bloody darker?

The rain eases and then stops. Fantastic! Now the wiper is squeaking. Turn it off, and…. it’s going faster! Jesus wept! Where’s the ‘off’ position? Why do they make these fucking things with one hundred and forty-seven different shitting positions. Fast. Very Fast. Intermittent. Occasionally intermittent!

“How about OFF, you arsehole!” I cuss.

I’m going to miss this stupid, useless, half-assed, effing sign. I know it. Then I’ll probably have to drive three hundred kilometres to find an exit just to get back here. Great! Popping out to pick up some pizzas ends up turning into the fucking retreat from Moscow. Jesus Christ! Where is this exit?!

Have they heard of lights here!? It’s so bloody dark.

“Aha! Exit coming!” I murmur triumphantly.

Fourteen C! For crying out load! What the hell happened to fourteen A and B?!

“Shittttttttt!” I shriek.

Jesus, fuck, shit! Tears prick my eyes. And the shitting pizzas are getting cold. I’ll miss this exit, drive three hundred kilometres before the next exit appears, get lost, run out of fuel and fucking die on some lonely, foreign goat track!

Fuck you, Melissa! You fucking pick up the stinking pizzas next time.

“Fuck YOUUU!” I howl, grinding my teeth in frustration.

Exit Fourteen B, in five hundred metres.

“Ah, OK! Now I understand!” I congratulate myself.

Makes no bloody sense, having these exits in reverse alphabetical order. Stupid foreigners! Semi-third-world, under-developed, moron, dump. Jesus Christ! Am I supposed to have some special powers of mind-reading? How goddamn hard is it to number exits?

And put a light on the sign, maybe? It’s so bloody dark here!

OK, next sign coming up. Looks like it must be fourteen A.

“Come on. Come on!” I plead.

What? Jesus Christ, which turn off?! Why does anyone in their right mind put two exits basically on top of each other? Fourteen A here! Oh, and fifteen C, right here too! Wonderful! You morons!

“Which ONE, you fucking idiots!” I scream, my heart thumping in my chest, short of breath now.

OK, it must be this one. Naturally, it’s barely illuminated. Par for the course. As dark as the grave, middle of nowhere, and a single, dim lightbulb. If I miss this, I’ll be driving all shitting night. Three hundred kilometres to the next exit, no fuel, I’ll abandon the car on the side of the road. I’ll probably have to sleep in the fucking car. Stick these fucking pizzas up your arse!

“OK, okayyyy!” I mumble, slightly relieved.

This is it. This appears to be it, though how anyone can be expected to find the right fucking exit. In the dark, no lights on the sign. In a torrential, fucking downpour. Twenty exits all apparently built on top of each other! Welcome! Enjoy your drive! And this is an expensive toll road! Cheeky bastards!

“Yep. Got it.” I confirm, confidence trying to push its way back into my voice.

Okay, just down here a bit, then first exit on the roundabout. After that, the resort entrance should be visible. Easy peasy!

“What? WHATTT!” I bellow.

Where’s the fucking roundabout? How have they moved the goddamn roundabout in the fifteen minutes since I was last here?! How?!! Has it been swallowed up by the night sky? Have they painted it black just to fuck with me?

“Oh wait!”

There it is. False alarm. Ha-ha. I cruise up to the roundabout, slowing down as I approach.

“Jesus! Fucking manual transmission!” I groan, exasperated.

I’ve stalled the bloody thing again. How in the hell do you find first fucking gear in this thing? Why does it even need six gears? Six! Jesus Christ! I’m not racing in the Paris-Dakar Rally!

“Ooh!” I pause, taken aback.

The engine hums back to life automatically after the brief stall. That’s clever. Fiendishly clever Germans. Through the roundabout, first exit. And there it is!

“Tah-dah!” I sing.

Resort entrance coming up on the right. Ladies and Gentlemen, this is your Captain speaking. Please fasten your seatbelts. We are now commencing our descent.

I swerve majestically into the resort. Park, engine off! Mission accomplished.

I sit for a moment in the car, the engine ticking quietly as it begins to cool. Jaw unclenching. The light above the apartment door flicks on, casting a warm glow over the alcove. The stars twinkle gently in the sky and a waxing crescent moon casts a soothing orange hue over the ocean.

“Lovely” I whisper to myself, dabbing at the corner of my eye. Never a moment of doubt, I tell myself.

Inhaling the scent of the piping hot pizzas, I scoop them off the passenger seat. Inside, the apartment buzzes with lights, music, and the excited chatter and laughter of the family.

“Hey! Just me!” I call out confidently as I enter. Holding up the pizza boxes, I pretend to munch at the corner, drawing raucous cheers from the kids.

“Oh, you were quick!” Melissa remarks.

Was that a touch of playful sarcasm in her voice?

“Yeah, no trouble at all. It’s a lovely night out there.” I announce brightly.

For a second, Melissa’s eyes meet mine, a hint of scepticism flickering across them. I smile.

Probably best I went on my own, I think to myself. You know how bad she is at giving directions. I’d only get mad, and we’d end up arguing. I don't need that kind of stress.