Check Engine Light
Just two more minutes please
I’ve always thought one of the worst feelings in the world is waking up just a few minutes before your alarm goes off in the morning. Conversely, waking up with hours to spare before your committed wake-up is one of the most incredible small victories that life has to offer. What’s fascinating about both outcomes is the common denominator they share: the few seconds that sit between the inadvertent wake-up and the comprehension of the time.
In those few seconds, everything is still ahead of you. The daunting proposition of extra sleep being ripped away from you vs. having another REM cycle at your disposal. Reality hangs in the balance ever so delicately.
This particular morning did not afford me any small victories.
7:58am Oh my god. A paltry two minutes separated me from reality, which, for all intents and purposes, has not been particularly kind of late.
You see, about three weeks ago my job at JCPenney put me on a 30-day PIP (performance improvement plan, if you’re unfamiliar). I find that PIPs are more often than not a company’s way of saying, “You’re not generating enough revenue, so unless you change that we’ll find someone who can.” I manage the women’s shoe department, which has seen a steady decline in sales over the last two quarters under my leadership.
As much as I argue JCP (how us penneyheads refer to the store) wasn’t carrying a robust enough collection of shoes for us to be competitive, they often cite my “inability to follow through” and “lack of established vision” as tenets of my underperformance. TL;DR: I was skating on thin ice.
JCP required all sales managers in-store at 8:30am for a team roundup on that day’s sales projections. At that rate, an 8:00am wake-up call typically gave me about seven minutes to shower, four minutes to arrange my hair and business casual outfit for the day, and whatever time I had left would usually be spent doomscrolling Instagram or checking the previous night’s college basketball scores. As long as I was out the door by about 8:18 or so, timing wasn’t an issue.
I was fortunate to have inherited my parents’ 2003 Mazda Miata, so even if I was running a few minutes behind, that piece would have no trouble making up time. On this morning, like all mornings, the check engine light nonchalantly illuminated the dashboard.
8:23am Okay, I’ve made up worse. Once the top had finished coming down, there was nothing standing between the Miata and JCP’s sales manager roundup. Wind blowing through my hair—what little still remains—nothing was going to stop me. Not even the two loud pops and smoke that started spilling out of the hood as I drove onto the freeway. If I didn’t make this morning’s roundup, I could kiss women’s shoes and all the amazing penneyheads goodbye. Besides, what’s really gonna happen? JCPenney is like five minutes away.
8:37am “Gavin, oh my god, you’re dripping sweat. Is everything okay?”
“Oh this? I was just listening to a really intense murder mystery podcast on the drive in. Sorry I’m a little behind everyone. So, what numbers are we shooting for today?”
Nailed it. I can’t believe my manager bought that.
And I’m telling you, the next three minutes were some of my life’s most triumphant—right up until the store’s security team sauntered up alongside two local police officers.
“Hey team, these gentlemen tracked someone in a Mazda Miata into the store who did some pretty serious damage a little ways up the road. Something about losing control and taking a few cars out. Y’all didn’t see anyone come in, did you?”
In a split second every penneyhead in the room laser-beamed their gaze at me.
Our store manager Jennifer did not waste any time. “If you didn’t know it, you would think Gavin’s Miata was his firstborn son.”
So much for loyalty.
For a moment everything slowed down. A beat—then my most audacious move to date: I ran. I ran like, well… someone trying to escape the cops. Never mind the damage I had done to at least three cars when my steering went out. Or the past-the-point-of-no-return damage I had done to the Miata. I was in too deep at that point. And quite frankly, it was the most alive I had felt in years.
2:04pm “Sorry to bother you, ma’am. My partner and I here are looking for a young adult male about 5’8”, wearing a collared shirt, heavily receding hairline. Anyone come around here matching that description recently?”
“Sorry sirs, not that I’ve seen. Been a quiet day here today. And it’s only been me working all day.”
Poor Jeanine. She was my waitress at Waffle House. Could’ve sworn I was home free—I just needed to get some heat off me. I told her the cops were trying to bust me for trying to steal bread to feed my family (there’s no way this girl had seen Les Misérables) and that if I went to jail my family couldn’t provide for themselves. Pityingly, she obliged and covered for me. Little did they know I was patiently laid behind the bar immediately out of eyesight—intently hanging on their every word.
“That’s quite alright, ma’am. Thank you for your time.”
A pause as they shuffle out.
“Hey Steve. We’ve been looking around for a while now. What do you say we grab a couple waffles and regroup?”
7:15pm That was pretty much my undoing. As soon as they sat down to eat, Jeanine couldn’t hold it together. They asked for a root beer, which sat directly above my laying body, and when she couldn’t reach the spout they clocked that something was fishy. I made a bolt for it as soon as they smelled blood in the water. Cops caught up to me about 50 feet outside the door and brought me down.
It’s funny. I’ve been living the same version of life now for so long that I feel like I’ve stopped living and just started existing. Floating through the world without any coarse edges on me. Somehow burdened by everything but also nothing at all. But today I felt something. Like I took control of my life for once.
Anyway, sorry to keep going on, Randy. Great to meet you—I’m so excited to share a cell tonight. I’m Gavin, by the way.
1:28am Hey Randy, do you know how much longer we have to sleep?