[4 of 100] Even Death Gets Stuck In Traffic
Traffic is an immutable constant in Los Angeles. Any attempt to avoid it will only end up causing more headaches (I’m looking at you, Waze. Do you really think I can make this unprotected left from a side street onto Sunset Boulevard in the middle of rush hour?). The best thing to do is take a deep breath and accept that your commute will be hell. Besides, it’s not all bad. If you hate going home, it gives you time to prepare yourself mentally. If you’re running late because you lost track of time playing video games, you can always blame traffic. And, if you need inspiration for your writing, you can people watch while stuck in gridlock.
This morning I saw the usual cast of characters. The middle aged woman using the rear view mirror to apply makeup. The young guy holding up his phone in front of his face and using the speakerphone option because that’s way cooler looking than wearing a headset. The guy in a suit gritting his teeth and clenching the steering wheel so tightly I thought he was going to have an aneurysm. Then, there was the Angel of Death.
Or so I think.
I was at a dead stop on the freeway as a caravan of emergency vehicles passed by with their lights and sirens blazing. Behind me was a man with tattoos all over his body, even his face and bald head. He was driving a Chrysler 300, which I thought was a pretty modest car for someone so sinister-looking. Then he turned on his sound system, and I was reminded not to judge a book by its cover.
The sound was deafening. I was stuck under an overpass, and the bass reverberated in the enclosed space, easily drowning out the NPR from my puny speakers. He was playing some kind of rap song since no other genre of music provides enough bass and bravado. In fact, if/when the Rapture happens, I am sure it will be accompanied by the most gangster of all gangster rap songs.
The bald man and I inched forward until we came across a bunch of cars along the side of the road. Fortunately, there were no mangled cars, and people were milling about looking a bit shaken but otherwise healthy. I looked in the rear view mirror and saw the bald-headed man surveying the scene with a keen eye.
Seeing nothing of interest, he revved his car and sped past me with a roar that was definitely not the typical stock engine for a Chrysler 300. We drove side-by-side for a brief moment, me doing my best to avoid looking in his direction and him staring straight ahead. Apparently, he had no interest in me either (at least not today), and for that I was grateful.
