Writing Exercise 3-3 - Traffic Stories

A long line of cars are at a standstill on a highway. Each car's occupants has a story. Describe six of them.

God, it was hot. Muggy hot. Shimmering wavy asphalt hot. The ’72 Chevy Impala had lost its air conditioning 2 days and 800 miles ago when Daryl, doing his macho bit, had urged and pushed the old motor up the California mountains on a prayer and some duct tape. Neither had held up their end of the bargain and ever since, the only air that blew was the thick, sticky breeze from the four open windows. “When are we gonna get to Granny’s, daddy?” whined Lily, her toothless grin long gone in the tiresome heat. “I wanna cold drink.” Soon, thought Daryl, soon as this damn traffic clears out. And the further from your momma we can get you the better. This will teach her to tell me I can’t see my own kid."

Sarah and Doug silently stared ahead at the long line of traffic. Doug held Sarah’s cool, slender fingers in his own, imagining what must be going through her head. I was only lost for a little while, he thought. It’s not like I couldn’t find my way back to our RV. Sure, I’ve been forgetful lately, but doesn’t that happen naturally when you get to be my age?” Doug knew Sarah had not wanted to come to the beach this year, worried about his “state of mind” as she called it. And now this. Three days into our trip and she wants to go home, just because I got a little lost.” Sarah’s grim face registers a sorrow that she dare not voice. “He doesn’t even know,” Sarah felt herself give way to tears. “He doesn’t even know.”

She snuggled up against his bronzed neck and inhaled the maleness of him…the sweetness of his skin too tempting, her longing too deep. On the beach, the sight of him lying stretched out on his stomach, eyes peacefully closed, his exuberant youth glistening on him like dew on a new rose. She ached for him as she lay beside him in the August sun, murmuring to him words only a newlywed could whisper. She stroked the small of his back, fingers stretched tantalizingly close to the dimples just under the bathing suit elastic, teasing, asking. Their hotel is just down the road. But this damn traffic. Maybe she should start a little early, she thought, nibbling his secret sweet spots in blind joy.

The beeper had gone off. It was coming. The baby was actually coming. Shelly had promised that it would be all right for Dave to take the afternoon for his latest watercolor masterpiece. He’d managed to conquer the mystery of the mountains, but had yet to capture the movement of water on the canvas and, although he had not asked, she could tell he itched to drive to the shore, paints in hand. She was a few weeks away from her due date which made her feel relatively sure nothing would happen and gave him a loving shove out the door. “Go!”, she had laughed. “Paint me the ocean.” Now, he sat in the car, traffic at a crawl, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel in an unconscious admission of panic. He grabs for the cell phone.

The rolling thunder of the Harley in neutral purred in his ears. Damn, the traffic. Brooks peered up ahead, squinting in the brightness of the August morning sun, frantic to move ahead of the cars bumpered together in one long metal rope as far as the eye could see. Gauging correctly the widths of distance between the nearest lane of cars, he nervously eased out the bike as slowly snaked his way north, deftly maneuvering between the stranded cars. He had to get out of this mess before the sirens caught up to him. His Harley would make him easy to spot, especially from the air. How could Sonny have missed that alarm? “Easy street, man, “ Sonny had cooed. “You’ll be in and out of that beach house in minutes, man, I’m tellin’ ya. E–Z street…” Brooks made a mental note to burn Sonny if and when he ever got under cover.

“Oh God, not today,” Sam said to herself. “Of all days, please not today.” She could still smell Jim on her shirt, on her hands. He had been particularly loving today, as if he might actually say the words she had hoped to hear, “I’m divorcing Megan.” But after a session of lovemaking, the morning had ended with the usual platitudes and promises. What was she doing? Why couldn’t she stop? She had really taken a risk this time, leaving work like she did using the old “dentist appointment standby.” She was supposed to meet her husband Bob at their marriage counselor’s at 10:00 and she had left the beach house in plenty of time. When the speeding car had run into her, she was unhurt, but the car was undriveable. She looked at the long stretch of cars lining up behind her and silently apologized to each of the drivers whose morning she had just ruined. The imagined control she had had over her life drained slowly away. She no longer heard the highway sounds, felt the debilitating heat, or saw the motorcycle as it came barrelling blindly from around the rear of the van in the next lane.

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Quote of the day: Mrs. Purdon's fierce independence was a rock on which every attempt at sympathy or help shattered itself to atoms. Dorothy Canfield "Flint and Fire"
Chosen because it's another passage in which I can see myself, or at least the possibility of myself. I'm independent to a fault and this passage rang a bell of recognition and warning.