In Gridlock, the Mind Can Take Dark Turns

When a good commute goes bad, it’s hard not to blame yourself. Did you take that 40 mph average speed for granted? Forget to thank your higher power for the consistent lack of construction, the well-timed lights? When a good commute goes bad, you start to question your judgment. Did you miss some warning sign, some red flag or orange cone that should have put you wise? Were you wrong to make a commitment, to stop searching for an even faster, smoother drive?

When a good commute goes bad, you grasp at straws. Perhaps it’s only temporary, you tell yourself amid the gridlock. Maybe there’s a parade you forgot about. Maybe it’s just an accident. You peer around for emergency vehicles. You hope for the worst.

On Monday, my commute hit the skids. There we sat, my children and I, in a miles-long line of traffic with no escape route. Where once we sailed, now we smoldered, eyeing the liquid levels of sippy cups with a new rationing mentality.

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For a while, we occupied ourselves easily, naming all the yellow things we could see, all the green, watching for trains, discussing the working relationship of Batman and Superman. For a while, Danny Mac and Fiona engaged in a spirited spitting contest--having gone pro years before, I recused myself.

We inched forward. It was hot. It got hotter. Fiona drowsed, sweat curling her bangs. Danny and I sang Frosty the Snowman a few times, but soon we were simply staring out our respective windows, and I fell into a bad habit. My “disaster maintenance” habit.

Entering the shade of an overpass, I imagined an earthquake striking--OK, I would drive over the curbed median and up that shoulder. But then there are the power lines to consider. Is it better to stay in a car if power lines are down? Won’t the tires ground us, or something? (Mental note to check with someone as soon as I get to work.)

But what if a passing train derailed? I visualized the nearby alleys and parking lots, calculated the risk of driving into oncoming traffic versus avoiding a train, figured it’s safer.

This is why I should never be allowed to have any free time. This is why a fast commute is important to me. Because after the train strategy, I moved directly into a water-rescue scenario. Suppose I accidentally drove into a lake--should I open the windows for escape possibilities or leave them closed to give us more oxygenated time? I decided I would open the sunroof, giving us both.

But how will I get the children out of the car seats, the brand-new car seats that I haven’t quite mastered? (Mental note to spend 20 minutes practicing emergency car-seat unlatching as soon as I get to work.) I figure I’ll grab one of the three Swiss army knives I have on my person and cut them out.

When a good commute goes bad, it’s hard not to lose your mind just a little.

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Forty minutes into what is normally a 20-minute drive, we came upon the reason for the backup--the bridge over the Buena Vista viaduct on the outskirts of Chinatown had been closed by the LAPD. Because the traffic cop insisted, I made a left.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted what looks like a bomb-squad truck (mental note: work up bomb-threat contingency plans) and I felt that skin-crawling combination of concern, curiosity and shamed relief. At least this was a particular and temporary problem. In all likelihood, the bridge will be open tomorrow. My commute was safe. My soul, perhaps, not so secure.

Meanwhile, we swung onto the freeway and made our journey a whole new way, seeing new things, lovely things: the giant statue in front of the automobile parts store on Mission, the beautiful Caesar Chavez bridge, the “other side” of the Metro Center. This reminded Danny that one of these days we are going to take the train into work, just for fun.

(Mental note: Figure out how to stop a runaway train.)

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Mary McNamara can be reached at mary.mcnamara@latimes.com.