The road less traveled is not mine
So there I was, minding my own business after work, driving the scant two-point-five miles of concrete it takes to reach the rat-infested, bug-infested hovel I call my own. I was physically drained from long shifts with too-short stretches of rest in between, mentally spent due to the nature of the profession, and looking forward to a lengthy, uninterrupted session of exquisite, blissful, restorative slumber.
Now mind you: 1) I reside in a diminutive unincorporated area snuggled within a modestly-sized county which offers the adventurous-minded amongst us few options for raucous night life; 2) It was after 11 p.m. on a Tuesday evening - usually no traffic at that time on week days; 3) The way home is a straight shot from work, across a river bridge, a quick left and quicker right, and then a driveway; and 4) Did I mention the distance is a scant two-point-five miles?
And oh by the way ... the only other reasonable route from the work side of the river to the hovel side of the river involves a 20-mile diversion.
What the ... ?
Gently easing my truck down the slope on the hovel side of the river bridge, windows down and Sugarland softly emanating from the radio, the night quiet, the roadway dark and not another vehicle in site, I dutifully activated my left turn signal, yawed into the handy left turn lane at the foot of the bridge - and was immediately blinded by an onrushing explosion of headlights. Hordes of vehicles stretched to the western horizon, mega-pod after endless mega-pod of uber-revving, belching metal denizens of all shapes and sizes, aggressively illuminating their eastward onslaught with Xenon-tinged high beams and flame thrower fog lamps.
On and on they came, in a never-ending stream of glare, blare, and buffeting wind, each vying with the other to see which gunner could make short shrift of the posted 35 mph limit. And, and ... all I wanted was a little shut-eye.
As I waited and then waited some more, first patiently and then with anger rising, sour bile lodged in my throat, it washed over me - Who are these interlopers? Where do they live? Where are they going? Don't they know it's late Tuesday night in Little Martin, for crying in the sink? Don't they know there's nothing open on the other side of the bridge?
After what seemed like hours, a small breech opened in the oncoming Maelstrom. I was able to punch it across and make the turn, unclamp my white-knuckled fists from their death grip on the steering wheel and spit out the molar dust I had ground down in jaw-clenching angst. Rather than heading for the hovel, I pulled into our little deserted park at the foot of the bridge - I couldn't sleep now if I swallowed a bottle of Seconol - so I took in the clean river smell and relaxed as I thought about other traffic-slowing oddities I've run across.
Only in the sunshine
We're not talking about your run-of-the-mill fog, motor vehicle accident, or roadside car fire - we all know those rubberneck-inducing mishaps will slow traffic down. Nope, a gaggle of alien drivers where they don't belong is just one of the road impairment hazards we Floridians face. A melange of thoroughfare slow-downs and stoppages occur with regularity down here, and many are peculiar to the Sunshine State.
For example, many a resident has been forced to stop due to the over-the-road migration of the Florida land crab (Blue Land Crab, Cardisoma guanhumi).
In Florida, the spawning season for these critters lasts from June to December, and during full moons the females migrate to the ocean. If you don't stop or turn around, you run the risk of tire puncture due to the varmints' sharp carapace. Traffic stopper.
Then there's the eye-opening roadway sinkhole. We once had an entire Interstate shut down for weeks - smack dab in the middle of a bustling city (known for its mouse ears) - due to one of those pesky little babies. A sinkhole spanning two lanes of a busy mid-town Interstate is just about guaranteed to impede traffic flow.
And of course this wouldn't be Florida without its ubiquitous allotment of wack-jobs and nut cases. These brain surgeons specialize in armed assaults at traffic lights, or stacking 2,800 pounds of unstrapped wooden pallets on a half-ton pick-up, as well as the occasional baby toss out of a moving vehicle. Yup - traffic-stoppers, any of them.
We've had slow-downs and stoppages caused by wild fires, cattle running loose in the roadway, couples fornicating whilst leaning against guard rails, and even a leatherback turtle causing a mile-long snarl on the Reagan Turnpike because some yahoo with a hairball for brains stopped her vehicle in a driving lane in order to shepherd the befuddled reptile to safety.
There are more examples, plenty more, and I'm certain you can add your own bizarre encounters. But Puh-leez, people - don't do your fornicating on my little river bridge, especially when I'm tired.