February 10th on the 210
It was Her birthday, the very first of hopefully many more to come. I felt sad that I was not there to celebrate with Her, but a mother has to help keep the lights on. So to work, I went. I chose to take solace in the fact that I would be the one to present Her very first cupcake at the big party just two days later.
I counted the minutes that evening at work before I could return home to Her smiling chubby cheeked face. When the job was done just before 10pm, I got into my car, and prepared for the thirty-five mile commute back home.
Ahh, the life of an Angeleno, stuck in your car for miles upon miles at high speeds! One could drive for forty-five minutes, and still be far from your final destination. My commute included navigating through Valleys, with a quick torpedo through the hills, forests and burrows of Los Angeles County via three separate freeways. Some nights, it was better to skirt around the edges of town on the 210 rather than cut through everything on the Golden State Freeway or the 101. Thursday night brought forth the drag racers and drunk drivers hoping to get an exciting start to the weekend. This night was no exception, so I took the slightly longer, less risky route.
The 118 and 210 freeways were relatively light. Five lanes of smooth running traffic heading north, I smiled as I passed the parking lot known as the 405, and the pothole laden I-5 South. Childfree on this ride, I did not worry about whether other drivers were misbehaving as I navigated my way to the curvy Foothill Freeway; destination, San Gabriel Valley. No defensive maneuvers needed, this was going to be a smooth trip home, one worthy of Pat Metheny’s strings, or other such serenades.
Sure enough, Metheny’s “Last Train Home” came on the radio as I merged onto the 210. The programmers at the local jazz station were feeling the need to guide me home. Flying east to the sound of light brushes against snare and floating sitar fueled the desire to fly. I wound my way through the hills of Sunland and Tujunga Canyon, before breaking through near the Angeles National Forest and Jet Propulsion Laboratory. Perhaps one day, we would go hiking in that forest, and visit JPL where She could learn about the many opportunities for women in space exploration. Not yet, She couldn’t even walk yet. But someday, we could go. Her life is just beginning.
As the radio faded to static, I switched to my cd player, where a young Sri Lankan hip hop artist rapped about civil war abroad. The artist shared the same name as Her, though it was just a coincidence. I glanced at the clock: 10:16PM. I would be home in twenty minutes. “Not soon enough,” I thought to myself. I wanted to be home, dinner on the table, Her babbling the latest to me.
Safely in the left lane, the 210 curved southward toward the 110, America’s very first freeway. To access this, many drivers traverse five lanes to reach the left most lane, or end up on the wrong freeway. My car barreled forward when a minivan careened from the right toward me at an impossible angle.
The minivan’s movements were sluggish, despite her speed. “She’s going over 80,” I thought, “faster than me, and I’m going to fucking die!” At an acute angle to my car, there’s no possible way the driver could be sober. I looked at the driver, her eyes clearly not focused on the road. Dimly, the driver looked at me, cell phone light reflected off the driver’s side window- a mass of letters and numbers glare at me.
I screamed in abject panic. It was HER birthday, and I wouldn’t be there to celebrate it after all. Fifteen minutes away was now an unreachable eternity.
I laid on the horn, hit my breaks in a quick pattern, grip the steering wheel tightly, and downshifted in an effort to avoid a massive tangle of metal and glass. Slowly, the facial expression of the woman driving the minivan began to morph from the deadened expression into one of absolute terror.
Tires screeched a high descant over my panicked screams and angry car horn. The driver must have realized her error, as the minivan corrected its trajectory. I could see that while she was still sluggish, a palpable fear hung in the space between us. My adrenaline raced, but my speed reduced to a mere 40 miles per hour.
Shaking, I managed to make it to the end of the freeway onto Pasadena Avenue. Profanities spilled from me, and I shouted to no one in particular about how drunk drivers should stay off the roads, and keep their cell phones tucked away, thank you very much.
When I arrived home fifteen minutes later, I was still shaking. It was Her birthday, Her very first birthday, and I nearly missed it. She smiled at me, none the wiser, and I held her tightly, relieved that I could do so.
Weeks later, drivers could still spy the tire marks on the road from our cars. My car made an ABS pattern well within the lanes. The minivan’s made an uninterrupted skid at a 30-degree angle. Truly, it was a close call. Two months later, I turned in my notice to that particular job, deciding that I didn’t want another birthday like that again. Now, I take her birthday off, or at least keep close to home. No late nights, no drunk drivers to dodge across the Los Angeles landscape. Some risks are simply not worth it, when it means never getting to see that smile again.
Author notes:
Special thanks to friends who took the time to beta for me. zedmanauk especially, since he was the one to greet me when I got home from the aforementioned incident.
The songs referred to in this piece were: Last Train Home by Pat Metheny, performed by Pat Metheny Group.
The Sri Lankan hip hop artist is M.I.A., and the song in the player at the time was 'Bird Flu<' from the album Kala.
Thank you for reading.
I counted the minutes that evening at work before I could return home to Her smiling chubby cheeked face. When the job was done just before 10pm, I got into my car, and prepared for the thirty-five mile commute back home.
Ahh, the life of an Angeleno, stuck in your car for miles upon miles at high speeds! One could drive for forty-five minutes, and still be far from your final destination. My commute included navigating through Valleys, with a quick torpedo through the hills, forests and burrows of Los Angeles County via three separate freeways. Some nights, it was better to skirt around the edges of town on the 210 rather than cut through everything on the Golden State Freeway or the 101. Thursday night brought forth the drag racers and drunk drivers hoping to get an exciting start to the weekend. This night was no exception, so I took the slightly longer, less risky route.
The 118 and 210 freeways were relatively light. Five lanes of smooth running traffic heading north, I smiled as I passed the parking lot known as the 405, and the pothole laden I-5 South. Childfree on this ride, I did not worry about whether other drivers were misbehaving as I navigated my way to the curvy Foothill Freeway; destination, San Gabriel Valley. No defensive maneuvers needed, this was going to be a smooth trip home, one worthy of Pat Metheny’s strings, or other such serenades.
Sure enough, Metheny’s “Last Train Home” came on the radio as I merged onto the 210. The programmers at the local jazz station were feeling the need to guide me home. Flying east to the sound of light brushes against snare and floating sitar fueled the desire to fly. I wound my way through the hills of Sunland and Tujunga Canyon, before breaking through near the Angeles National Forest and Jet Propulsion Laboratory. Perhaps one day, we would go hiking in that forest, and visit JPL where She could learn about the many opportunities for women in space exploration. Not yet, She couldn’t even walk yet. But someday, we could go. Her life is just beginning.
As the radio faded to static, I switched to my cd player, where a young Sri Lankan hip hop artist rapped about civil war abroad. The artist shared the same name as Her, though it was just a coincidence. I glanced at the clock: 10:16PM. I would be home in twenty minutes. “Not soon enough,” I thought to myself. I wanted to be home, dinner on the table, Her babbling the latest to me.
Safely in the left lane, the 210 curved southward toward the 110, America’s very first freeway. To access this, many drivers traverse five lanes to reach the left most lane, or end up on the wrong freeway. My car barreled forward when a minivan careened from the right toward me at an impossible angle.
The minivan’s movements were sluggish, despite her speed. “She’s going over 80,” I thought, “faster than me, and I’m going to fucking die!” At an acute angle to my car, there’s no possible way the driver could be sober. I looked at the driver, her eyes clearly not focused on the road. Dimly, the driver looked at me, cell phone light reflected off the driver’s side window- a mass of letters and numbers glare at me.
I screamed in abject panic. It was HER birthday, and I wouldn’t be there to celebrate it after all. Fifteen minutes away was now an unreachable eternity.
I laid on the horn, hit my breaks in a quick pattern, grip the steering wheel tightly, and downshifted in an effort to avoid a massive tangle of metal and glass. Slowly, the facial expression of the woman driving the minivan began to morph from the deadened expression into one of absolute terror.
Tires screeched a high descant over my panicked screams and angry car horn. The driver must have realized her error, as the minivan corrected its trajectory. I could see that while she was still sluggish, a palpable fear hung in the space between us. My adrenaline raced, but my speed reduced to a mere 40 miles per hour.
Shaking, I managed to make it to the end of the freeway onto Pasadena Avenue. Profanities spilled from me, and I shouted to no one in particular about how drunk drivers should stay off the roads, and keep their cell phones tucked away, thank you very much.
When I arrived home fifteen minutes later, I was still shaking. It was Her birthday, Her very first birthday, and I nearly missed it. She smiled at me, none the wiser, and I held her tightly, relieved that I could do so.
Weeks later, drivers could still spy the tire marks on the road from our cars. My car made an ABS pattern well within the lanes. The minivan’s made an uninterrupted skid at a 30-degree angle. Truly, it was a close call. Two months later, I turned in my notice to that particular job, deciding that I didn’t want another birthday like that again. Now, I take her birthday off, or at least keep close to home. No late nights, no drunk drivers to dodge across the Los Angeles landscape. Some risks are simply not worth it, when it means never getting to see that smile again.
Author notes:
Special thanks to friends who took the time to beta for me. zedmanauk especially, since he was the one to greet me when I got home from the aforementioned incident.
The songs referred to in this piece were: Last Train Home by Pat Metheny, performed by Pat Metheny Group.
The Sri Lankan hip hop artist is M.I.A., and the song in the player at the time was 'Bird Flu<' from the album Kala.
Thank you for reading.