Traffic Jam

By Vince Basehart

May 30 -- It is a lovely Saturday afternoon. By midday the haze had burned off, the sky is blue, the air breezy. The Lens and Mrs. Lens are moving crisply in their automobile along the westbound 10 Freeway.

Our friends, who live just inside Malibu city limits, will greet us. We will embrace at the door, pet the dog, have cocktails on the deck while we wait for the charcoals to come to steak-searing readiness.

An open top Jeep filled with swim-suited college women, its stereo blasting, is moving beside us. They are dancing in their seats, singing to the song, a rolling advertisement for advantages of youth and vitality.

We pass the 405, and traffic slows. We pass the Cloverfield exit and up ahead there is a dragon’s tail of red brake lights. I must slow the Lensmobile down to a trot. Finally, near Lincoln, traffic just stops.

“Must be a wreck,” we say in unison.

I flip the radio over to the all news station which promises “traffic on the ones.” The announcer goes on about slow-and-go here, debris in the fast lane there, a Sig Alert in Orange County, congestion in Pomona. Nothing about the mass of cars moving at the speed of a cooling lava flow on the 10 between the 405 and the beach.

We are only able to move one car length per minute. The Rose Parade moves faster than this; it is the kind of traffic that requires no accelerator work, only mastery of the foot pedal and vehicle idle speed. God help any one driving a stick shift.

We are behind a transportation van for the elderly with a wheelchair ramp in the back.

A bald headed man in a convertible Mercedes cuts in from our right. No signal. Instead he just pries into the space between my car and the van. He does not give a “thank you” wave.

He is an aggressive, entitled driver, a Winner who will not amble along with the rest of the herd. He immediately pushes into the next lane in the same manner, in front of the Jeep girls, swiveling his head looking for the quickest lane. I assume he is a lawyer.

We grind along bumper to bumper like this for a half an hour. There is finally mention of the traffic jam, but no mention of why. The announcer states, dreadfully, “PCH is jammed from the McClure Tunnel all the way up to about Sunset.” She hits the word “jammed” with the excitement of Vin Scully announcing a fly ball having been jammed into right field.

Mrs. Lens and I groan.