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. Why not get the
visit out of the way? I checked my traffic app. North on the 405 was not bad; the
second leg, east on the 101 was solid red. Maybe it would ease by the time I
reached it.
Driving
north on the 405, 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 listened to a tape. 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?.....
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