1:57

Three electric fans stir the air to keep the staleness at bay. A radio squawks at my left elbow, "Dorm 1 to Moulton," and I lose interest in the mundane conversation. Behind filing cabinets and covered windows, a TV bleeps out expletives for whatever afternoon talk show the inmates are watching or left playing for background noise. 1:57 is that time of day when I find out if my next two hours will be spent teaching or waiting for my day to end.

My shift ends in two hours, but I'm ready to leave now. I've taught all I want to for today. Two and a half hours ago, I discovered that my debit card is still at home, and my gas card is in my wife's pocketbook. And because my son--who works at a gas station--drove my car all weekend and left me with less than a quarter of a tank for my 70-mile round-trip commute, naturally, my gas light came on as I was almost to work this morning, and I have no way to change that.

At 11:35, a habitually absent inmate tells me he'll be in class at noon. I don't hold my breath, and that's good, 'cuz he doesn't show.

It's 1:57. My ESL student is supposed to be on his way. However, today is an outside rec day, and these men rarely get outside, so I'm not holding my breath for him, either. At 2:07, and with no sign of him, I'm going to close up shop. I'll be more helpful somewhere else. I spend the rest of my day helping a colleague.

The thirty-five-mile drive home will be interesting. My beloved seventeen-year-old son drove my eighteen-year-old Corolla all weekend, and he left it with less than a quarter of a tank of gas in it, so the near-empty warning light blinked on before I reached work this morning. My sweet ride gets about 35 mpg, but I commute through a lot of construction. And I discovered during the workday that I'd accidentally left my debit and gas cards at home. I said it before, but it's eating at my nerves, and I repeat myself. Will I arrive at my abode before my beater is beaten?

Within a mile of my workplace, traffic is stopped by paving. I coasted to a stop and shut off my engine, as the first vehicles approaching from the opposite direction had not yet reached me. This construction company has not demonstrated particular acumen for traffic management, so I know my wait will be considerable. As I waited, I began scouring my cupholders, nooks, and crannies for loose change with the notion that purchasing even one gallon of gasoline would ensure my safe arrival at home. I discovered a total of $1.17.

Traffic resumed moving, so I restarted my engine and hustled along. I recalled that during church yesterday morning, I wanted to add a little cash to the offering plate, even though I give our family tithe electronically. I had looked into my wallet and found nothing to give at the time, so I wasn't going to bother looking today. I'd already passed the first two gas stations that line the roadway home and was rapidly approaching the third, ten miles further south, when doubt increased regarding my ability to reach home. I am usually the confident one, putting my wife and son at ease when the gas light comes on, but here I was, edging closer to the panic button!

Finally, I reached into the left front pocket of my work pants and withdrew my wallet. I held it between my hands at the top of the steering wheel, where I felt in the "secret" pockets, those places I sometimes keep cash I purposefully "forget" about for emergencies. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. With my heart in my throat, I glanced through the receipts in the billfold. Oh! A ten-dollar bill! I'd completely forgotten getting that over the weekend. I quickly thanked God for not letting me see it yesterday during church and snatched it out of my wallet.

I was long past the third filling station at that point, but I wasn't upset by that. I knew the next one had the cheapest prices of the drive thus far, and I was thrilled to arrive there mere minutes after locating the $10. To my further happiness, I discovered more coins, enough to purchase twelve dollars' worth of gas, or 3.8 gallons. The needle on my tank read just under half full. I doubt that was accurate, but it felt good.

Twenty minutes later, I backed into my driveway and glanced at the clock. It was 4:57. Immediately, my thoughts returned to where my afternoon traveled from 1:57 to now. I compared the sounds around me at home to those at work. Silence broken by leaves rustling in a light breeze, the hum of a car driving by, or the rumble of a motorcycle in the distance. No swearing or bleeping thereof. No slamming metal doors. No yelling. Peace. Quiet. And I thought to myself as I crawled out of my beater red Corolla, "Thirteen hours before I do it all again. Another 1:57 will come. Students will show up or they won't. Just be ready when they do. And for goodness' sake, remember your debit card tomorrow."