| Freeway Fiction - Friday, December 21, 2007
Freeway Fiction
Where literary careers actually are on the road to nowhere...
You already hate your Highway 101 commute through Marin County. Well, here are some numbers to help you hate it even more: If the definition of a horrendous commute is about an hour and 20 minutes one way, by our calculations the average Marin 101 commuter spends 320 hours a year on his or her way to work. Or, 640 hours round-trip. To put it in context, we spend about 430 hours in direct verbal communication with our loved ones; 310 hours enjoying pleasing culinary flavors; 30 in heartfelt laughter and a mere 10 being hugged.
Full disclosure: We made those numbers up.
But we don't think they're too far off.
In any event, here are the results of our annual chance to blow off steam about traffic: the very best of our 2007 Freeway Fiction contest entries. We asked readers to submit short, witty stories or poems—101 words long—inspired by the commute we all know and don't love. Some are paeans to our weekday mind-numbingly dull journeys (or "auto" biographies as we like to say); others, Freudian fantasies conjured while in the midst of said insipid commute (check out the gorilla-love entry, which kicks off our list).
But what all submissions have in common is a bond that breaks cultural and economic boundaries, linking our fellow man, woman, neighbor, co-worker, competitor and stranger via a belief in one all-too-real and undeniable truth: Traffic is lousy.
Here are this year's winners. And for all of you who've just entered the lane I'm in on Highway 101—welcome to the one moving slowest.—Jason Walsh
The Grand Pianist
Polite applause rippled through the half-filled hall and, as the prematurely silver-backed mountain gorilla entered and traversed the floodlit stage, the senior critic for the London Times glanced down at her wrinkled program, which promised an evening of Chopin, and mused that even if the ape delivered in proportion to his species' 98 percent genetic match with Van Cliburn, his performance was likely to be a tedious affair—with the technical excellence but same lack of passion she had experienced during their brief coupling on the fruit-rind-littered floor of his dressing room, scarcely a quarter of an hour earlier.
Kevin Lawson, Point Reyes
An Invisible Someone (from The 53 Stages of My Commute)
Jouncing down the steep of Gough Street
Jarring rattle of gravity's pull,
A man step step steps it downhill.
Shirtless though a chilly morning commute
His skin chiaroscuro-ed,
Build of a middleweight in good shape
Would catch anyone's eye,
Sharp pressed slacks and polished shoes.
Shoulders, cut muscles,
He holds a grey suit jacket,
Far from his body like a dead thing
Carrying a stench but valuable nonetheless.
He rounds the corner, drops the jacket
Studying the soft heap on concrete sidewalk.
He is off again holding the
Jacket stretching like to hand it
to an invisible someone.
The light changes.
Richard Lang, Forest Knolls
Billy Watches the Tube
Is but my life one television plot?
It knows less violence, it follows less fate:
Rough ratings do shake a once favored spot,
The season's series have too short a date:
Reruns rerun and run and run,
Again and again the schemes repeat:
Does not each play in time lose fun?
Perchance the innovation's obsolete.
Might Candid Camera capture my surprise,
Or shall my test be but a reality play?
Will I be fooled by the camera's disguise,
Will the trial's outcome go my way?
Could Alan Funt be asking me to smile,
Before my soul is voted off the isle?
Michael D. Hoy, Mill Valley
Auspicious Messages
Sitting at the doctor's office reading an old New Yorker, I came across an article about commuting: "People may endure miserable commutes out of an inability to weight their general well-being against quantifiable material gains."
Ouch! For years I've been feeding onto the 101, inching along slower than molasses toward a job I detest. Why? To drive a new car?
A couple of days later I solved the Pink Pages' "Cypher." "Johnny Carson Warned: Never continue a job you don't enjoy."
"OK, I give." I quit the next day. Just have to find the right time to tell my husband.
Anonymous
Hamlet at Hamilton Field
Blue eyes pop open suddenly at 6am
Always the first thought is:
If I am not on the 101
by 6:45am sharp
at the Ignacio exit
I'm dead in the water
for the southbound commute.
So the question is:
Do I, or
don't I
do it (The Commute) and
now or later?
That is always the question!
The 101
with its complex fragility and
tender fickleness—
I feel—
has become my friend
(my enemy, too!)
since I moved to Hamilton Field
from Larkspur in 2001.
Like Hamlet, I always ask:
To drive, or
not to drive,
that is always
The Question!
Lynda Beth Unkeless, Novato
In the Suicide Lane on the Drive of Death
Sunny the yellow SUV and I are speeding down the Drive of Death stuck in the suicide lane, the price of using FasTrak Only. My hands are clenched at ten and two, and I'm afraid to peel my eyes from the oncoming traffic to glance over my right shoulder. A safer lane may be clear over there, but I'll never know it. The cell phone can sing all it wants; it goes unanswered. I have time to wonder, is a head-on at 90 mph really better than one at 110? At last the Marina appears. We cheated Death once again.
Christine Weaver, Tiburon
The 101 blonde
I've seen her often, at different times of the day, entering 101 at Shoreline. Blue SUV, cool shades, cute, guessing 5-9, drives too fast, probably curses at old geezers like me who pay attention to speed limits. Sometimes a couple of kids with her. They always seem to be joking together. Blue jean baby, pirate's smile, perfect lyrics by Taupin. Her bumper sticker says NOLA. At first I thought that was her name—a misprint for Lola, I concluded brainlessly until I realized New Orleans, Louisiana.
Oh, sorry officer, you say I was doing 75? My mind was elsewhere. Blondes!
Ralph Tigrat, Mill Valley
Good Morning
Early morning fog
Lingers near the shoreline
One tight line of charcoal smoke
Drifts above the town
A single white bird
Thumbnail big
Passes over the Richardson Bridge
Moving languorously
Serene hypnotic hum of rubber on road
And an occasional thump, thump
The engine purrs
A hill climb moan
Teal ducks in formation
Long necks
Waddling in flight
Soundless
An orange red winter sun with yellow highlights
Shines weakly in the valley beyond the bay
Popcorn clouds gray and white fill most of the morning sky
Tiny black hills below
Tunnel framed scene
of a city
behind
a soaring red bridge
Al Vetere, San Rafael
Knocks in the Night
Standing quietly at her sink, washing the dishes from their turkey dinner, she reflected on the meaning of Thanksgiving and her many blessings. Startled by three distinct raps on kitchen door, she turned and looked at the front step—just visible below the half-closed shade. No one was there. Hands still wet with dishwater, she opened the door and listened to the night for the sound of footsteps in quick retreat on the gravel drive—silence. The motion sensor lights remained off. Her skin pricked from head to toe as a wave of energy, not quite a chill, passed through her.
>Christine Dietrich Cragg, San Anselmo
Mr. Spider
A packed '54 totes us along the 101. I glance down at my sweet chocolaty alluring mocha to find...a spider bathing in all its glory.
My heart—shattered. My morning fix—broke; my crutch—crumbled; my sanctuary—breached. I feel so violated. Oh, how the frothy bubbles must tickle your wretched little hairy body lathered in sugar and cream. How dare you drown in my sacred cauldron, my caffeinated abyss. A part of me, too, has departed with you from this "world of craving." Never again, will I have such faith in a mocha. I shan't forget you, Mr. Spider.
Todd D'Amario, Mill Valley
Wildlife Sightings on the Freeway
The deer bounded along on the sunburnt grass, two unfenced yards above the 405. Would it keep to its parallel path and world, or intersect with the zippity-do-dah morning traffic?
The large dog suddenly loomed ahead in the charcoal night fog, bewildered, in her lane of the 110. She moved over but would she hit it or the car in the neighboring lane?
The rat jumped off the retaining wall at the side of the 101 to cross the slow-moving flood of traffic. Would it make it to the other side alive?
In the rat race, only the rat makes it.
Gael Chandler, Los Angeles
Diamonds and Rubies
Diamonds and rubies; headlights and taillights that string their way up and down the curve of freeway ahead of me. I usually savor this time alone, ferrying myself between the worlds of work and home. I listen to news on NPR, books on CD, friends and family on the cell, and sometimes even tune into my inner voice. Shh, shh, shh, boom! Two cars in the next lane collide—another rear-ender. I move beyond them, like water down a stream. I won't be around for the cops and the claims. I move beyond them, diamonds and rubies turned back into cars.
Gael Chandler, Los Angeles
One Oh One
I was born on Highway 101 at exactly 1:01am. My parents were on their way to the hospital when my mother started to scream, "PULL OVER!"
My dad screeched to a halt on the side of the highway and I came out.
My mother, in her delusional state, looked at my dad and said, "We're calling her One Oh One." So that's how I got my name.
No one tried to talk my mother out of it.
She says that I am just like the highway, lonely and sweet, beautiful and lengthy, crazy and sometimes as slow as can be.
Elena Rodriguez, Oakland
Soft Landing
Northbound on the 101, a pickup enters ahead of me. Moving furniture during afternoon commute? Obviously not from around here. A mattress falls. My rear-view mirror reveals the miracle. I've avoided it. A garden rake topples. Another lucky miss as I screech around it.
A gravel truck pulls ahead of me. A pebble dislodges. Expecting a ping, instead I hear Pop! Crack! My windshield becomes a mosaic. What happened to safety glass? I move onto the right shoulder.
Some days you avoid the big stuff and then the smallest thing becomes one more story about why you're late again getting home.
Anita Garner, Mill Valley
Fantacycle
It's 6:45. The traffic is already backed up on Sir Francis Drake Boulevard. I haven't even gotten on Highway 101 yet. Clutch in, clutch out. Mindless motion. I can't take this anymore.
I could ride my bicycle. I could take the scenic route. I could feel the wind blowing in my hair. I could feel invigorated. I could start the day on a healthy, positive note.
It's 5. It's been one of those days. I am tired and hungry. I have my bike outside. Now what do I do?
Just concentrate on the back of the car in front of me.
Karen Landucci, Greenbrae
The Organic Woman
For years she had been their guru. No longer! She was getting harder to follow. Her latest ploy: an organic T-shirt! She wouldn't tell where she had gotten it. The possibilities were endless or nil. Tracking it down would cost a fortune in telephone bills. Give up? Probably. Start? Maybe. The replies were humiliating. "Are you nuts?" "Never heard of such a thing!" "What do you want that for?" "Does it mean the cotton was grown without toxic sprays or fertilizer?" "Come on!" This was a challenge. Who could meet it? Macy's? Sears? Peruvian Connection? You'll never guess! Your neighborhood Longs.
Anonymous
Car Karma
I stop at the yellow light as it turns red. In the car behind me, hands are thrown up in disgust. Turning onto Franklin Street, enveloped in classical music, the screech of a skidding car intrudes. Thunk, crunch, whoa! My Honda rotates in a gentle 180-degree arc on the rain-slick pavement. On the sidewalk a gray-haired woman mouths, "Are you OK?" My car points at traffic. U-turn, parallel park, a crowd coagulates. Concerned faces peer. "Are you OK?" Dazed, I let the other driver hug me. "I'm OK." How can I explain the damage to my faith in justice?
Stacey Dennick, Mill Valley
Peaceful Politics 101
On 101, SUV to left, Hummer to right, Prius ahead. What a parallel! Some burning up the planet, others acting green. Down Waldo (more analogy) where're we going? What are we doing in this handbasket? Novato Narrows (more comparison). Life in the fast lane and we are going nowhere. A narrow-minded president says, "It's my way or the highway!" Corporations are steering us wrong. There's no free in freeway! What's my exit plan? The road less traveled. Less driving, less spending, no war, voting my conscience. We need C.P.R. (Citizens' Peaceful Revolution). I'm rethinking my destination. It's green, it's peace.
Gene Kelly, Novato
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