WHEN THERE’S NO EXPRESS LANE
Honk If You Love Traffic Jams
I’ll show you my bumper if you’ll show me yours
I love a traffic jam. What can I say? I’m just a natural people-person. It’s like a human chain, only instead of holding hands, we connect bumper to bumper.
Nothing brings humanity together like a traffic jam, and when we’re united, there is nothing that we can’t NOT accomplish. Just sit back and go along for the lack of a ride.
Busy people do sometimes fret that they squander valuable time in traffic. They don’t realize what a gift they’ve been given. It’s like being on “island time” — just staying awake counts as productivity. And it provides an uncontestable excuse for missing your performance evaluation.
Far from being boring, traffic jams provide boundless possibilities for sportive people-watching. That’s because people imagine that they are invisible behind the wheel of a car. It’s not being a voyeur to ogle them — it’s driving defensively.
I sometimes pass the time playing “traffic jam bingo.” I have a collection of cards, their squares labeled with things like weeping, praying, nose picking, taking selfies, playing air guitar, popping zits in rearview mirror, flipping me the bird, etc. I almost always get bingo before I reach my destination.
Sometimes, I even witness people having sex during a traffic jam. I use sightings of sexual intercourse as a bingo wild card.
Of course, everybody knows that masturbating during vehicular gridlock is common. However, did you know that there is a traffic jam equivalent to the mile-high club? I call it the five-miles-per-hour club.
It isn’t easy to qualify for membership, for successful coitus while operating a motor vehicle involves positions you won’t even find in the Kama Sutra. Think of trying to teeter-totter in a phone booth, while wearing seat belts.
Many people falsely think all traffic jams are the same. In fact, there are several distinct types, each of which has its own charm.
Perhaps the most common is the daily commute. I consider it to be a social event. You visit many of the same people every day. The pack becomes like a mobile neighborhood. And you can’t ask for better neighbors — you know them and look forward to seeing them, but never have to speak to them, nor will they ever complain about the junk in your yard.
Another distinct type is rubbernecking. Nothing captures our attention, like the possibility of glimpsing something that will make us look away in horror or disgust. All lanes may be clear, yet even the most trifling distraction off the side of the road, like a naked man changing a flat tire, turns heads and clogs traffic for miles.
A third type is the event exodus, such as leaving a stadium concert, a football game, or fourth of July fireworks. Its participants have spent the last several hours being entertained, which means they’re wasted, so it’s actually a good thing nobody is moving. This type is unique in that it originates at an exact time and point of departure, exploding like the Big Bang, then expanding slowly for the rest of eternity.
I listen to traffic reports on the radio to make sure I don’t miss a thing. The news radio station updates traffic every TEN MINUTES, so if you want actual news, like wars and stuff, listen to NPR.
I even have my favorite broadcasters. Once in a while, you catch a truly epic call — like Al Michaels’s “Do you believe in miracles” or Vin Scully’s “I don’t believe what I just saw,” I got chills when I heard Kiera J. declare, “If you’re on I-5 northbound today, I hope you don’t have to pee.”
Incidentally, that’s why, as I’ve gotten older, I drive while sitting on a bedpan.
Sometimes, when I feel lonely, I hop onto I-5 and start a traffic jam. It’s easy. Just obey the law. Drive the speed limit on the freeway and it’ll set off a chain reaction of cars behind you swerving, switching lanes, stomping the breaks, and — viola— just like that, you’ve created a magnificent bottleneck. And you can’t get even get ticketed for it.
Or, I strip naked and get out to change a tire. A nude man with a tire iron will stop traffic every time.
There’s no essential difference between a traffic jam and a parade, so feel free to wave at people, toss candy out the window, and by all means twirl your (ahem) baton. I’ll be watching, ready to shout “Bingo!”
Gregg Sapp is the author of the “Holidazed” series of satires.
