The Beverly Garland is a sixteen mile freeway drive. The guest had phoned at 8 a.m. on Wednesday. I avoid distant housecalls during the rush hour; guests rarely object to waiting.
But I had finished breakfast. I had no plans for several hours, and a second housecall would make for a harassing morning. Why not get the visit out of the way?
I checked my traffic app. North on the 405 was not too bad; East on the 101 was solid red. Maybe it would ease by the time I reached it.
Driving north on the 405, and I shared my fellow drivers’ relief that we were not on the immobile southbound side. Half a mile before the connector to the 101, the right lane stopped cold.
It took another 45 minutes to reach the hotel. I hate being late, but I had warned the guest, giving myself plenty of time. I was bored. I played the radio. I paid close attention to driving, moving at a steady few miles per hour instead of braking and accelerating constantly. Doing that requires allowing the car in front to move ahead some distance. Cars from the adjacent lane occasionally pulled into that space, infuriating the driver behind me. I hoped he wasn’t armed.
Getting stuck in the rush hour was my decision, but millions of people have no choice. They do it ten times a week. How can they live like that?.....