It Had To Be Done

At 9:37 PM, on New Years Eve, Michael Dubova decided that he’d finally had enough. Enough of being enslaved by his own mind. Enough of being caged by his fears.

He threw together an overnight bag and left his house as quick as he could, not saying goodbye to his beloved mother, father, or siblings—for fear his sudden upswell of courage would wear off and he'd lose his nerve entirely. He chucked his duffle in the back of his car, hopped in front, and mapped directions to the cottage on his phone.

The estimated travel time: 2 hours, 13 minutes.

His chest tightened, stomach knotted.

Michael looked out his windshield at his snow-covered house, at the porch light shining in the darkness like a lighthouse beacon. Images of his family flooded his thoughts. They were all probably in the family room right now, wrapped in comfy blankets, watching the countdown on TV, fire crackling in the fireplace.

Why didn’t he just go back inside and join them? Why was he doing this? This thing that every molecule of his being was yelling at him not to do?

No—it had to be done!

Michael put the car in gear. He had to go now, before he talked himself out of it. With a shuddering breath, he reversed out of his driveway and peeled out down his snowy street into the night.

He turned right at the top of the road, onto Seespot, continued until he hit a stop sign, then took a left, onto Shaw—not once consulting the directions on his phone. This was his neighbourhood, after all. And he’d live here his entire life. Hadn’t strayed far, either. Actually, this was more than just his neighborhood: it was his whole world. And he knew it like the back of his hand.

Soon, however, the familiar gave way to the unfamiliar. Michael was aware of the exact moment that this happened—it was when he turned off Winter Creek and onto Rubicon. And as he crossed this threshold into the domain of the uncharted, a chill ran through him and his breathing grew heavy.

But he forged ahead, crushing the pedal under his foot. The car accelerated, faster and faster, its speed climbing well over the limit. Michael didn’t care. The quicker he got there, the better.

2 hours and 13 minutes. That’s almost 15 minutes, 9 times. Or 20 minutes, 7 times. Or 30 minutes, 4 times…

As the car raced, so too did Michael’s mind. Was he going the right way? What if he was driving in the wrong direction—adding time to his voyage instead of shaving it off? Had he put in the right address? There’d been more than one 2011 Terminal Avenue—had he selected the correct one? What if his car broke down and he got stranded on the side of the road? What if there was no cell service and he couldn’t call for help? What if…

His eyes darting between the road and his phone, Michael checked his cell signal. 4 bars, full strength. He checked and double-checked that he had in fact put in the correct address, and that he hadn’t deviated from the proper course. He checked his signal again. Still 4 bars.

He drew a shaky breath.

Returning his gaze to the road, Michael caught a glimpse of the estimated travel time on his phone: it was down to 2 hours, 2 minutes. Sudden panic swelled inside him. It’s only been 11 minutes?! He couldn’t believe his eyes. It felt like an hour had passed—half an hour at least.

Why was it when you wanted time to fly, it flowed like fucking molasses—but when you wanted it to slow down, it was like a fucking runaway train? 11 fucking minutes… If that’s what 11 minutes felt like, then 2 more hours was going to feel like a fucking eternity.

There was no way he was going to make it. He might as well turn around now and save himself all the stress and anxiety and—

No—it had to be done! And it had to be done now! There was no next time, no later. If he didn’t do it now, he’d never do it, and he’d wind up spending the rest of his miserable life confined to a fucking shoebox.

No—turning back was not an option. He was going to find a way to make it through this. Everything was going to be okay. He just needed to stay calm, breathe. He just needed… a distraction!

Something to take his mind off things. To pass the time. Music! Music was the ultimate distraction. With frantic fingers, Michael turned on the radio, plugged in his phone, set it on shuffle.

A song began playing: Leader of the Band by Dan Fogelberg. The sounds of dulcet finger-picking guitar filled the car.

No—too wistful. Too sentimental. Michael skipped ahead to the next track: Bobby McFerrin’s Don’t Worry, Be Happy. Chirpy bird-like whistling came over the speakers.

No—too cheery. Too warm and fuzzy. Michael needed something with some drive, with some oomph! Keeping one eye on the road, he searched through his phone until he found just such a song: Born to Be Wild by Steppenwolf. He hit play, praying a silent prayer.

The opening notes of the track hit him like a shot of adrenaline. Bah! Bah-dah! Bah-bah bah-dah-dah!

His foot started tapping to the beat, his head nodding, his hands drumming the steering wheel.

“Getcha motor runnin’!” Michael sung at the top of his lungs. “Head out on da highway! Lookin’ for adventure! Or whatever comes our way!”

As the car continued to bullet through the night, Michael continued to belt out the tune, not thinking about what he was doing, or where he was going, or anything except for the song’s kick-ass lyrics and driving rhythm.

And when the song came to an end, he found another pump-up one to take its place: Seven Nation Army by the White Stripes. Then: Van Halen's You Really Got Me. This was followed by a few hard-hitting AC/DC tunes. And all was good.

The choppy seas had turned to calm waters.

Michael was gunning along like a bat outta hell, devouring the miles that stood between him and his destination. He must’ve already shaved off 15 minutes. Probably more…

He resisted the urge to look at his phone—to confirm or deny his suspicion. Things were going good right now. And he wanted to them to stay that way. He just needed to keep doing what he was doing, keep it steady. And before he knew it, he’d be there, ringing in the new year.

Up ahead, a green traffic light suddenly turned amber. And then…

No! Fuck! Michael hit the brakes. The car screeched to a halt at a red light.

Red lights were the absolute fucking worst. The bane of his existence! They were lulls, pauses, breaks in action, time to think, time to overthink.

Forward progress ground to a halt at red lights, all momentum was lost, the whole world came to a fucking standstill. But not the clock—no, it kept tick-tick-ticking away, painfully slowly…

No—it was fine. Everything was fine. The light was going to turn back green any second now. He just had to concentrate on the music, lose himself in it. It’d worked before and it was going to work again.

Michael resumed singing, tapping, nodding, drumming the steering wheel, but without the motion of the car, without the knowledge that each second brought him one second closer to his destination, it just wasn’t the same.

His mind started wandering. His eyes followed suit. Looking around, they saw snow-entombed woods. They saw road signs: Eldon—5. Grasshill—34. Cannington—48.

I’m in the middle of fucking nowhere…

Frantic, Michael checked the map on his phone. It said he was an hour and a half from home. Thirty or so from the cottage.

Could he really trust it, though? What if it was wrong? What if he was really somewhere in upstate New York? Or Alaska? How could he even tell?

Suddenly, the air in the car felt thin and cold. His chest started heaving, his body shivering. With a mind of their own, Michael's hands grabbed hold of the steering wheel, began turning in preparation for a U-turn.

The light turned green.

For a long moment, Michael sat there in his car—a tug-of-war raging inside his head.

One side yanked: He needed to turn the fuck around and head back home! Where it was safe, where everything was familiar, where his family were all waiting for him!

The other side tugged back: No—it had to be done!

Did it , though? Did it have to be done? He’d lived 25 years without doing it and he was surviving just fine.

Yes—it had to be done! He might have been alive for 25 years, but he hadn’t been living. Surviving wasn’t enough.

Alright—it had to be done. But did it have to be done now? Right now?

Yes—it had to be done right now! He had to keep going!

Why right now? Why not some other time? He’d made good progress that night, pushed his limits. Why couldn’t he be happy with that, push further next time around?

No—it had to be done right now! Or there wasn’t going to be a next time. Besides, there was only half an hour to go. He was almost there.

Yeah—but every mile took him that much further away from home. Every minute made the drive back that much longer. He didn’t even know where he was, for fuck’s sake! He needed to turn around!

No—it had to be done! He had to keep going! It was only thirty minutes!

Yeah—but even if he made it, by some miracle, what would he do then? He wouldn’t be able to sleep over. To spend an entire night away from home…

Who said he had to stay the night? He could just hang out for a while, then head back home. Hell, he didn’t even have to go inside. He could turn right back around as soon as he made it . But he had to make it . He was going to make it. It had to be done!

Michael felt his hands straighten the steering wheel. Defiant, determined, he pressed his foot to the pedal. The car took off like a rocket. He cranked the volume on the radio, focused on the song playing: Under the Knife by Rise Against.

“Wake me up inside! Tell me there's a reason! To take another step! To get up off my knees and follow this path of most resistance!”

Michael concentrated on the music with all his being. And everything else slipped away. The car, the road, the world around him—it all faded. It was just him and the music. The music and him.

“You have arrived at your destination.”

The monotone voice from Michael’s phone wrenched him back to reality— snapping him out of his trance-like state. Dazed, he hit the brakes, coming to a skidding halt on a gravel road. He looked out his window.

Standing there before him—a rustic cottage, warm light pouring out from within, slicing through the dark of night. For a time, Michael stared at the cottage, incredulous. Then slowly it penetrated. He was actually here. He’d made it. It had been done.

“Twenty! Nineteen! Eighteen!” a blaring chorus of voices suddenly erupted from the nearby cottage, chanting in unison.

Michael’s eyes shot to the clock on his dashboard: 11:59 PM. He didn’t even think about it, didn’t weigh his options, didn’t make any deals with himself. He didn’t have time for any of that. He just leapt out of his car and took off toward the counting-down voices.