From: dman@netcom.com (Dallman Ross)
Newsgroups: ca.driving
Subject: Rush Hour Tales
Date: 21 Jul 92 05:51:52 GMT
Organization: Netcom - Online Communication Services  (408 241-9760 guest)


Just got home from sitting in one of the worst traffic jams in
recent memory.  You know -- the kind that makes you wonder if there can
possibly be any hope for the future of Western Civilization.  Anyway,
there I sat Eastbound on Highway 237 between Mountain View and
Milpitas.  It's about a 7 mile stretch, and it took a good forty
minutes.  This, at between 6:30 and 7:00 at night!  (The traffic didn't
stop there, but I took surface roads for another eight miles to avoid
any more mess.)  Well, I'm getting away from the point of this. 
Picture this: retired couple, Ford full-size cab-back pickup, camper
shell, swing-away mirrors.  4" x 6" American-flag emblem plastered in
the rear passenger-cab window.  "Happiness is Being A Grandparent"
stuck on the rear bumper.  You get the idea.  And, yes, as I intimated,
there were two of them in the vehicle.  Which gets back to what this is
all about.  You see, there's a carpool lane on the right side of 237. 
And nobody in it.  About every 45 seconds some car would go, "whoosh,"
by at 70 mph, while the rest of us just sat there.  Just to orient any
of you who might not know, a "carpool" is considered two people in
California nowadays.

Well, I just couldn't figure out why the retired couple in the
truck stayed in the stuck lanes with the rest of us solitary drivers. 
I watched them and watched them.  I saw them looking periodically over
at the right lane, at the cars going "whoosh."  And I saw them never
stray from their position near me in the stopped lane.  Finally, I
couldn't stand it any more.  I was in front of them, and the lane was
dead-stopped.  I got out of my car (in my stocking feet, I'd taken my
shoes off) and loped on the hot tarmac back to the left side of their
vehicle.  As I approached, I cranked my arm deliberately, in a motion
indicating to the driver that he should roll down his window.  He did. 
I sidled up to the window.  Without ever having come to rest, my same
arm now extended lazily in the direction of the right lane.  "You see
that lane over there?"  I said innocently.  "Yup."  "Well, you see
those cars shooting down it every once in a while?"  This time my
question was framed rhetorically, so I continued: "The reason those
cars are going so fast over there is, that's a *carpool* lane.  'Round
these parts, a 'carpool' is *two* people."  I really was just trying to
be helpful -- if not also trying to get over my incredulity at their
mindless self-confinement.  But the old man's answer really threw me
for a loop -- especially since I had been thinking in my car that an
old guy like that must just be flabbergasted at the all-too-palpable
exemplar of "progress" that the traffic jam represented.

The old guy stared at me for a second, a scant glint flashing
across his face.  Then he said, "You know, in *America*, we can do what
we *want*."

I didn't quite know how to respond to that, so I just kind o'
mumbled a "Yeah, you sure can," and limped back over to my car.  Kept
my eye on the rear-view mirror for a bit half-looking for the
silhouette of a gun. . . . 
From: chrisw@hpscit.sc.hp.com (Chris Wiles)
Date: Tue, 21 Jul 1992 15:08:54 GMT
Subject: Re: Rush Hour Tales
Organization: Hewlett-Packard, Santa Clara, CA