Autopilot

If he was listening he could hear the echo of his car as the noise of his engine reverberates off the parked cars along the side of the road. The sound stretches and drops as he passes each consecutive car, like the pushing and pulling of a vacuum cleaner. If he listened carefully enough he could even determine the size of the cars he is passing. The higher and louder the sound, the bigger the car. But he isn’t listening to any of that.
Nor is he thinking about the movement of his hand as he drops it from the steering wheel to shift, as he moves his foot to the clutch, pushing the car in to fourth-gear and timing the release of the clutch with the depression of his other foot on the gas pedal. He is propelled forward, five miles-an-hour over the speed limit. He doesn’t need to look at the speedometer.
He doesn’t notice any of the people on the sidewalk. It is windy and most of the women are concerned with their hair. He passes a large dip in the sidewalk where rainwater has welled up and formed a deep pool. A man with a briefcase and beige slacks steps over the pool and slips, soaking his expensive shoes.
A tall, red headed woman waves to someone across the street. A family with two children walk out of a toy store with two plastic sacks full of new toys. A girl with dyed black hair, and too much mascara adjusts the volume on her ipod in her pocket.
He doesn’t see any of it. He is thinking about that girl at work who gave him her number. Should he call her tonight, or is this too soon?
His consciousness comes back as someone flips up over his hood and smashes into his windshield leaving an indentation in the upper right corner of the glass and an ornate spider web of cracks that spread across his entire field of vision.
Trouble! Shit! Trouble! he thinks.