Sam Reynolds put the cigarette in his mouth and lit up. The car radio was blaring out another nondescript tune -- the same tune that had played at least three times in the last hour along with five others on the pop charts and the station's playlist. The air was clear, at least as clear as can be expected heading towards New York City. The sun, filtered by the pollution and near the horizon, appeared blood red. Traffic was heavy as usual -- rush hour and a Friday afternoon made the traffic slow moving but bearable. He had the whole weekend to rest from his dull, tedious labors. Sam turned down the radio and puffed on his cigarette. Another week was over.

Sam thought of the gloriously dull weekend he was to have. Stay up late Friday night, read the paper, look at the boob tube -- no one ever calls it the boob tube anymore, do they? It's one of those what-cha-ma-call-its? An anachronism. That's it! An anachronism -- something out of place in time, just like me. A forty five year old man in a twenty year old world. Back to the weekend itinerary. Stay up late Friday, sleep until noon Saturday; saves money because I go without breakfast. Read the morning paper, listen to the radio as I prepare brunch. What a great word, breakfast and lunch; brunch. Lie around the apartment, sort my socks -- face it! Do the same every weekend since Margie died. He glanced down at her picture on the dashboard. Margie . . . why?

It was while he was at work. There was no warning, no note. He came home on a Friday quite like this one. He came into the apartment and called to her. Then he went into the bathroom and saw her. The water in the bathtub was the most beautiful color pink Sam had ever seen. Beauty and death etched a picture in his mind. The horror and grief did not come until after the funeral. He took a week off from work and almost tried to kill himself in order to join his wife.

Sam was not the same after the incident; over two years had passed. He became a loner. He had no family or friends who weren't actually friends of Margie. It seemed that he had tagged along, allowing Margie to take care of the social amenities. No children . . . how Margie had wanted to have a child, and how she cried when the doctor told them that she could not. It took weeks to calm her down and return her to normal.

Then there was trouble at the office. He talked to Mr. Lane, told him about his troubles at home, nearly pleaded with him not to lay Sam off. It did not work. The unemployment line was a dismal place. The people who had collected their checks for months smiled and passed the time of day with one another. Those newly unemployed had the look of disappointment, embarrassment. It reminded Sam of the refugees in Bosnia. Margie hated having Sam around the house all day, moping all of the time. He finally got another job -- lower pay, across the river in Jersey, but another job. The neighborhood was bad too. Margie nearly had another breakdown when he came in, beaten and bloody the night that he was mugged. They stopped putting new glass panes in the windows and put up steel shutters instead. The office felt like a tomb. No one could go out for lunch, not anymore. The restaurants had closed, moved to a better neighborhood. Even the office building was crumbling. Just like Sam's old neighborhood. First taken over by blacks, then hispanics, and now crumbling to dust, soon to be paved over for the new highway they have been building for the last half dozen years.

The signs went by a little faster now.

NEW YORK 5 MILES . . . HIWAY DINER . . . SECAUCUS KEEP RIGHT

The light turned red. Sam turned off the radio and was assaulted by the highway noises. Why is it that people honk their horns for no reason? Isn't it a law that you can only use the horn in emergencies? The smells of the city drifted over. You get used to the odors of burning rubber, sulphur, and the rotten fish that float in the Hudson. The sun started fading to gray in the growing mist by the horizon. The Empire State Building was a dying ember in the New York skyline. A plane flew alarmingly low over the traffic, heading towards a landing at Newark International.

This was no-man's land, the battle zone between New York and New Jersey, called the Meadowlands. Once it was a thriving marshland, full of wildlife. Now it was a layer of garbage and soot and scum.

LAST EXIT BEFORE TUNNEL

Last exit to what? Sam looked around at what could only be called desolation. What sort of man would live in this no-man's land?

LAST GAS BEFORE TOLL CHECK YOUR FUEL GAUGE

Sam checked his gas gauge. There was never any need to check it. He just followed orders. Just like the people in Waco. Just like Hitler's men. Just like the rest of the human race. Grow up, get a job, get married, have children . . . it went on and on until the ultimate command -- Die! Margie disobeyed orders when she slit her wrists. Most people who disobeyed orders ended up like Margie. Why couldn't anyone get away with not following the commands? His mother tried to before she died, but she ended up in an old age home, not remembering who Sam even was. What about Sam?

TOLL BOOTH 200 FEET TOLL $4.00

Sam slowed his used Chevy to enter the toll booth. He remembered when tolls were a dollar. Now you didn't have to pay on the New York side but they quadrupled the rates. The tolls were supposed to pay for the maintenance of the roads. The potholes had been there ever since Sam could remember.

EMERGENCY STOPPING ONLY NO BIKES, HIKERS, HORSES, TRAILERS

Always obeying signs, always getting the wrong end of the stick. No fiends, no relatives. Poor job. Nothing to look forward to. No fondness to remember, only the most beautiful color in the world mixed with death.

LINCOLN TUNNEL

Sam entered the dark tunnel with mixed emotions. Defeated, raped by society, ruined.

MAINTAIN SPEED LIMIT 40 MPH