It had been one of those work days where I couldn't ignore how much they really didn't need me to be there. Granted most days are like that but this was particularly so. But it also came to feel like the best part would be that I could get home and since I had no side errands maybe sneak in a half-hour nap without missing dinner or anything I more urgently wanted to do. And I was even able to convince myself it was fine to leave before technically 5 pm since everyone else does and this way I could miss the miniature traffic jam around the train station when the light rail gets in.
But ... traffic came to a halt on the road leading to the Interstate part of my commute. Well, there've been traffic jams before and while I accept them more easily in the morning it's less pleasant going home when I was thinking to nap. Surely, though, it'd be just a little bit of a wait ... well, some stop, some go, a lot of stop, a little go, people honking behind me when I leave more than a car's length between me and the car ahead. Hm.
Finally one of the road signs normally used to warn that overnights there's road construction came into view: there was an accident. Well, that followed. Around exit 7. I wasn't even yet on the part where they went to milage numbers. It has to be a typo, doesn't it? Because ten miles of stop-and-go would require ...
45 minutes to get to where the traffic jam ended, and it did indeed just ... end. There wasn't any sign of an accident, no sign of what had kept everyone so clogged up for so long, and if it was an accident on the exit ramp that makes no sense because exit 7 is just not that busy and anyone who wants can go around to exit 8 and evade the jam there. I don't suppose that seeing, you know, a destroyed car and a person's body sprayed across two lanes of highway would have made anything objectively better, but after three-quarters of an hour on a ten-minute stretch of road I was left with that upsetting sense of an unrealized catastrophe.
Trivia: After a ruling against him in the George B Selden patent fight in 1909 (over the gas-powered internal combustion engine) Henry Ford offered to sell out to General Motors, if they could raise eight million dollars in cash. Source: Henry and Edsel: The Creation of the Ford Empire, Ricahrd Bak.
Currently Reading: The Anti-Theatrical Prejudice, Jonas Barish. You know, the trouble with this book is that most of the arguments about the eeeeeeeeeeeeeeevilness of actors and make-believe which ever caught on were laid down by the time of Plato and haven't advanced a whole lot since then, so having an exhaustive history of how they've developed over time gets to be slogging through things.