What’s the opposite of heaven? Well, that’s where you’ll find the guy who’s lucky enough to not only work nights but still commute during rush hour.
It’s not that unlikely of a scenario. I’m sure I have co-sufferers. You are familiar with the saying “It’s happy hour somewhere.” Same goes with rush hour.
I live in Grosse Pointe and work in Mount Clemens. I head off to work at around 4 p.m. and take Eight Mile Road to my beloved Interstate 94. Truth be told, in this blog more distain than praise will be heaped on that ancient artery.
As I merge onto 94 I join a race in progress. It’s like a relay race. I almost expect that a fellow driver might hand me a baton.
I merge, accelerate to the pace of the crowd and generally try to act like I’ve been driving with them the whole time. No one likes late arrivals. If it’s a race then I feel like one of those marathon runners who hops on the subway and rejoins the front of the pack.
I am joining drivers who, for the most part, work in Detroit and are headed home to some far-flung suburb. They’re not afraid to drive a bit. Maybe they live some place you’ve never heard of. How about Clyde Township? I have a co-worker who lives there. You should visit him. He and his far-flung neighbors are having a war. I’ll just say this: The war involves mailboxes, snowmobiles and guinea hens.
I don’t want to go to war with my fellow drivers. I do not have my game face on. I am, however, leaning over and messing with my satellite radio. And I am repeating my mantra: These other drivers should realize that I am in more of a hurry than they are. They are going home to kiss the dog and pet the wife. I am special. I am headed to work.