Pavement: Chapter 1

First off, I'm positive that I did not fall asleep at the wheel.

I had gotten my eight hours in the night before, a practice that was not a habit. The first snow of the season was brushing the highway that morning, and the sun had come over the mountains. The road was quiet and sparkling. Louis Armstrong's "'Zat You, Santy Claus?" was spilling out of the radio, and I was cold. My work gloves were on, to keep my fingers from locking around the steering wheel.
I remember thinking that I was unusually calm, and that it was going to be a good day. My paper route was done, the driving around in the dark was over, and I still had half an hour before I had to be at the hospital. Normally I get all wound up before work. I work janitorial, and my stomach gets all bound up when I think about all the things I should be doing instead of cleaning up biohazardous material. I'm not worried about getting sick, I've had my shots.
I stress, because I spend eight and a half hours a day thinking about the car I wish I was driving, the girl I wish I was with, and the jetpack I wish I had strapped to my back. Paper boy by morning, janitor by day, and James Bond filling in all the gaps.
I wasn't dreading my day of wiping up blood and properly disposing of sharps, and I wasn't sure why. I was too calm for a Monday morning in November, and I was worried. Pondering on that, I turned down the radio to let myself think. My yacht of a car began to fishtail.
I know how to drive in the snow. I turned in to the skid. My foot came off the gas, tapping the brakes to regain control. I failed. I did not fall asleep or pass out. I was conscious the whole time.
The Malibu plowed through the rail, the right front end dipping into the ditch. Sliding on the gravel, 3000 pounds American steel rolled over onto its back. We slid for a few seconds that way, my car and I, me hanging upside down, my 1985 Malibu screeching across snowy gravel, and Mr. Armstrong asking "Would you mind slipping it under the door?"
We slid to a stop. I popped my seatbelt, dumping myself onto the ceiling of the car. Several idling noises came from the engine, then fell silent. A crack spidered its way across the windshield. Crouching down, I peered out the broken windshield.
A white plastic bucket sat on the ground in the snow.
Louie sang on.