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the network. It seems to be true in every aspect of life that being born with genetic symmetry opens a lot of doors for people. She was thin as a rail and tall. Her formerly blond hair dyed too many times and it now had that reddish gray look of a mop that needs to be retired. She wore long sleeves that dog-eared at her wrists, revealing flat black tattoos that twisted together from a place somewhere up her arm.  
    When she first started at the network, Amy found a quick way into TV. She did afternoon on-camera hits in the big studio but soured on that after a couple of months. Producers at the station had a parade of probing questions. They picked at the words she used, clothes she wore, references she made, demeanor she carried and the color of her eyes. They said she looked too young, too old, too vapid, too loquacious, too plain, too extravagant. The constant barrage of inconsistent ambiguity led her to start dying her hair colors that were too garish to be identified by PMS code. She considered it her way of quitting through conscientious objection. At one point, the horrified station sent an actual wig for her and she wore it crooked on her head with her then blue hair sprouting from underneath. The tattoos were the final straw. She was relegated to second shift radio duty and always sat at the far table, alternating between painting her nails and gnawing on them, wearing the face and attitude of a person who didn’t give a shit about anything anymore.  
    “I had a great day today,” I said to her, attempting conversation.
    “That’s terrific,” she said, without looking up.  
    “I messed up pretty bad last night and I thought I was going to get fired.”
    “Well, woo-hoo for you there, buddy,” she turned to me and extended a thumb. She immediately went back to her ritual of interchanging views between the monitor and the laptop. The next three hours passed in silence before Amy threw the clapped together computer in her pink Hello Kitty backpack and left without another word, just like she did every day.  
    An hour later, the floor was empty. The police scanners continually announced their presence by a series of chirps, whirs, and purrs. The wall of screens hummed blue and green to the left, showing various different positions on the Beltway. You could change the view to full color by using a browser on the computers. I preferred the old fashioned way.  
    The phone rang, “Traffic Center.”
    “Yeah, we got some pretty heavy traffic on the Frederick Douglass Bridge, gotta be an accident or something.”  
    “Inbound or outbound bridge?”
    “What?”
    “Going into the city or leaving it?”
    “What city?”
    “DC.”
    “Look man, I have been sitting here forever. Someone should get fired for this. We’ve been parked here for...oh wait. Hey, never mind we’re moving again.”
    “Thanks for listening.” I put my headphones on and listened to the anchors banter back and forth.  
    “Greg Harris in the traffic center.”
    I gave the report, the same one I would be giving for hours. The anchor thanked me and I sat feeling content. This was much better than the night before. It felt smooth and calm, like operating a machine, churning out reports and reading information about planned future construction sites.
    I was back to the same routine and the euphoria of still having a job melted away, while the sour awful feeling of still having this job remained. It was back to mind-numbing monotony. I got up and walked to the Richmond studio once an hour. I did the same for the Norfolk studio. The room itself the same as it had ever been, bathed in florescent light that reflected off linoleum and coarse carpet, broken up only by worn bulbs here and there that would flash and blink.  
    I sat back down at the Washington computer and clicked the browser open. A red dialog suggested attention and I squinted at the words displayed, “Disabled vehicle, I-495 @ Old Georgetown Rd. Inner Loop. Lane 2.” Lane