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This writing was accepted for publication in the 84 page perfect-bound issue... Down in the Dirt magazine (v081) (the April 2010 Issue) This is also available from our printer as a a $7.47 paperback book (5.5" x 8.5") perfect-bound w/ b&w pages

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Traffic Jam

Sarah Mallery

    Along the California coast, Highway 101 bogs down every once in a while when strong winds, whipping in from out of the west, shoot tiny bits of dried leaves up into swirling funnels that wreak havoc on cars traveling on the southeastern stretch of the road. People slow down but have learned not to panic; these things always pass and when they do, suddenly all the windshield wipers begin their arcs, spitting out streaks of water and soap that will hopefully clean off most of the leftover dust.
    But the mood is quite different when there’s been an accident; this is not necessarily a force of nature, but a man-made frailty. Listening to the ambulances blaring past on the outer lanes, all car conversations stall for a couple of seconds as everyone peers around, wondering what has happened up ahead, and to whom.
    Mama and ‘Uncle’ Tad were no exception; if Tad had his way, he would run up and down the lanes, checking out everybody’s business, asking questions and making a general nuisance of himself. For some reason, this time he decided to stay put in the car and focus on us.
    “So, what do you have to say for yourselves?” His red, puffy face leaned in closer towards us cringing in the back seat.
    My younger brother Will was a little bolder and a lot more na•ve than I. “Gee, Uncle Tad, I don’t know. But I have to go to the bathroom.” He hadn’t learned yet how things really worked in our household.
    Mama had her tense face on. “Tad, please......”
    He ignored her, twisting his body halfway around so he could face us directly. “Bathroom? Great, just great! In the middle of a goddamn traffic jam...”
    All of a sudden, I could hear the radio in the next car over pulsing with disco music. I decided to concentrate on that instead. Bum—bum—bum—bum—it throbbed.

*    *    *    *    *    *

    Bill’s Mercedes SL purred in idle for another ten minutes before he cut the engine.
     He tapped several fingers against the steering wheel impatiently, then grabbed his car phone as he studied his newest GPS navigational gadget up on the dashboard; his office would need to know where he was— there was no way he’d be getting to the huge mergers and acquisitions meeting by 2 o’clock in the formal conference room. Not the small, informal one, mind you. The large, oak-paneled, plush carpeted one reserved for the Big Guns. Glancing over at a neighboring Honda Civic, he snapped his instructions to his secretary, leaving no pauses for her to fit in an answer.
    Inside the Honda, a brown-haired boy around six or seven years old was cuddled up with a man in the back seat, both strapped in together like two astronauts ready for a Gemini flight to the moon. Laughing and tickling each other, they seemed oblivious to the world around them. Then the boy stopped and flattened his face against his side window facing the Mercedes, crossing his eyes and sticking out his tongue.
    Bill stared at the kid for a couple of seconds, then turned away, deep in thought.

*    *    *    *    *    *

    Grateful was the operant word. The word his family of eight, crowded together in their tiny, three bedroom apartment in the San Fernando Valley repeated to him every morning when he left for his job and every night when he returned home, dog-tired, tracking in mud from their building’s grass-less front yard and looking like death warmed over. He had been told this job could be an opportunity for him, driving this enormous black stretch limo, so sleek it really resembled more of a locomotive than a motor vehicle, but after seven years, Abel Vasquez, at twenty-nine, wife-less, and a surprisingly skimpy bank account, was still doing the same routes, driving the same clients with only the occasional decent tip.
    “Mijo, you always searching for the estrellas, pero sometimes the stars not come quick, solamente the correct time. Be happy — this job pay mas que minimum wage. Be happy, mijo! Gracias a Dios!” His mother’s quick sign of the cross was predictable; it always accompanied any words connected with Dios.
    Each morning, he would look around their home, so meager, so beneath his parents’ back-breaking work, but finally decided maybe he should simply concentrate on those two words: grateful and happy. Agradecido y feliz. He would try to accept his life and rejoice in it. He would accept the wild parties in the back of his stretch, where the young bosomy 22-year-olds, smoking weed and snorting coke along with rock star wannabes, nursing tremendous hangovers, attempted sex in unrealistic positions. He would accept the CEO’s nuzzling their ‘other women’ while talking on their cell phones to their wives, urging them not to stay up too late because this convention would probably extend into the wee hours of the morning.
    Today, when he had picked up a new customer at 12:45 p.m., he had murmured his new, daily stay-on-track-mantra from the front seat, behind his wheel and St. Christopher cross. ‘Be grateful for what you have, be grateful for what you have, be grateful....’ But now, stuck on the 101, listening to the ambulance sirens blaring outside and glancing at his rear view mirror, he was surprised to see the serious, middle-aged man sitting way in back, ignoring all the commotion and reading some eight and a half by eleven pages as he slowly sipped bottled water and munched on a granola bar.

*    *    *    *    *    *

    Uncle Tad was on a roll now, bypassing me and concentrating on my brother. “Come on, you little jerk, hold it in!” My brother Will’s strained look indicated he probably wasn’t going to make it to a bathroom in the next room, let alone one that might be several miles away. I could see his body starting to squirm, shifting from one position to another as he looked out the window for bladder distractions.
    “Tad, please...not today. Let him alone...” Mama’s voice sounded a little stronger than usual.
    “Not today! Not today!” Tad’s mouth curled up on one end, down on the other as he pulled out his flask, took a big swig, then flung a McDonald’s hamburger wrapper out the window. I kept looking out my side window at the ambulances barreling by without letting him catch my eye; if he did, I knew I could be next.
    A soft whimper came out of Will, but I didn’t dare turn. I could feel his body twitching, almost grinding on the seat, as the cracked leather squeaked and vibrated even under me. Visions of his bladder bursting and him being rushed to the hospital permeated my thoughts, and before I knew it, I had turned to face my brother and him.

*    *    *    *    *    *

    Bill angled his tan leather seat back and closed his eyes—might as well get some much-needed shuteye—he certainly wasn’t going anywhere. Flashes of his dad flooded his brain, like the time they went to a ball game and when the white-uniformed, pimple-marked vendor started passing them their hotdogs, a burly, foul-smelling man three people down took a chunk out of one of the wieners. His shirt was raised, exposing thick, hairy folds of a tremendous beer-belly, and bits of hotdog bun were flipping out of his mouth. Bill’s seven-year-old lips had parted in shock, but his dad rolled his head back and roared with laughter. “The Baseball Experience,” he explained, putting his arm around his son’s shoulders and motioning everyone around them to keep the remaining hotdogs coming.

*    *    *    *    *    *

    Abel thought about turning on the radio, but assumed the client wouldn’t like that—-trying to read to Latin rhythms isn’t really conducive to heavy concentration. Instead, he adjusted his uncomfortable polyester tie, reached for his clipboard, and pretended to be engrossed in his paperwork.
    “What’s going on, do you think?” The client had a voice.
    Abel pivoted his rear mirror more squarely to get a better view of the back of the stretch. “I don’t know, sir. Probably an accident.”
    “Wow! It must be a bad one.”
    “Yes, sir. Probably.”
    A couple of seconds passed. “What’s your name?”
    “Abel, sir.”
    “Where do you come from?”
    Why do all gringos assume I’m from somewhere else? Is my accent that bad? “Michoacoan, Mexico, sir.”
    “How long have you been here?”
    “Most of my life. I came here when I was ten.”
    The man put his pages down, and moved up closer to the driver’s section. “Really? How did your folks get here?”
    Is the next question going to be, ‘Are they legal?’ “It’s a long story. Nothing you’d be interested in, trust me.”
    “Try me.”
    Abel looked up, surprised. Was this guy for real? Did he really want to hear his family’s horrendous tale of getting into the United States or was he just passing the time?

*    *    *    *    *    *

    I expected Uncle Tad would turn his attention to me, but all eyes were directed at Will’s body, contorting in tiny, awkward movements. It reminded me of one of Mama’s friends who told me she once sat for an artist and how, after thirty minutes she had to pretend she was dead so she wouldn’t move and spoil the painting. But after another twenty minutes no matter how hard she tried, her body developed a life of its own—twitching and spasming in odd places she didn’t even know existed; she had become possessed.
    Mama was looking at Will with an intensity she had assumed was lost in her. “Ok, Willy, Ok. Just go, honey, it’s all right. Here, here’s a little cup for you to use. Just do it.”
    Tad swilled down the rest of his flask. “Ok, my ass! He’s not gonna ruin my car. YOU HOLD IT IN, PAL!!” His face was beyond red, the color of raw steak, and his facial sweat gathered then stopped, like covered hot food, condensation on Saran Wrap in the fridge.

*    *    *    *    *    *

    Bill entered his REM sleep. Deeper. Deeper. Images of playing in Central Park with his father—bright Irish green foliage in the hot, July summer, the iron benches almost too warm to touch, the air almost too oppressive to breathe. Deeper. Deeper. Then, with a flutter of his eyelids, the leaves starting to turn cherry-red, yellow, and milk chocolate brown, as the two of them gather up leaves, grouping them separately, then flinging themselves on top of each piled softness, hooting and tossing fragmented colors up into the air. Finally, going home, with his dad tucking him into his stuffed animal-covered bed, talking about the day, vowing to return to the park very soon, and ending with the words, “Love you, buddy....”

*    *    *    *    *    *

    “Well, my parents have always been poor. They were poor in Michoacoan and poor now in the U.S....” He noticed the client nodding thoughtfully.
    “Anyway, they decided to come to the U.S. before I was born, but had to save up money first to give to the cuyotes.”
    “The cuyotes?”
    “Yes, the shady people who take your money to get immigrants into the states. Only my parents were too trusting, too kind. They didn’t realize they could be cheated out of their money. So....they saved every peso, every centavo they could, and after five years they had just enough to get to the border. “
    “Yes?”
    “Well, they got to the California border all right, but never made it much further than that.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “The cuyotes transferred them and ten other people to another van and took them out to the Mojave Desert. Then they opened up the back doors and told them to ‘get the hell out’ and left them there to die in the heat.”
    Abel couldn’t believe his eyes were filling up. He cleared his throat and went on. “It was days of little to no water, wandering around the desert in the heat of summer, sucking on cactus leaves for fluid, and eating bugs. One of the Mexicans died, and one of the men even discussed cutting him up and cooking him....but finally, they caught some rattle snakes instead for food. “
    The client’s face was overhanging Abel’s seat, his arms crossed on the black vinyl.
    “....one week later, almost dead from thirst, their clothes torn up and covering their heads, they saw a truck. They moved towards the truck carefully, and saw behind it was an old gringo, splashing water on his face at the edge of a watering hole. He turned out to be nice, and as they plunged into the water, smiling and sucking up any water they could, he pointed to his truck and said, ‘I’ll take you to the next town’.”
    “This is a fascinating story!”

*    *    *    *    *    *

    Will didn’t make it. As Mama handed him a small plastic cup, his bladder simply released, then emptied. It was amazing the way the urine didn’t just trickle down, but spread out like an umbrella, covering his front area, down his pant legs, and onto the seat. Instantly the car reeked.
    I thought Uncle Tad was going to explode. His eyes bugged out, looking like those monster eyeball candies Will and I had collected this past Halloween, as he raised his hand automatically and swiveled halfway around to prepare a good smack.
    Suddenly, Mama found herself. “DON’T YOU DARE!!!” she screamed, flinging her body in front of Will, almost knocking him over. Uncle Tad’s blow grazed her head, and he recoiled, horrified at the misdirection. He hung his head down for a beat, then looked up. I thought I’d never see the day when he looked more like us than himself—the scared look we always got when we knew Uncle Tad was going to get us.
    “Get out of the car. Get out.....” Mama’s voice was a low, feline growl.

*    *    *    *    *    *

    Bill jerked awake, disoriented and pasty-mouthed. He looked over at the boy in the Honda and saw that he was sound asleep against the man. As the executive reached for his phone, an odd peace blanketed him, allowing him to breathe deeply from his diaphragm for the first time in years. His secretary was still in the office. “Susan? This is Bill. No, don’t worry, you’re not in any trouble. I.......what’s that?.......No, if the meeting doesn’t happen, it’s not the end of the world.....Susan?.....why are you crying? Don’t worry, it’s all right. Everything’s going to be all right .....in fact....things are going to be very different from now on, I promise. And Susan? I think we need to get you a raise.......That’s right.....what?......you’re welcome......we’ll do lunch out next week and discuss it, OK?”
    He hung up the phone, chuckling.

*    *    *    *    *    *

    Abel nodded, acknowledging the client’s enthusiasm, and pumped at the feedback. “Thanks to the old man, they got to the neighboring place only to find nobody wanted to help them; they were viewed as immigrant pariahs. But finally, my mother managed to get a housekeeping job for a wealthy family, and my dad sort of made an income placing bricks in people’s patios. From there they started a family and we all moved to Los Angeles, where they continued their hard work, raised us as good U.S. citizens with pretty decent educations.”
    The client paused, reached into his pocket, and handed Abel his business card. “Kid, this is your lucky day. My name is Ivan Ross and I’m a Hollywood producer. You’re really smart and articulate, and you have the makings here of a great screenplay. Why don’t you give me a call next week and we’ll set up a meeting. This is no joke.....with your parents’ story and your way of telling it, we might just have the makings of a terrific hit!”

*    *    *    *    *    *

    This time, when the ambulances flashed by, they were headed in the opposite direction, their sirens wailing, red lights rotating, and tires burning. Automatically, everybody flipped on their own engines, relieved to finally move, and waited for the signal to evacuate the area. Voices floated throughout the air, along with laughter and a few “Thank God, that’s over!!” Kids sang, tail pipes coughed then sputtered smoke, and one by one, people concentrated on their destinations as they started their two-mile-an hour getaway crawl. So intent on following the uniformed California Highway Control, people barely noticed a man by the side of the road, weaving in and out on the dusty right-hand shoulder. Ignored, he crouched down, then sat, Indian-style as he lowered his head.

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