The interchange of I-91 and I-93 hadn't been upgraded since opening in 1970. After years of resident complaints, pressure from winter resorts dependent on the artery, threats by the interstate commerce commission, and an influx of difficult to “re-appropriate” TARP funds, state pundits decide to fulfill campaign promises long overdue...

It's phase two. Giant 18 yard trucks dump the all important fill that comprises the basemat for the interchange. Dozers and graders spread and even out the base course as it’s being deposited, readying it for compaction. Joe, a twelve year member of Local 821, still grumbling to himself about his wife’s latest rebuke of his advances - this time it was “the kids were hell today” - that he’s 40 lbs overweight, unkempt and a bit sloven without a clue of how underappreciated she feels never dawns on him, is operating the compactor, what is often colloquially called a steam roller. Felix starts shouting at him from the superintendent’s truck. Joe can't hear over the vibration of the compactor so he shuts off the function and idles down letting the machine roll slowly along.

“What’s up?”

“We're doing subs for lunch. Carmichael's. What do you want?”

“Double pastrami, swiss and kraut on wheat. Extra mustard. Bag of chips and a coke. Real Coke, not that fake shit they sell.”

“Alright.” Felix guns the pickup and moves down the line to the next operator.

Joe throttles up and switches on the vibration function. He never gives a thought to the 40 or so feet of smooth basemat that’s passed under the machine while ordering lunch. Ground that appears smooth, even, but is uncompacted. Had Joe gone back over the ground with the vibrator on, the loose soil would have sunken revealing a low spot in need of more fill. It’s something that happens routinely in road construction, but Joe, pissed at his frigid wife switches to thoughts of lunch, never looks back.

As it was the asphalt is laid, lines painted and the interchange opens. It takes three years for the soft spot underneath to sink under the weight of asphalt. It's only an inch or so but enough to hold snow in the winter. Snow that under the pressure of the plow fills the pocket, gets compacted by traffic then freezes into ice. After another year the pocket holds a patch of ice 5 feet wide, close to 40 feet long which runs on the right side of the lane. Flat, smooth, nearly friction-less. And under the wheels of a car too far to the right, deadly.

Jonathan parks the crossover towards the far end of student parking. Almost to the division that separates the students from teacher parking. It’s his first day. With a low sigh he trudges towards the front office of Costa Grande High.

He’s stressed. He’d only just allowed himself to drive again. Dr. Michaels had recently forced the issue by activating her control over his travel options. He couldn’t hire a taxi, book an uber or use a bus pass without her approving it on her app. “Jonathan you’re done with delivery. You are not cargo! Now get back in the damn car and drive.” It was either drive, ride a bike or walk. His bike had mysteriously disappeared and unless he left at 5 he’d never make the walk. Even then it was doubtful. Reluctantly he drove.

The start of a new school, having to drive and the constant ache in his side, it’s just the stimuli his mind needs to go where he least wants and relive the events which placed him here..

...

Mid December last year. Jon and Mickie Moorland with their 16 year old son Jonathan are leaving a weekend ski trip in Vermont for home. They have a flight to catch in Hartford.

“Dad? Can I drive?”

“Sure but you need to pay attention, there may be ice.”

“No worries dad, I got it covered.”

Miles later the little family, with Jonathan at the wheel, approaches the interchange of I-91 & I-93…

“Ok Jonathan the highways merge up ahead. You're going to be in the left lane once we merge so keep the speed up.” His dad says calm and supportive as always.

“O-ok. But what about those trucks?” Jonathan can see two large trucks approaching on the right. The one closest is pulling two trailers attempting to pass.

“Don't worry about them just hold your line and maintain your speed.”

Mickie in the back seat is concerned “Jon we may be going too fast for him. Jonny honey? Slow down a bit.”

“No we can't. It's too slick to lift through here.”

“Surely just a little slower won't hurt?”

“No Jon. Keep going...”

“I think slower”

He remembers the giant trucks closing from behind in the merging lanes. They were so big. And coming so fast. He remembers his nerves on edge, the conflicting instructions from mom and dad. He doesn't know if he lifted his foot from the accelerator or not. Doesn’t know what caused him to lose control. Just the feeling of the rental SUV beginning to spin and slide across traffic, the fronts of the two trucks broadside on his left. He remembers his mother's scream... followed by light bursting in his brain… sudden darkness...nothing...

In his mind there's nothing between the burst of light and the hospital. He awoke scared, in horrible pain and alone. The Doctors didn't seem to want to be bothered and the nurse's were almost cruel in their mechanic-like treatment of him. His screams of agony met with cold indifference and shouts for him to just “Shut-up.”

His mood only sinks further at the memory of how the social worker had been annoyed and stoic with him. She rather viciously stated his recklessness had caused the accident that killed his parents. Since there were no other relatives and he’d succeeded in orphaning himself, he was now her problem and would remain so until he turned 18 and she could be rid of him.

It was how he found out his parents had died. Cold, matter of fact, without empathy. It was his fault and as punishment he was alone, nothing more than a problem for the state. He wasn't even allowed to make a phone call without her say-so. She wouldn't allow it.

Two weeks later he would manage to steal a cell phone from one of the nurses and sneak a call to Mr. Stanley’s office at the firm, begging for help. He managed to tell the secretary where he was and how his parents were gone before some hateful nurse snatched the phone from his hand. He’d no idea the firm was already working to find him. The next morning Aaron and several of the firms attorneys arrived to begin the process of obtaining custody. The call enabled Aaron to locate him and take action against the state for improper detention of a minor.

The social worker was enraged at his actions and berated him repeatedly. Words like irresponsible, spoiled, ungrateful, vile... murderer, were endlessly directed at him. For two months it became a constant thing with her. Whenever possible she would deny him phone calls or visitation with the attorneys. Instead she would belittle and berate him about how he was a selfish horrible boy that killed his parents. Her treatment of him continued to degrade right up to the day the firm obtained the court order and transferred him home.

It was then he found he had been taken to a state hospital run more like a prison than a center for healing. He would leave with his emotions in worse condition than his body was when he arrived.

Once home the firm first established his accounts, status and eventual succession to ownership. For the interim in order to prevent the possibility of a power grab at the firm he would be emancipated. His emancipation would be supervised by a counselor, his living expenses managed by the firm under a trust set up for him.

Left alone for the most part Jonathan became withdrawn and solitary. Afraid to face his past he rarely answered his phone or responded to texts. When he did it was for Dr. Michaels his counselor. Because the court said he had to.

Having missed more than half of the previous term the administration at his old school informed he would have to repeat 11th grade. He decided to change schools. This way he wouldn't have to face the accusing eyes of former friends and teachers. Through the grapevine they surely would all know the horrible thing he had done.

With the guilt riding him and some research, he found Costa Grande High. A relatively nondescript school with two unique qualities: An endowed arts department with arguably the best public music program in the South-east and enough advanced placement classes to still qualify him for one of the colleges his parents had been preparing him.

A bell ringing brings him back to the present. He shakes the thoughts from his mind, dries his sweaty palms on the back of his pants and steps through doors marked “Office.”

Having taken a long break from posting in the now foreign to me "Fish Tank", I thought to post the first bit of something been playing with for several years. Feel free to comment...or not. I'm confident (my) writing can always be better. Feedback and revision makes it so.

v/r
JM