NY SLIDE XXXII: ROADWAYS HIGH AND LOW

 

           Approaching his car Radix noticed a tiny pool of what looked like…what was
    most certainly…green engine coolant fluid near the front tires. Panic with tiny
    fingers gripped his heart. He bent down to inspect the fluid. How could he        
    be sure it came from his car?
        He got in and turned the ignition. The car started after the third try but the
    engine shuddered and rattled ominously. At the second traffic light, with the
    interior warming up and everything else sounding normal, his anxiety faded. He
    drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and looked out at a city heading
    home under grey skies.
        On the overpass he looked down and saw four lanes of traffic jammed up on
    the highway, stretching for miles, crawling forward. He'd have to go down there;
    he'd have to ease his way into that crawl. There were alternative routes but he'd
    never taken the time to explore them, knowing only one road home; hating
    roadways, the time-consuming need to travel on them; drivers who showed no
    concern for human limb and life.
        At the access road to the highway other drivers were having second thoughts.
    One fellow, already half way down, threw his car in reverse and came barelling
    back, the driver's head craned round, he didn't give a fuck what anyone thought
    as long as you got out his way.
         Radix decided to stick to the local roadway. It ran parallel to the highway
    until the highway went up and above ground and ran for a mile or so on concrete
    reinforcements, offering the convenience of not having to pass through local
    communities.
         But the roadway, an uneven strip, its lanes not clearly marked, soon backed
    up; traffic lights at intersections up ahead kept changing, from red to green
    then back to red for long minutes. Yet nothing moved. He began to regret not
    taking the highway which he could see above him, cars moving slowly, but
    moving; there was flow up there, and order; no bumper poking and jostling for
    space. The cars up there seemed… and before he could finish that thought his
    car struck the rear end of the vehicle in front.
                                        (from "Ah, Mikhail, O Fidel!" a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)
 

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Author: FarJourney Caribbean

Born in Guyana : Wyck Williams writes poetry and fiction. He lives in New York City. The poet Brian Chan lives in Alberta, Canada.

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