On the Road Again
There are two speeds on the I-580: texting and Wario Colloseum (WC from here on out). Combined with the crater-faced condition of the asphalt (I have to pressurize my tires bi-weekly), one has to have a steady hand, darting eyes, and ready-reflexes to brave rush-hour on this particular highway to hell (really, of hell).
Texting-drivers are by far the worst but I should be more precise with my words; I’m sure many of these types aren’t texting at all but trolling Instagram or producing YouTube content. Screeners (from here on out) are the worst, lowest form of life (behind the wheel; I’m sure once they park they’re all valuable members of society with people that love and depend on them). You can easily tell if a person has their eyes on their phone instead of the road without ever having to see their dumb mugs. They merge onto the freeway going 45 mph, lurching from lane to lane like someone fighting sleep (or more likely irrelevance), into the herd of cars flinching around them like cheerleaders in a Hell House until before getting ‘woke’ by the center divider. A brush with reality still isn’t enough to grab their attention; under the influence of blue-light, Screeners return to living-room speed because they refuse to keep up with the world unless it meets them where they are… on their phones.
WC’s aren’t as bad. At least they think they know what they’re doing because they’ve done it a zillion times before on Mario Kart and/or follow police chases on Reddit. Of course they don’t actually know what they’re doing but it’s still less irresponsible than believing god is your autopilot (which Screeners must). I’m sure the Warios avatars have plenty of blood on their mitts, and obviously their lives are never actually on the line online or from the sidelines. IRL they fly up behind me like a missal guided by Michael Bay. I flex my jaw, fix my eyes on the tiny parabola of mirror trying to muster a laser beam of shame at their tires that would blow they’re arrogance right off its tracks, forcing them to slow-down and pick a lane. It never works. So I’m forced to imagine their (likely young) carcasses flung over the center divider, organs pulped into slippery sawdust, after skidding out to avoid a jilted mattress released from the embrace of some lazy bungees by some pick-up truck that twerked on a pothole.
It’s incredible that so many of us who take 580 have lived this long. After surviving the gauntlet, I exit at Macarthur. Must have been a garbage storm last night, the off-ramp is hosed with litter. Every slope and side splattered with plastic takeout bags, discarded fast food cups, diapers — sarcastic tinsel at an end-of-world party. Litterers occupy the same phylum as Screeners.
Hot Tip: When someone’s driving up behind you fast, click on your hazard lights. They’ll back off. There’s still some common decency left on the road.
