Stop

He lay facedown on the ground. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a lamppost looming in the distance, a streak of light reflecting off the wet asphalt. He tried to turn his head. Nothing. No reaction. An idiotic situation. Suddenly, out of nowhere, in the early morning, on some road... He stared at the shimmering asphalt, random thoughts racing through his mind: an accident, a broken spine, paralysis, a wheelchair... The wheelchair was a good prelude to creating future scenarios, but he was distracted by his lack of knowledge of what had come before. He couldn't focus on either the future or the past. The lack of stimuli completely disoriented him, and he kept slipping into a strange lethargy, perhaps even falling asleep. He was vaguely aware of his location, and even this awareness made little difference. He didn't know who he was, where he had come from, what had happened before. It didn't matter to him. Quite suddenly, he discovered that his brain was registering something: light and a smell. All the time, he could smell the sharp, persistent smell of wet asphalt. Some more sounds would be nice, he thought, trying to smile. Silly business, the deaf and paralyzed guy smiling to himself. At least he was trying. Something flickered in his field of vision, the headlights began to change configuration. At first, he thought it was the wind swaying a streetlight, but now it was clear that the change in the illumination of this rather pathetic scene was caused by an approaching car. The lights were moving rapidly along the shoulder. He'd be rounding the bend in a moment, wondering if he'd notice it? Even if he did, would he have time to swerve? Probably not, he'd be right behind him. He wasn't particularly concerned; he wouldn't feel it, or even hear it, and if he did, he might be able to fall asleep before impact. He probably would have made it if it weren't for that damned smell of wet asphalt...

FLASH!

5:50 – forty minutes early. What an idiotic dream! Cursing under his breath, he sat up in bed. Just in case – the smell of asphalt still lingered in his nose, and he wiggled his toes. Relief. But forty minutes of sleep was gone. He dragged himself to the bathroom. That asphalt was nagging him. He decided he wouldn't eat breakfast today. He sat in the kitchen over coffee and stared out the window; it allowed him to avoid closing his eyes for more than a second and watching the traffic lights glide by. He finally left for work. On the way, he remembered he had to drop his car off for inspection. The garage he used was in the suburbs, a dozen or so kilometers from the city center. He had arranged with Witek, a colleague from the office, that they would drive together, drop off the car, return to the office, and Witek would drop him off at the garage on the way home. The day passed rather quickly, completely dissolving the unpleasant memories of his dreams. He said goodbye to Witek on the main road and headed towards the workshop. It was already very gray. It was quite warm for a November afternoon, though the winter wind was clearly making its presence felt from time to time with sudden gusts. He secretly hoped Mr. Krzyś wouldn't be in the workshop. He didn't want to get into endless discussions about gearboxes, linkages, torque converters, and whatever else was the spice of Mr. Krzyś's life, but which meant nothing to him. Well, to tell the truth, he'd always been averse to all this big motoring. That's probably why he didn't see much difference between models, makes, and types of cars. He drove because he had to. At the workshop, he found the old porter.

"Good evening, you're probably going to the green one?

" "Oh yes, yes, good evening...

" "Please wait, they'll be finished soon. Sit down, sir, I'll get the mechanic."

He sat down on a red plastic chair and watched as the porter slowly padded out from behind the counter. The old man's kindly face reminded him of some vague past, perhaps his childhood, perhaps a summer in the countryside. When had he last seen such a grandfather? When had he last seen such a sincere face? "They'll be finished soon!" It was probably the first time in his life that he'd heard someone directly in front of him utter the magic word "soon." It sounded so magical, so it must have been magical... The mechanic in the red overalls fortunately turned out not to be Mr. Krzyś.

"You know, Mom's problem. While we were assembling it, it turned out the pump went. You were lucky you arrived, and he didn't jerk or snort on the way? We'll do it, but the pump isn't in the warehouse. Everything's closed today. It would be there first thing tomorrow morning. Will you last until tomorrow?"

He watched the mechanic wipe his greasy hands on a black rag and wondered how to get home. And should he go home, or take advantage of the lack of a car and pop into the pub on the way? The pub seemed interesting. He'll get there in about an hour, so it won't be too early.

"Is anyone going to the city center with you?

" "It's only for about an hour. Can I call you a taxi?

" "Okay, I'll take the bus, wait at the bus stop, and if nothing comes, I'll take you with me. See you tomorrow, gentlemen."

It was already quite dark outside. And it had gotten quite cold. He had a few hundred meters to the bus stop, and before he reached them, he had to turn up the collar of his jacket and regretted several times not bringing his hat. As he approached the bus stop, he noticed an old woman in the streetlight. She stood with a cane, her shoulders hunched, and from a distance, she resembled an oversized penguin. She sat down next to him on a bench, close enough to absorb his presence, and stared at him silently. Pretending to search for something in the inside pocket of his jacket, he looked away for a moment. All he noticed were the monstrously thick lenses of her glasses. There was something terribly unnerving about this situation. Cold, a broken-down car, a bus stop in the middle of nowhere, and a blind old witch staring at him like a magpie at a gun. Of course, no one was coming from the garage.... Damn it! But surely he wouldn't ask her, "What are you staring at?" For a moment, he even thought there was something wrong with him, giving in to such intense pressure from a visually impaired old woman. He got up from the bench and walked to the edge of the road. Nothing, no car lights in sight. He walked up to the timetable board. He normally never did this, because the buses arrived when they were supposed to anyway, so knowing their arrival time was completely useless. He began to stare at the blurry numbers. Suddenly, he noticed the penguin had vanished from his field of vision. He was about to start looking around when he heard,

"So..." behind him

, he turned around abruptly. She was right behind him. Luckily, the woman was very short, which was the only reason he didn't elbow her when he turned around. She stood slightly bent over, leaning on her cane, her head raised, a grimace typical of the nearsighted, and her powerful glasses aimed straight at his head.

"Please?" he whispered, wanting to salvage his situation somehow.

The thick glasses pinned him down. He felt completely defenseless. Penguin was fully aware of this. The nearsighted grimace was now taking on a triumphant quality. The old woman briefly moved the glasses to the timetable board.

"So what happens now?" she asked emphatically.

He tried to resist, to hold on, to fight. It was a simple question. He'd answer anything and it would be over. He'd go to the pub, come home, and pick up his car tomorrow.

He just needed to gather his thoughts. Gather his thoughts...gather his thoughts..." he began repeating over and over, trying to drive away the persistent, familiar smell of wet asphalt filling his nostrils...