The Horsemen

Rush Hour

Southern New Jersey

John adjusted the volume on the radio of his new BMW 740iL. KWY Radio out of Philadelphia had just announced that it was already the hottest day of the year, with a current temperature of 94 degrees. John loosened his tie, and checked out the rest of the dash. The speedometer on his new BMW topped out at 160 miles per hour. Not that it really mattered; John was stuck in rush hour traffic along with thousands of other motorists exiting Philadelphia via the Walt Whitman bridge. Personally, he would be happy to see 40 miles per hour. John checked his watch - 6:15 P.M. He had worked almost till midnight the past four days, so that he could get home early for Memorial Day weekend. Some great plan this turned out to be.

For the last ten years John had driven this same route, day after day, winter, summer, such that it was ingrained in his subconscious. His initial frustration with the long delays and traffic jams had given way to a numbing dullness upon the realization that nothing would ever change. Ten years from now he would probably drop dead of a heart attack, still sitting in rush hour traffic attempting to get home from work. Perhaps he should just buy a cemetery plot right now along Route 42, so that all the other motorists traveling in the same direction could look at his headstone for the next five centuries. John sat there amused, attempting to think up clever headstone sayings that would aptly describe the irony of the situation.

The blaring horn of the car immediately behind him brought John back into reality. Oh my, he thought as he noticed that he had actually let a 30-yard gap develop between himself and the car in front of him. That will never do. John stepped on the gas and moved his car within three feet of the next bumper. One must maintain proper rush hour etiquette. His mood darkened as he cast an evil glance in his rearview mirror.

Forty minutes later and three miles further down the road John watched as a middle aged Mexican on a dilapidated bicycle passed him on the shoulder of the road. Stinking immigrant! Probably sneaked across the Rio Grand with his 25 children and is now living on welfare in Camden. While he was working 16 hours a day, giving the government half his money. Some system.

Thank God. The traffic picked up a bit and John repassed the bicyclist. The Mexican was sweating profusely in the summer heat, but was still riding at a decent clip. John looked at his car, and then back at the bicycle. Let’s see. His car was brand new eight months ago. With a sticker price of $78,000.00 he had put $20,000.00 down and was paying off the balance of the loan at $1,200.00 a month. Car insurance was an additional $280.00 per month. Gas averaged out to $120.00 per month. Total it up. For the privilege of driving back and forth between Philadelphia and the South Jersey suburbs for the next five years, John would spend almost $150,000.00. Assuming the Mexican kept his bicycle in good repair, and replaced the tires once, he would spend approximately $45.00. John’s anger continued to grow.

Another blaring horn brought John back to his senses. As they crept down the interstate at 12 miles per hour, a huge Ford Expedition on his left was apparently trying to get his attention so that it could cut across the slow lane and get off the Deptford-Woodbury exit. A fat woman sitting in the passenger's side was stuffing a McDonald’s hamburger into her mouth, talking on a cell phone and waving him over at the same time. Fat pig! Hopefully, she’d have her heart attack before John had his.

Within a matter of seconds, all of the brake lights went on for as far as John could see, and he was once again sitting motionless with hundreds of other frustrated commuters on Route 42 South. Must be an accident. John looked at his watch again. If he got home by 7:30 he’d be lucky. Normally he brought something along to read for situations like this. Lawyers always had stuff to read. Case law updates, seminars, sometimes he even took a file or two home if it required some extra special care. Then, if nothing else, an issue of TIME magazine under the front driver’s seat. John bent over and fished around. Nothing. Oh yeah. He had taken the BMW to the carwash last week and cleaned it out.

The Mexican passed him for the second time headed for the Deptford exit. That sweaty wetback was going to get home before he was! His wife and kids were probably waiting for him with a beer. Maybe he had an under the table job at some restaurant and was bringing cash home. Maybe he’d even made enough to send to his relatives back in Mexico. John’s father’s words came back to him. ‘Son, your wealth is measured by how much money you have left over after you have paid everybody everything you owe them.’ Well, John thought as he rummaged through the glove compartment for a Tums to settle the angina that was building in his chest, by that standard that smelly Mexican was richer than he was. As the Mexican disappeared up the exit ramp, John looked ahead only to be confronted with a line of stationary traffic as far as the eye could see. A police helicopter flew overhead.

Perhaps it was the fact that John did not get home until 8:15 that evening. Perhaps it was the realization that the sweaty Mexican was probably both smarter and happier than himself. Perhaps it was an accumulation of ten years worth of frustration over his own existence. For whatever reason, a tiny flame in the remotest corner of John’s brain burst forth, producing an instant hatred for his life as well as life in general. As John got a last glimpse of the bicyclist crossing on an overpass a half-mile in front of him, he swore that he would not be doing this forever. Pledging his most sacred vow on his own ancestors, John determined that he would give himself exactly two years to completely refashion his life.