Commute
OK, so haven’t been able to blog a lot this month because of school. So, why not combine the two? The following is an essay that I wrote this week for an assignment. It’s an allegory that compares my insanely long commute to the way I was living earlier in life – hope you enjoy it… my apologies for the length – you can thank the word count put in place by my teacher. (Make note that you can scroll down and read the footnote references when you come across them)
Beep-beep! Beep-beep! The first impatient cry of my alarm clock serves as an unwelcome reminder that I can only play whac-a-mole(*1) with the snooze button one more time before tumbling out of bed. It’s 5:20am on a Monday morning. Although I don’t have to be at work until 7:30am, and don’t have any unusual responsibilities before work, it’s still necessary for my day to kick off this early. Beep-beep! Beep-beep! That’s it, no more snoozing. I’m a commuter. I drive about 135 miles a day, 675 miles a week, just to get to work and back home. I spend approximately the first hour and a half of each shift just working to pay for the gas it takes me to get to there and back. Recently on one of those ‘powered by caffeine’(*2) drives I came to the conclusion that my commute, in many ways, is an allegory for the kind of life I was living in my teens and early twenties; before I got right with God, married the love of my life, and got my act together (in that particular order).
I walk out the front door, locking it behind me since the rest of my family is still fast asleep – as every non-vampire should be at such an early hour. It’s 6:25am. As I get into my white-ish 04 Isuzu Rodeo SUV, I hardly notice what a mess it is. This vehicle has become purely a commuting device to me – the equivalent of a walking stick I may use on a hike and hold onto for the next hike, but only because it’s just the right height. The creeping crack on the windshield that should have been replaced months ago; the bug guts overlapping other guts of bugs that very possibly came from a generation of bugs before them; the previously white paint now a shade of light brown due to the miles and miles of blowing desert embraces; the empty Gatorade bottles on the floor in the back, and the bright green and yellow yogurt stain on the floor mat – all indications that the vehicle is not getting the care it deserves.
In many ways this carelessness and neglect is representative of how I treated my body during my teens and early twenties. As long as an action brought me the pleasure I was seeking or got me to where I wanted to go, I jumped at it; with little regard for my health or safety. I shoveled fast food into my face and sucked down five sodas a day. I started smoking cigarettes when I was fifteen, and by my 18th birthday I was smoking over a pack a day. I was reckless, often putting myself in situations that branched out to four potential outcomes – physical harm, jail, both harm and jail, or escaping the first three outcomes by sheer luck. I wrestled with drugs and typically ended up pinned down in the middle of the mat by my addictions. I treated my body then just as I treat my white-ish commuter today – as an ends to a means.
After driving on county roads and highways for about 27 minutes, I pull out onto the I-10 at Casa Grande and head west. It’s 6:52am. In an effort to know if I’m going to make it to work on time, I have certain checkpoints clocked – this is one of them. As long as I hit the on-ramp by 6:55am, which I have this morning, I should be OK – assuming no major accidents. As I accelerate up to my “ticket-safe” (*3) cruising speed of 83, the first thing I notice is the bounce. For some reason at about 75MPH my vehicle starts to hop very slightly. So slightly in fact that other people who don’t drive my SUV on a regular basis might not even notice it. I know, I’ve tried. It’s enough of a bounce though to keep me slightly on edge for the first five minutes or so of the faster speeds. This is with good reason, in my opinion, as I’ve had over five blowouts or flat tires during this commute in just the last couple of years. Although my tires have been checked out since I first noticed it, and though the problem has not worsened in thousands of miles, I still feel a passive loss of control when it starts and think about the potential of a tire blowing as I’m driving 83 MPH down the interstate.
Earlier in life I suffered with Panic Attacks. For some of what turned out to be the worst months of my twenties, I was constantly afraid that the next attack (what I thought early on was heart attacks) was going to “blow”. Sometimes there would be little indications before an attack. Just like with the little shake in my vehicle, I was so tuned into my body I would notice tiny flutters in a muscle, or even faint irregularities in my breath. Of course, most of these were just little things that the human body goes through on a regular basis; but when you think you may die at any moment, you tend to pay more attention. The mistrust of my mind and my body during these months bears an uncanny resemblance to the anxiety I have about the bounce in my SUV.
It’s been over five minutes at 83 MPH now, and I’m as used to the bounce as I’m going to get on the drive. I’m coming up on Casa Blanca road, which just happens to have the only gas station in the middle of a 25 mile interstate stretch. Luckily today I have enough gas to make it to work. On other occasions I’ve rolled into that station with my car running on nothing but unleaded prayers. As I pass the gas station, I encounter one of my greatest frustrations – people who drive slowly in the left lane and refuse to get over. I absolutely despise it. I don’t hate anyone, but if someone put a gun to my head and forced me to pick someone to hate, the slow left lane drivers would be up for consideration. You’d think at the very least the flight portion of their fight-or-flight response would kick in when they see a big white-ish SUV coming up behind them at a much greater speed – well, you’d be wrong if you did – and there I go again, disengaging the cruise control and having to pass on the right.
During my teen years I was constantly getting in my own way. Just like these left lane drivers couldn’t stick to the ‘slow drivers keep right’ rule that was designed to keep everything running smoothly, I refused to listen to others, even to my own inner conscience, and often ended up in trouble or hurt even though I knew better.
I roll by on the right and offer a slightly disappointed shake of the head to the driver. It’s 7:09am, and as I get closer to town the natural desert landscape is violated by billboards. At first it’s just a few advertising things you would expect to see on the Indian reservation I’m driving through – an Akimel Smoke Shop billboard and one for the Wild Horse Pass casino. The closer I get to town however, there seems to be a billboard every twenty feet. I realize that – although I must have passed these advertisements hundreds of times before – I didn’t really know what was on them. Someone had paid tons of money to let me know how incredible their product was, and not only did I not care, I didn’t even notice.
Looking back, God had planted subtle messages like “You are neglecting your loved ones” and “that addiction is controlling you” on the side of the road for me to see, but I was intentionally turning my head the other way as I drove past. Fortunately, sometimes God allows us to smash into those billboards – due to texting while driving or some other negligence – and stare plainly a their messages as they topple over and smash face down on the broken windshield of our cars. This happened to me several times. On one such occasion I was staring straight into a billboard that showed a young kid I knew – dead at 15 as a result of his addiction. It was at that moment that realized what a slave to my own addictions I had become.
It’s 7:13am, and I’m at the last and most important checkpoint. This checkpoint is important because it requires not only checking the time, but what can sometimes be a make-or-break decision. The interstate changes from cutting through the desert to splitting the city, and that means heavier traffic. If I’m at this checkpoint by 7:15, I should be OK, but only if I make the right choice to either stay on the interstate or get off and take a more difficult, but reliable, route. Staying on the interstate could payoff big. If traffic lightens up quickly, as it sometimes does, I will arrive at work early. However, if it stays backed up the entire way, as it often does, I will be at least a few minutes late. If I get off the interstate, it requires going slightly out of my way and through the town Guadalupe, which means dodging stray dogs(*4) and dealing with 25MPH limits. The Guadalupe choice holds no risk as it always gets me there on time, but it’s more difficult and has no potential for easy payoff. Deciding which way to go at that last minute has become somewhat of an art for me. The lazy devil on my shoulder entices me to stay on the Interstate and hope for the best. My heart and mind tell me that sometimes you have to work for the results you want, even if it means playing Frogger(*5) with stray dogs.
When I was younger I always wanted things to be easy and fast. Although I held jobs, I really didn’t know what it was like to get the feeling of pride that comes along with working hard for something and obtaining it honestly. I was selfish and stubborn. There were many times when I would cheat or even steal to get what I wanted. I stayed on whatever the given situations’ interstate path was no matter what, even if that meant scratching other cars as I forced my way through or pulling off to the gravel along side of the freeway; speeding ahead as other drivers honked and flipped me off.
This morning I chose the Guadalupe path, and the dogs were surprisingly sparce. It’s 7:29am, and I’m arriving at my destination in Tempe, at my place of employment. I love my job. I am passionate about the work I do and the people I do it with. Knowing this makes my long commute easier to handle. In many ways, that’s how I feel about where I am as a person today. Just like my place of employment is not my final destination in my white-ish SUV, I am not at my final destination in life. I have stopped at many scenic overlooks and great bed and breakfasts along the way. Where I am now; with God, with my family and friends, with my career, writing, and school, has made the entire commute of life worth it – even the bumps and yogurt stains. The best part is – despite potential hang-ups – I know that greater miles are still ahead.
(*1) – Whac-A-Mole is a game found in arcades in which moles pop up out of holes and the goal is to “whac” as many of them as you can with a mallet. As a child I was OK at this game, as an adult I’m pretty much incredible.
(*2) – “Powered-by-caffeine” is a play on the “Powered-by-Honda”, often seen as stickers on sportier cars and bikes to show what’s under the hood. On some days the caffeine in my system is more detrimental to getting me to work than what is under my SUV’s hood.
(*3) – I’ve been told on numerous occasions that as long as you stay under ten miles over the speed limit the cops will normally not waste their time pulling you over. Based on the amount of miles I drive and the numerous times I’ve passed a police officer going eight miles over, I’d tend to agree with that assessment. I am not however recommending you do this, and will not be held liable should you find that to be incorrect.
(*4) – The Town of Guadalupe is like a little slice of Mexico in between the cities of Ahwatukee and Tempe. The people are mostly Mexican, the street signs are in Spanish, and – just like in Mexico – stray dogs run the streets.
(*5) – Frogger is an old Atari video game in which a frog tries to hop log-to-log-to-alligator across a river without falling in. I often think about this game as I watch the dogs in Guadalupe maneuver past the cars to make it across the street.
