I moved recently, from west to east. I like it here. On the west side, it was all dog parks, young professionals, yuppies, health food stores, condo developments, and overpriced car washes. Here, on the east side of town, there are rib shacks, barbershops, free std clinics, chain link, and pit bulls.
Dilapidated houses with sagging porches and women with saggy tits lines the streets. Old men with tattered and stained Christmas sweaters sit at the bus stop benches, slicking their hair back with no destination in mind, making cat-calls to the ladies across the street. It actually makes the drive home pretty interesting. Still, I do have one problem, one colossal issue that most likely quickens the pace of my aging progress each day: Traffic.
The east side has its quirks. Sure, people cross the street where there is no crosswalk, taking their sweet time, looking you in the eye as if to tell you that they hate you simply for being in a car. Sure, the people actually in cars drive with the decisiveness of the squirrels one would find darting back and forth across the street, stopping and starting again, until they stop all at once under the tires of one of those tiny pickup trucks, the ones where the driver can’t seem to find the accelerator or turn signal. And of course, those who can find the gas pedal can’t seem to let off for even a second, at least until they are able to drive up side by side with your own car, relinquishing an array of pleasure induced aggressive phrases, before speeding off again only to get stuck behind another one of those tiny pickups. I am willing to let all of this go, all of it. After all, we all live in an area made up of one lane roads, wide enough for two lanes, but one because the city planner behind it all wanted to provide his drivers with a luxurious cruising area. I can understand the sentiment behind the act, but if that is the case, then why must it be 30 mph all the way down? So, we all are in the same boat and I can understand the need to beat mercilessly on the steering wheel or scream obscenities into a muffled hand. It is necessary to one’s health, especially when driving on the road of Austin. If we had to just sit there and take it all, then I’m afraid there would be a lot more stalled vehicles and premature aneurysms. However, the one thing I can’t let go, the one unforgivable aspect of this great city, is the traffic.
I can honestly say that the designer and engineer behind I-35 should be put on trial. It is actually that bad. I can’t even begin to guess how many cases of domestic violence, road rage, and car accidents have come from driving on 35. The worst thing about it is that there is no designated traffic time. Sure, 4:30 to about 7:00 is a horrific time to be driving most anywhere, but it doesn’t end there. Thursday afternoon, Sunday night; it is insane. Traffic pisses people off. Everyone is switching lanes to try and get home as quick as possible. Then fender benders are popping up all over the freeway. Lanes are closed because of those fender benders. A vicious cycle. I’ll bet the husband of the year could get a promotion, nail the assistant (which I guess would contradict him being husband of the year, accept in the eyes of everyone else, who still know nothing of his office affair), and get the last piece of cake in the break room, drive home, get stuck in rush hour on I-35, walk in the door and backhand his first born for getting a B on his spelling test. Not just any B either, a B+. That is how bad it is. Austin traffic turns angels into demons, men into monsters. New cases of Intermittent Explosive disorder are springing up all over town, while others just wither away and die while sitting bumper to bumper, nothing on the radio because someone stole their Antenna. I know that’s what I do, just take my seat belt off, roll the window down, and watch my soul float right out into the mess of idling metal and gasoline fumes until it is sucked into the undercarriage of an eighteen wheeler, everyone’s worst enemy. Hence, the mindless zombie look you catch on people’s faces.
So, I do love you east side. I love your assortment of bbq and $6 haircuts, but I hate your closest major freeway, and for that, I am sorry.
