Midway down Joseph Avenue, I was hailed down by a motivational patrol car. I pulled my vehicle to the curb and waited as the motivational officer made his way over to me.
“Young man,” the motivational officer said, “Are you aware that nothing is impossible – the word itself says ‘I’m possible’?”
It was important to respond to motivational advice appropriately. It was a delicate thing. I looked up at the officer with an aloof frown, paused to consider his advice. I nodded, and smiled shyly. A motivational officer liked to see their work play out in real time.
“I’d never thought of it that way,” I said. “Thank you, officer.”
The motivational officer grunted, returned to his patrol car.
It was a good thing—I admired the motivational police force’s work. Still, my hands shook a little as I drove away. Ever since the General Depression, random motivational stops had been increasing in frequency. Experts were warning we were entering another, worse General Depression—all indicators pointed towards it.
I appraised myself in the mirror, tried on my aloof look again. Aloof, but not too aloof. That was the important part.
Five minutes later, turning onto Clara Boulevard, I was ambushed by two patrol cars lying in wait on either side of the road. Their yellow lights were flashing angrily at me. At the first opportunity, I directed my vehicle to the curb.
The first officer, from the vehicle on the right, peered in through my right-hand window. “The bad news—” she announced, “—time flies.”
“The good news—” the second officer said, head projecting in from my left-side window, “—you’re the pilot.”
I thought back to my interaction with the first motivational officer. Too aloof, then, after all. And my shy smile—probably closer to a shy grimace. The officer must have radioed in my plates, recommended dispatch send out another team to provide additional motivational assistance.
“Thank you, officers,” I said. I smiled widely to show them how sunny and well-oriented I felt. My smile explained that I hadn’t needed the advice, but it was welcome all the same. “I’m the pilot. Thank you very much.”
The officers looked me over. The officer on the right narrowed her eyes. The other officer clicked his tongue absently. They both looked at each other, exchanged silent words. Then, in unison, they turned and returned to their vehicles.
I was almost home. It was getting dark now; I turned my lights on. I glanced at myself in the mirror again. I looked a motivated person—I was a motivated person. It was clear to me, and if it was clear to me, it would be clear to any motivational officer—they were the professionals.
Just down Clara Boulevard, and then a right onto Ark’s Way. Then I’d be home. I gripped the wheel. It was a little slippery. I came to the intersection with Ark’s Way, paused to give way to traffic, almost collided with a motivational patrol car hurtling towards me.
It came to a screeching standstill a metre from my front bumper. The motivational officer tumbled out of the vehicle, slid across the hood of my car, and began launching two forceful fists against my side window. I wound the window down.
“Young man,” she called in at me. “Young man. What lies behind you and what lies in front of you pales in comparison to what lies inside of you.”
It was unavoidable now: I had been marked an emergency case. My wide, sunny smile—try a dark, hidden despondency. I smelled—reeked—of unmotivation, and the motivational police force would not rest until they had washed the offensive odor clean from my body.
“Thank you, officer,” I said. “May I go now?”
I swung back onto the road, turned down Ark’s Way, and, a minute or so along, came to the pavement opposite my apartment block. The spot under the large oak tree was vacant. I turned my lights off, pulled the key.
I had to think. I had to get out of the city. I had to just think. But not about my cousin Joe. He had disappeared into a motivational facility a year ago. He had been very depressed, however. Very unmotivated. And the care was meant to be very good. But it wasn’t for me. That was the thing. It wasn’t for me.
All at once, the oak tree lit up like a Christmas tree. A hundred flashlights strobed in every direction. I was momentarily blinded. Dark figures rappelled down from the tree, materialized from the bushes beside it. I heard a thud against the roof, and then another against my bonnet. Light streamed into the car and behind my eyeballs.
“Excuse me!” an officer roared. “It is during our darkest moments that we must focus to see the light!”
“Keep your face towards the sunshine—and watch the shadows fall behind you!” another yelled.
“Do not allow people to dim your shine because they are blinded. Tell them to put sunglasses on!” another demanded.
I put my foot down, reversed, and then accelerated hard. Motivational officers tumbled off my windshield. I made for Fig Road. I could get onto the Expressway from there. Patrol cars emerged from darkened driveways, sirens screeching. Fig Road was awash with yellow lights flashing from every direction. I skidded rightwards, avoiding two patrol cars approaching my vehicle from opposite directions. A moment later, a sickening clash of metal sounded from behind me.
There was the Expressway onramp—I turned, accelerated, accelerated again.
I had been half-aware of a dull celestial whirring for a while. I looked up. Motivational patrol helicopters were circling above. Their searchlights probed the freeway for their target.
Just drive, just drive, just drive, I told myself. The traffic thinned out ahead as tittering drivers slid off into emergency stopping lanes. Sirens still roared all around. Amid the din, I could make out orders being shouted at me from police megaphones:
“Fulfilment is a journey, not a destination!”
“Life is like riding a bicycle. To keep your balance, you must keep moving!”
“If you don’t like the road you’re travelling on, start paving another one!”
I focused back on the road ahead, nearly sent myself flying through the windshield as I rammed against the brakes. A hundred metres away, a double row of screaming sirens blocked the entire length of the expressway.
It was far too late. Another sickening clash of metal, this time far closer—from inside my own head, it seemed. I was thrown from my seat, swam in an insensate black nothing for an age.
My head was upside down. Something acrid was in the air. There was a terrible wrenching coming from inside my right ear. The wrenching outgrew my ear, came to swallow my entire right side. Somewhere nearby, busy hands were at work.
I was in the black void again. Floating—just floating. No, not all black: there were stars. Very faint, but stars all the same. I turned my head. A dying star was on fire on the road beside me.
“Sir! Sir!” voices yelled. Rows and rows thick of voices—they crowded me from all sides. Too weak to focus—far too weak. I heard words, that was all. Words passed by as I began to float again.
“Young man! Young man!”
“Are you aware—”
“Did you know—”
“I’d like to remind you—”
“Death is but the next great adventure!”