Strife in the Fast Lane

Fucking Long Island Railroad. But I screwed up too. I should’ve checked the Saturday timetable beforehand on my TrainTime app like I almost always did. They were doing track work on the Babylon line and the trains from Freeport to Penn Station were running every hour instead of every half.

We could’ve made the 6:27 if my wife hadn’t been “caught up,” as she put it, in BJ’s. I can’t believe how she gets lost in that store, or in Costco or Trader Joe’s. I guess it’s a woman thing. When I walk into one of those places, my goal is to pick up what I need and get the hell out of there as fast as possible.

We were still home and it was 6:25 and I wasn’t going to take the chance of trying to get to the Freeport Station in five minutes with the slim chance that the 6:27 will be late. So we locked up and I drove to Brookside Avenue and turned north. Waze, the GPS Navigation app, suggested, in Thomas’s hoity-toity English accent, to go east one exit on the Southern State, take the Meadowbrook Parkway north to the Northern State to the Long Island Expressway. And then straight into the city.

I knew I wouldn’t have a prayer in hell if I had to drive through midtown Manhattan to the Broadway theater district in time to find parking, but the show we were seeing was off-off-Broadway, on East 4th Street in the East Village. If the Expressway was “clean and green,” as we used to say in CB lingo, and there wasn’t a slowdown at the removed toll booth pinch point, then all I had to do was make the left out of the tunnel, a right onto Second Avenue, shoot down the 27 blocks or so, find parking, and we could get to the show on time.

Driving in the left lane at seventy on the Meadowbrook past Hempstead Turnpike and the Roosevelt Field Mall was no problem, then westbound onto the Northern State. The big “Inform” signs – a misnomer for sure – and which had to be a source of continual hilarity for Department of Transportation employees – showed that the time to the CIP – the Cross Island Parkway – was the same for the Northern State as for the LIE. I still had hope, and Thomas said to bear right – to take the LIE, so I did.

As soon as I crossed over the eight LIE lanes towards the entrance lane, I regretted the decision. Fucking Thomas. Fucking Waze. Fucking LIE. City-bound traffic was bumper to bumper. I’d made good time, but it was already past seven. I took the get-’em-on lane as far west as I could, cut into the right lane, then decided to get off at the next exit – Mineola Avenue – to ride the service road.

My wife knew how I was getting. In the late 1960s and early 70s, I drove a cab in the city in the summer to earn extra income. She knew how my demeanor changed when we were stuck in traffic – especially near or on the George Washington Bridge. Even I knew I was an aggressive driver. As Lao Tzu said, “He who knows others is wise; he who knows himself is enlightened.” But my self-awareness didn’t make me any more pleasant to be with when all I could see were brake lights ahead.

The service road was pretty empty. It was a Saturday evening, as opposed to rush hour, when commuters knew all the tricks.

I got to a traffic light. I was in a left-turn and straight-ahead lane. The guy in front of me started turning, then slowed. “Asshole,” I said, somewhat under my breath, as I swerved around him.

“We’re not in a race, you know,” said my adoring wife, while I considered answering, “Well, you weren’t in any race to get out of BJ’s.” But I held my tongue.

I was ten, fifteen, twenty miles over the limit. “You’re making me nervous,” she said with her specially-honed particularly-accusatory tone. I glanced right, saw that her right hand was locked onto the grab-handle above the door.

The next light was a stale yellow and I thought about blowing through until I noticed the red-light cameras at the intersection. “Goddamn it,” I shouted, as I braked hard to a stop.

“Well you’re making me crazy,” I repied. “Why doncha just shut the hell up and let me drive?”

I knew right away that that was over the line. Telling her to shut the hell up. We’d been down that rutted road before. Mixed with our combined agitation was a foreboding silence in our van. Finally the light turned green and I tore off.

But tempus fugit as we were approaching the Queens line. I had to make a decision. Could I make it to and through the tunnel and down Second Avenue and find parking and get to the theater in a bit over thirty minutes?

“Fuck it!” I yelled. “We’re not going to make it!” And I already knew that for this show, they wouldn’t allow late seating. It was right there in black-and-white on the e-tickets I had printed.

I crossed over two lanes of traffic and stopped our van in the breakdown lane. I lifted one buttock off the seat and pulled the tickets out of my back pocket, clicked on the overhead light and then showed them to her.

“Here, you see … no late seating.” I almost added, “And it’s your fault!”

“Let me have them.” She looked at them closely, paused, turned to me and shook her head.

Rev 5 / Octoer 20, 2017

Up to the beginning of the story

— based on the prompt "go slow"

October 2017…Copyright © 2017, Lloyd B. Abrams

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