Fast Lane

My window is down. The ticket and exact change are ready in my hand as I sit in my forest green Ford Escort, waiting to pay my toll at the Palmer, Massachusetts exit. And I’m waiting and the car behind me is waiting and the car behind him is waiting. Eventually, there is a line of beeping cars waiting behind me. Equally impatient, I look back as their rally leader, “I know, right? This is ridiculous!” But then a middle-aged man, slurping a slushy, walks up to my window and says, “You’re in the Fast Lane.” “I am? Oh. Can I just pay you?” I ask. “No. It’s too late. You’re already on camera.”