The Downside of City Living, Part Deux

Today I had a client meeting in Southern New Jersey, about 90 miles away from Manhattan. I hit the road in the morning and breezed down the Jersey Turnpike, arriving at my destination 60 minutes before I was due. When there's no traffic polluting the road, I daresay it is almost a pleasure to drive around the tri-state region.

After the client meeting and a convivial lunch, I set Angus on a northerly destination and flew along the highway. The traffic was light and seeing it was only 3:30 pm, I counted on a breeze back into the City without fanfare or any sort of commuting hoohaw.

Really, haven't I learned anything? Assume nothing. Ever.

I'm no stranger to the perverse clogging of traffic that is the hallmark of this geographic region. I've evolved into a respectable aggressive driver complete with appropriate hand gestures and the occasional "Your mother's fat ass, jerky!!" However today's incident surpassed the most surreal driving scenario.

I sped the commute along with phone conversations with work colleagues (travel time begets beneficial multi-tasking). During a conversation with a colleague I like to call The Chin, he asked where I was on my drive. "Why, I am having a totally easy commute. I am five miles from the toll plaza of the George Washington Bridge. I should be home in 15 minutes." He bade me safe travel and then my trouble began.

I should have listened to the old world voice of Mamela in my head. Superstitious and reaching around the room to find a piece of wood to rap her knuckles on, I had already spoken the self assured words of easy passage thus cursing myself and the ease of the remainder of my commute. Indeed, the traffic back up began almost immediately.

When traffic clogs up like this, one needs to adapt their game face. It's hardcore and the rule is every man for himself. Every other driver is the enemy. And God forbid you ignore those big diesel truck drivers because those motherfuckers think they own the road. Fang always says that I should trust them as they are trained professionals. I think that's bullshit; they are merely people who opted for trucking trade school and are as apt to jackknife that big rig as I would be behind the wheel of a 18 wheeler.

Lanes merged into others. Opportunists from the commuter lanes edged in. We inched along. My GPS system indicated that I was 5.1 miles from my home. I winced in pain. How long would this last leg take? I put on the XM 70s radio channel to induce some calm as I idled in traffic, but a Styx music marathon only incited my anxiety.

After creeping through the toll plaza, I fed onto the bridge traffic which moved at a whopping 7.5 miles per hour. I knew that at the end of this bridge span I would need to get on to the West Side Highway and that the exit for this thruway would be in the extreme opposite lane that I was currently residing in.

Now this is an interesting dynamic. If I were in the city in Connecticut that I usually work in, the mere indication of a turn signal would easily prompt all other drivers that I had a need to migrate to another lane. They would quickly come to a halt and allow me passage, genially waving to signal "you're welcome." Not here.

I signaled. I honked. I gestured like a patient in the last stages of a tropical fever. I edged the nose of my car in their lane. No dice. I had to be so aggressive that I was nearly rear ended twice but I was making progress. I had shifted over two lanes, deftly avoided the massive cabs of the many truckling rigs plowing down the lanes.

Finally, I needed to make one last lane change in order to position myself for an exit off this ungodly venue and safely onto the welcoming arms of Riverside Drive. I saw a woman in a Ford Taurus. She had a conservative hairdo and bifocals and wore a pale cardigan. Her name had to be something like Aunt Betty for she was the very portrait of a bland and innocuous person. I was convinced she would take a lesson from her Connecticut cousins and graciously allow me entrance to her lane.

How wrong I was. Aunt Betty was glued to the bumper of the car ahead of her. For all my physical gymnastics, horn blowing and car nose edging, she would not allow me entry. And what's worse she didn't acknowledge me at all. She stared straight ahead, her bony hands clutching the steering wheel with steely resolve. I was determined and eventually I did nose my way in. When Angus eased ever so carefully into the lane ahead of her Taurus, I looked into my rear view mirror to see Aunt Betty mouthing some words with clear hostile intent. I think Aunt Betty was suggesting I go fuck myself.

This is some kinda town.