It was a nearly perfect fall morning, the kind with a clear blue sky as sharp as glass. The tips of trees were just starting to be touched by edges of gold and red. My gas tank was full, and I’d thrown my overnight bag into the back seat. I was taking a quick trip up to Wisconsin to visit some relatives who were staying at my parents’ house.
I’ve driven this path between my town and their town for decades; I didn’t need to consult a map or use GPS. It was going to be just me and the open road, my silver Toyota Corolla gripping the pavement as I whizzed (within the speed limit, of course!) by O’Hare Airport, past the Screamin’ Eagle roller coaster at Six Flags, over the state line, and into Dairyland.
My coffee was snugly stowed in the cup holder, and I had my playlists ready to connect through Bluetooth. I had carefully curated content that would continue, uninterrupted, for the duration of the trip, alternating between celebrity interview podcasts and show tunes.
The drive northward is a beautiful one, and I appreciate the way the Illinois tollway gives way to rolling hills as I get closer to my destination. The corn stalks glinted in their golden husks, soon to be harvested, and there was an occasional horse or two, munching thoughtfully on hay.
The city of Milwaukee comes about an hour and a half into the drive, and I actually look forward to it. The city has a beautiful skyline, and the highway rises over it like a concrete ribbon. As a tribute, I like to yell out the iconic opener from the 1970s sitcom set in Milwaukee, Laverne & Shirley:
Schlemiel! Schlimazel! Hasenpfeffer Incorporated!
As I rose up on Hwy 43, I looked to my left to see the dome of the Basilica of St. Josaphat; I turned to the right to see the modern, origami-like outline of the Milwaukee Art Museum. When I looked forward, I slammed on my brakes.
Foiled by construction! The orange cones slowed our quick pace to a crawling funeral dirge. At last, we came to a complete stop.
I glanced at the clock. This traffic jam would delay my arrival. A bit of claustrophobia set in with the semitrucks surrounding me with screeching brakes, coughing out puffs of diesel.
I could feel my chest tighten. My left foot bounced on the floor mat. I didn’t like this one bit.
Then I remembered: my playlist! I’d turned it down to acknowledge Hasenpfeffer Incorporated, so now I turned it back on and cranked the volume. I felt my chest relax, then expand. I began grooving in the driver’s seat as, one after another, my favorite songs blasted through the speakers.
To my left and my right, my fellow traffic jammers looked…well, they looked stressed. I could see them white-knuckling the steering wheel, their shoulders hunched, face frozen in an angry grimace as we crept slowly forward. The cars to my right were doing that thing where they sped up to the bottleneck, expecting to be let in at the last minute. I really dislike when people do that.
But it didn’t matter. I refused to be mad! I didn’t give in to the feelings seeping out from the other vehicles. I was a phoenix; I was a swan. I decided that my rebellion in the middle of this traffic jam would be unsinkable cheerfulness! The tunes kept coming, and I smiled and waved at the last-second Sallys who waited hopefully to be let in.
Come on in! I motioned my hand in a welcoming gesture. You get to merge in front of me! And you! And you!
My little Toyota hatchback was my own personal force field, keeping out the exhaust, honking, and dust; instead, it shrouded me in positivity and rock ‘n’ roll. The traffic jam was completely out of my control. I might as well enjoy it. There’s no harm in locking eyes with the poor man inhaling his cigarette nervously to give him a sympathetic nod and a wave. It was still a nearly perfect fall day with a blue sky as sharp and clear as glass. I could still jam to my tunes. I’d get to my destination when I got there. Before I knew it, the construction zone would end, and I’d be back on the open road.
Schlemiel, Schlimazel. It’s tempting to wish you were somewhere else when things go wrong. That day, sitting squarely in the middle of the present moment, warts and all, became an act of defiance. Jamming to my tunes during a traffic jam is as close to rebellious as I’m going to get this week.
