Honking New York City taxicab, yellow and full of rage, caught in the box in gridlock rush hour traffic. The driver has a mustache and he is yelling in Arabic. These cabs, like the flight of the bumblebees, whip through New York every single day and do not take a vacation. Shuttling, scurrying, braking, accelerating; over bridges, through tunnels, down streets, and up the hills on the Upper East Side. They are there in rain and snow and sunshine. Traffic lights indicate that yellow means to hurry the fuck up; and then to accelerate and not beat the red, the driver slams on their brakes, defeated. Embarrassed and shamed for all of New York to see. City construction taking lanes and dividing them into two (or less). There is steam coming from that orange-traffic-cone-color-chimney and it is thick and smells awful. Workmen underneath the city streets. Plumbing and electrical. Secret Spiderman meetup spots. Soul Caliber Sesame Street. Changing landscape, changing car models, showing the passage of time through films and television. Free versus not free. Fat-free. Taste-free.

I love driving South on the Garden State Parkway because it usually means I’m going down the shore or to a concert. The lanes open real wide once you pass the exit to Sandy Hook and the PNC Bank Arts Center. I have many a story, been with many a friend, driving down these lanes and roads; in the daytime, in the nighttime – in between times. And times where I’ve driven by myself, to and from and miraculously made it home in one peace for some reason or other. Weather, possibly. Traffic on the Parkway is the worst, especially coming back from down the shore. It clogs up around the 140s and it’s bumper to bumper for a least 40 minutes. Not my favorite thing to do. Not my favorite past-time. I sometimes envy the days were cars on the road were few and far between, so if you had one you could just go-go-go and park it anywhere. But there were probably a whole bunch of detractors to that lifestyle; to be that person. Gripping the steering wheel for dear life, screaming along to all my favorite songs. This is my tour bus and I am the DJ. Skate through the toll booth and step on it as the rhythm of “Kaleidoscope” overtakes me so much I do not notice the cop car behind me, lights spinning.

Author: Roe

30. she/her. Songwriter & Trek Punk Soul™.

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