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 It's
an awfully long commute. I've done it every day since I can remember.
Bumper to bumper, horns honking, tempers flaring. Same drab scenery
and the same old talk show themes. I'm always switching lanes just
to keep the boredom from driving me crazy. Funny how the asphalt
always look faster on the other side of the line.
The strange thing is, I never seem to get where I'm going. Most
commuters get to their destination don't they? I watch the sign
posts to gauge my progress. "Peace of Mind 1050 miles,"
"Acceptance by God 2075," and "Heavenly Mansions
9110." I'm a realistic fellow and I know that last one should
take awhile. But the others, I'd really like to get there soon,
at least feel like I'm making some headway.
Unfortunately it's Gridlock City and it seems we're going nowhere.
I sure have plenty of time to enjoy the scenery. Just look at that
landscaped median. Beautiful flowers and shrubs. Beautiful nothing.
What an awful waste. They could have put in another lane.
Hey! There's an idea. Maybe, if I just squeeze onto the median,
I can fly right past all these cars. Won't they be jealous
that I thought of it first. Oops. There's a patrol car. Nah.
Guess I'll stay put. Gotta obey the law. Gotta stay on the
road. Gotta be patient. I hate this grind.
If all these stupid cars weren't here I sure could make better
time. Some of them are so obnoxious. They're on the same road, so
I think they're headed for the same destination, but you sure can't
tell. With their fancy cars and gutsy engines they're always cutting
me off, grabbing every open spot they can find. But if I make a
mistake, swerving in front of them, or moving too slow, they lean
on their horns and shake their fingers. Makes a fellow just want
to take the next exit and head back where he came from. Traffic's
pretty smooth going the opposite way.
Oh I've taken an exit or two. You can hardly blame me. You
gotta have a break every now and then. The billboards brightly advertise,
"Why commute farther, when we've got it all." And
they pretty much do. Bright lights, lots of laughs, feel good fun.
Helps you forget the traffic and how far away the destination remains.
Somehow I always get back on the road. Not that I like the rat
race, but I've got to get where I'm going. The exit is
not where I want to stay. It's a long way still to Peace of
Mind and Acceptance. Besides, there are these strange bearded men
who hang around the street corners religiously toting signs like
"He who puts his hand to the wheel and then turns back is not
fit for the road" and "Thou shalt not exit." You
have to get back on just to shake the guilt!
 I
saw another sign that said, "Blessed are those in the slow
lane for the race is to the persevering." I guess that's a
good thing since this old clunker that I'm driving fits the persevering
kind. The speed limit is 55 mph but it might as well be 20. My car
sputters and groans every time I step on the gas to squeeze in where
there's a break in the traffic. Well, there I've done it. I've gone
on and on about my traffic days. Enough of that. I've got something
better to tell you.
The strangest thing happened the other day. I saw a man at the
side of the road standing by a big sign. As you can imagine, I had
a plenty of time to read it and study his face too. He didn't look
at all like those bearded guys on the exits. His sign was entirely
different. It said, "Free Expressway - Your Travel Time Will
Fly." Who was this joker? I wondered. I rolled the window a
crack and shouted, "What's up with your expressway?"
He flashed me a grin and slipped a flyer through the window. "Check
it out," he said, "The entrance is just ahead."
"Yeah sure," I returned, but the pace had finally quickened
and my car jolted on down the road, dropping the flyer on the carpet.
"Free expressway," I muttered. "Nothing's free
in this world. Especially not expressways. There wouldn't be
such a traffic jam if that were true."
I squinted into the sun looking for a mile post. There it was,
"Peace of Mind 1045 miles." "No way!" I screamed.
"That can't be right. I've been traveling for days!
Surely I'm more than five miles closer." I hate to admit
it, but I burst into tears. Fortunately the traffic had slowed to
a dead stop. I banged my head against the steering wheel and then
left it there. It was too much. Surrounded by obnoxious drivers,
disappointed by the false advertising of exits and hemmed in by
the law that kept me off the median. How could I ever reach my destination?
Someone was honking from behind. I hardly cared, but I opened my
eyes. There was the flyer. I picked it up and as I edged forward,
I read it with one eye as only a commuter can do. The advertisement
boasted that it was the only free expressway in the country. Its
map gave evidence that it too passed through Peace of Mind, Acceptance
by God and a host of other delightful places I'd only seen pictures
of. Places like Joyful, Patience and Self-Control. I'd never seen
those on this road. It even claimed to reach Heavenly Mansions on
the furthest end of its run.
I read on, "Watch the miles fly as your days turn to seconds
and your years to minutes." Wouldn't that be great, I
thought to myself. But this was ludicrous. How could any car, let
alone my old junker cover ground so fast. Fast, free, it just couldn't
be.
Still, I had to read the fine print. I pulled over to the side,
skeptical but totally intrigued. Then I saw the conditions. "Ah,
ha," I muttered to myself. "I knew there had to be a catch."
It read, "Only certified drivers with a perfect driving record
are allowed on the expressway. Cars subject to smog-inspection."
I tossed the flyer on the floor. Out by two accounts. I revved the
engine. Well, I mean I turned the ignition back on. It had stalled.
Just as I was about to edge my way back into the traffic, I saw
the man again. "Ready to fly?" he asked.
"In this contraption?" I shouted out the window over
my car's knocks and sputters. "The dents on the fender and
the bondo on the side tell the rest of the story. My record's far
from perfect. It's a no-can-do to your expressway on two accounts."
He walked beside my car as I inched along. "It's a no-problem
for my expressway on two accounts," he smiled back. "I'm
certified and I'll do the driving. We do tune-ups as well."
I rolled up my window as fast as I could. This was a total scam.
There was no way I was putting a stranger behind my wheel. I couldn't
believe how close I'd come to being taken in. I gave myself a sound
scolding - you just can't trust anybody no matter how kind and convincing
they are. Besides that, I don't let any grease monkeys under my
hood. I do the maintenance all myself.
He just smiled and went back to his sign. I picked up the flier
again. There it was, as clear as can be. "Sit back and let
us do your driving. Got smog, we'll do the job. It's all
expressly free!" Nah. It couldn't be. Or could it?
My mind batted around this bizarre new idea. Sailing on an expressway
no longer breathing exhaust fumes. Might be true. Couldn't
be. The man was absolutely confidant. Most con-artists are. The
brochure was professionally convincing. You can print anything these
days.
Then with one stomp on the peddle, a swerve of the wheel and a
big backfire, I pulled over and got out of my car. "Hey, Mr.
Expressway," I nervously called out. He turned his face from
the glare of the traffic. "What if I take you up on this deal.
If I don't like your driving, uh, if the expressway isn't
all you say it is, can I get back on this here road."
"Not a problem," came his quick reply. "There are
connections between the two all along the route. We made it that
way for the greatest convenience. Easy on, easy off."
"YOU made it that way?" I questioned. "You're
not just hired for advertising?"
"Oh no." He laughed. "It's a family business.
My father owns the right of ways. I did the building and our one
other partner does the tune-ups. No hired hands around here. Keeps
our quality at the top."
I looked him over carefully. His broad hands had a roughness, even
scars from some past serious road jobs.
The cars suddenly started whizzing by. This time I knew there was
no sense getting back on that road. It would just be a matter of
time before those same cars would grind to a halt barely a step
closer to their goal.
I mustered up my courage and called out. "I've had it with
this road. Won't you get me on that expressway?"
Quick as a wink he was headed my way. "Hop in and pop the
hood," he grinned, "we've got places to go!"
I headed for the driver's side, opened the door and out of
habit sat behind the wheel. Suddenly I heard a gentle purring, like
a great cat. Was that my motor? It hadn't sounded that good
even when I first got it. Could it be? I jumped out and joined him
under the hood. The engine was clean, no leaks, no coughs. How he
did I'll never know. He dropped the hood and I walked half-dazed
to the passenger side.
He pulled away, tires screeching. My eyes grew wide as we sped
past the cars. In no time we were on the expressway, the speedometer
needle banging the end of the dial.
"You'd better slow down," I stuttered. "You're
going to get a ticket!"
 He
grinned and pointed to the sign "The Sky's the Limit."
All I could do was shake my head and hold on for dear life. It truly
felt like we were flying. I drank in the scenery. Could it be the
same city I'd been traveling in? It was as if we were on a sky line,
above the traffic, able to see things previously hidden from view.
Mountains capped with snow, expanses of forest intermingled with
lush parks. I babbled excitedly. My driver just smiled and kept
pointing out new sights. Time passed quickly and as I remember it
now, we came into "Peace of Mind" just as the sun was
setting.
"You could use a good rest after today's excitement."
said my driver, breaking into my reverie. "There's a great
hotel in this town." That night I slept like a baby. No sore
muscles in my neck or my legs from a long commute. No questions
about how far I'd get the next day. Hadn't I already reached
one of my destinations in only a half a day's time?
From then on it was never the same. We reached "Acceptance
by God" in time for breakfast. It was the most incredible feast
I've ever had. There I met my driver's Father. The smile
and confidence were obviously a family thing. I told them both how
long I'd been on the road, how frustrated I'd been at
the slow pace, the rules, the bad drivers. I even found myself telling
about the exits I'd taken, the regrets they'd brought.
I finally stopped. I could tell that for them none of that mattered.
I was on the expressway now. I was welcome. This was a family business
and they were treating me like family. I was, it still comes hard
to say, I was, I am loved. I didn't want to leave that town.
It felt like a home I'd never known. My driver assured me that
I could return at any time I felt the need. I guess life is like
that on expressways. I'm still trying to figure it out.
As we got back in the car, I knew it was time to see some of those
places in the flyer that I'd never known. My driver readily
agreed. We rolled down the window and opened a sun roof I never
noticed before. The weather was perfect. While we sped from place
to place there was no longer any urgent haste, just excited purpose.
We first drove into "Patience." "Patience" was
a sprawling rural community whose rolling hills seemed to extend
forever. "Self-control" was a seaside resort where I watched
the power of the ocean restrained at its shore. "Joy"
was a mountain village where waterfalls tumbled and wildflowers
bloomed.
You'd think I'd never tire of such a trip. I thought
I never would. But I must confess, that which is familiar has a
very strong pull. I missed driving. I like to drive. I like to feel
the power of the machine under my hands. Yeah, even if it's
just a clunker like mine.
So I asked for the wheel and my driver gave it to me. No, not on
the expressway. I am not certified to drive there. Quietly, without
a word, he pulled over to an exit. It's amazing how quickly
one can find an exit even among mountain roads and beach front property.
It felt so good to be behind the wheel. Except for the traffic
and the drivers and the smog. I don't stay long. Feelings of control
pale as I compare the drudgery of roadway driving to the thrill
of expressway riding. But mostly, I want off because I miss the
companionship of my driver. I can tell how much it hurts him each
time I want to drive. I've learned what it cost his entire family
to build the expressway. You see, there was a terrible accident
in which they almost lost him. I've learned it's their greatest
desire to see the expressway filled with more cars.
So when I do take the wheel and go back to eating exhaust, my eyes
keep glancing to the right. The signs mock me, "Peace of Mind
1040 miles" and "Acceptance by God 2065." But I know
that while they don't lie, there is a better way. Soon I'm
pulling off to the side, ready to fly again. All it takes is turning
over the keys to my driver, my friend.
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