April 22: Traffic

It's raining. The drops of water fall from the blackness above; almost appearing from nowhere to crash on my windshield. The tail lights in front of me illuminate everything in red. I can feel the weight of each drop on my truck's roof. My vehicle is motionless on a four lane highway. Red as far as I can see in front of me and white as far as I can see behind me. The oncoming traffic races by at astronomical speeds on the other side of a center divide one lane to my left.

As I sit and listen to each drop of water smack and explode against my truck's paint, I wonder what has caused the traffic to come to a complete stand still at 11:34 pm on a Thursday night. It can't be construction. I've traveled this same highway every night for the past two years and not once have I seen any kind of indication that there would be road work. I haven't seen any heavy machinery or a single orange cone. This has to be something other than construction.

I have literally been sitting in this traffic for over forty-five minutes. I've moved maybe fifty yards. The rain will not let up. I was supposed to be home a half an hour ago, but whatever is causing this traffic jam is out of my sight. How far does this bumper-to-bumper nonsense last? A mile? Five miles? What if the cause of it all is twenty miles down the road? How long will it be?

Finally the glaring red lights in front of me fade to a mild orange. Traffic is moving. We're clear to go. I let my foot off of the brake as the Corolla in front of me pulls away. The cars on my left speed up and move forward into the rain. The eighteen-wheeler to my right revs its engine and lurches forward. This is definitely the end of my wait. This isn't one of those let-my-foot-off-the-brake-for-half-a-second-before-I-stop-again moves. This is the real deal. I move my right foot slightly to the right and apply pressure to the gas pedal. My truck groans under the unexpected nudge I give it. The rain seems to fall harder on my windshield and and just as I'm about to increase the speed of the wipers, the red lights return.

Damn it! I thought I had gotten through it! I thought whatever it was that was keeping this traffic from going anywhere had gone away. There better be some major carnage up there to keep me stranded out on this wet pavement in the middle of the night. If I don't see blood on the asphalt, I'm going to be really upset. I mean, this is ridiculous! I can understand traffic like this during rush hour, but at midnight? Give me a break. Give me something to look at. I need some kind of payment for making me wait like this. There better be shattered glass and bodies on stretchers. There better be people huddled in masses crying over lost loved ones. I want to see the jaws of life trying desperately to save a mangled woman only to find it's too late.

My radio scans through clear Right-Wing talk to the static accordions of Hispanic music to sightings of unidentified flying objects. I hear commercials for tank less water heaters before being forced to listen to commercials for natural home turf lawns. I want to hear a traffic report, but instead, I hear fourteen-year-olds calling late-night radio programs asking about premature ejaculation and how to tell their parents that they're pregnant. I want to know how much longer I have to wait before I can see some real graphic material but have to endure the wrath of a Republican going ballistic on the current president.

I hardly notice the steady progression I've made in the last hour. All I can think of is the commotion my windshield wipers are making and the seemingly endless line of red lights in front of me. When the blinding red evaporates and pulls away for what seems to be the one hundredth time, I don't get my hopes up. I know it's going to stop as soon as I believe the wait is over. It doesn't though.

Now is my chance to see real trauma. Now is my chance to see death first hand. I'm actually going to get to see severed limbs and scattered brains. Brains! Pink and red. Soft and spongy. Wet from rain and covered in gravel. I speed up to maintain my position within the traffic. I look to the right and then to the left. Which side is the mayhem going to be on?

The traffic continues to speed up and makes its way through the night. A flashing exchange of reds and blues ahead on the right. The site of the accident. I increase the speed of my wipers as I peer through the right side of my windshield at the flashing lights. I stare through the passenger's window as I pass the desolate scene. One patrol vehicle with flashing lights is what's left of whatever it was that kept me waiting. One officer in the driver's seat with his eyes turned downward writing a report. All that waiting. All that time wasted and nothing to show for it.