I worked at a job forty-eight miles from my home.
Five days a week, I stood in the shower and listened to the traffic report on
our shower radio. One morning I heard, "There's a two mile backup on the New
Jersey Turnpike." I groaned. The announcer continued. "We have an overturned
tracker trailer at exit 12. Traffic heading south is a mess. If you can find an
alternate route, I suggest you take it."
I didn't know the highways well enough. There were no alternate routes for me.
My morning commute was a long one.
After a gruelling day at work, my day ended. I started my car, turned on the
radio, and listened to the traffic report again. "There's a car accident on the
'Cross Bronx Expressway'. If you're travelling north on the I-95 into New York
City, you can expect trouble. The New Jersey Turnpike Authority is reporting
ninety minute delays inbound at the George Washington Bridge. There are
three-mile line-ups on both the I-95 and the I-80."
I called Ginny. "Don't expect me soon, Hun. There's an accident. The bridge is a
mess."
"I'm sorry, baby." She responded. "Just be careful. I love you!"
We hung up.
****************
We live near the G. W. Bridge, as it is known here. Five major highways and a
couple smaller ones converge there. If there is an accident, I'm stuck. Traffic
on the sixteen-lane, two-level, bridge comes to a halt. Ten-mile lengths of cars
are not uncommon. Commuters fight for every inch they can get. Some drive in the
break-down lanes to cut an few minutes off their trip. They come to an overpass
and cut back in. Horns sound. Hand gestures are made. Drivers, behind closed
windows, shout nasty unheard words.
I sit and wait in the lane I need to be in. Others move down the left lanes and
try to pull into mine. I refuse to let them in. I waited, they should have
waited too. I grow frustrated and blow my horn, like all the other drivers -
their anger contagious.
I get home. I'm tense. It takes me thirty minutes to relax.
It's all behind me now. I have a job in Manhattan. My wife drives me to the G.
W. Bridge and drops me off. I get on a bus, cross the bridge, and get on the
subway.
I'm at work in an hour. There's no stress. I sit, relax, read my book, and put
my worries in the hands of the driver.
My life is the Jersey Turnpike. I try to drive myself, but I get stuck in a jam.
I grow frustrated. My life was a traffic jam. For more than forty years, I
travelled the same road. I finally put my life in the hands of another driver. I
put my faith in "Him". "God" drives me where I need to go now. I sit, relax,
read, and put my worries in the hands of the real driver.
Michael T. Smith mtsmith@cableone.net
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