“The Politics of Dancing” by Re-Flex
“In one-quarter of a mile, use the right lane to take exit __ for Wilshire Boulevard.”
Against Los Angeles driving etiquette, I use my signal to indicate my intent to shift lanes. The traffic on the 405 did their best to Mad Max me today, as ever, but I managed to survive (i) the person confused by the mixed ___ of the road near the Getty who just went straight into my lane forcing me to slam on my brakes; (ii) the person ahead of me in the fast lane who clearly wasn’t paying attention, braking so hard that without my generous following distance would’ve been messy; (iii) the guy in the Mercedes (it’s always a guy in a Mercedes) passing that 18-wheeler on the right aggressively moving back into the middle-left lane as I was doing the same to give the aggro drivers behind me in the fast lane a clear path to whatever the hell they were rushing to. Not today, 405!
Falling into place behind the late-model Corolla as 12th in a long line of cars, we mirror ants marching toward Wilshire. Descending the the off-ramp, the world becomes less concrete and asphalt, less grey and beige. We bade farewell to the 405 and any future attempts on our lives. Overcome by an innate impulse to slam on the gas now that I’m free from the burden of order, I zoom past a slow-moving SUV on the left after the yield.
The December warmth is, for an NYC transplant, bemusing. 65* at this time of year is equally discomfiting and delightful. I have no choice but to lean in and embrace it, but every time I do I notice that no one else has their windows down.
A 7–Eleven, FedEx, KFC, and bank after bank move from my front window to rear. I wonder what it’s like to live in one of these high-rise apartments, 30, 40, 50 stories high. ‘That balcony is massive!’ ‘I could fit so many plants on it!’ Idle daydreaming helps the last of the boiling bile from the 405 fizzle away. I’ve come to learn that the ability to exercise calm and patience when driving in LA is key. In a town where crystals and astrology are popular, I’d be surprised if I’m alone in this realization.
Further soothing are the narratives in my head. The woman in the Cadillac XLR in front of me has been smoking nonstop since we got off the highway, puffs of smoke escaping her driver-side window in regular cadence. It doesn’t quite sync up to “The Politics of Dancing,” still playing in my car, which is unsatisfying. A late-model BMW rides close behind me, clearly in a rush. Or at least, that’s the story I tell myself. Coasting just at the speed limit and in no hurry, I feel no need to indulge them and continue to imagine where the smoker in front of me is going. Maybe she’s going to the medical center? Doctors who smoke must be the most stressed doctors out there.
The Smoker turns before the medical center to make a right on Princeton, a curious homage the universe plopped into my day to remind me of my hometown. With travel not restricted but frankly, still unsettling and unlikely, everything reminds me of somewhere else:
7–Eleven? Japan; Amandine Patisserie? Paris. Bagelworks Cafe? New York (but only kind of); OneWestBank? England. Milo & Olive? Our friends here in LA who we can’t visit right now, in an abundance of caution.
Daydreaming is serving to keep me calm in traffic, and also distract from the task at hand. In advance of a procedure next week, I’m required to take a COVID test. My first. I’ve been lucky enough to have no signs of infection thus far. Then again, I’ve been extremely safe. It’s hard not to be frustrated when, on a trip to pick up groceries from the store, I see people eating at restaurants. Or when we run out of dog food faster than expected and I have to run out to get more, seeing crowds outside a row of bars. But you can only control your own actions and attempt influence others to be prudent. ~9 months in, that task looms large.
The juxtaposition of the music filling my car with the world around me is so stark in contrast it borders absurd. I can’t escape the feeling that I’m playing a bit role in the opening credits of a movie, names of executive producers scrolling by. But if that is the case, the first scene will be my arrival at my doctor’s office for a COVID-19 test. …That certainly doesn’t bode well for me.
“How are you doing today?” the nurse asks through mask and face shield.
“Not too bad, typical 101 to 405 commute where I almost died a few times.”
“I do that drive everyday — it’s the worst!”
I feel validated as she slowly inserts the strip up my nose.
