Tom Evashwick

I am not an angry person.

Some people think that cars pollute the environment, and the word around the block is that gas has become too expensive. However, I have an even better reason to pull out that old ten-speed cruiser that has been collecting dust in your garage: Forest Park Parkway.

I once felt that the parkway was my little secret. I could sneak downtown in a matter of minutes from Clayton and would use it to avoid traffic. Well, four months and a few jackhammers later, my secret has been let out. And apparently, the gossip has spread to everyone in the Midwest.

Now, while driving downtown, I usually feel as though I am on MTV’s “Boiling Points.” For those of you who haven’t had the pleasure of watching it, “Boiling Points” is a hidden camera show subjecting the unknowing participants to, frankly, obnoxious behaviors to see how far these people can be pushed before they “boil over.” I highly recommend taking 30 minutes out of your day and watching an episode so you will understand where I am coming from.

I’m sure that everyone has taken 170 south to FPP. Of course, at that point, other than the 18-wheeler taking up two lanes, the traffic isn’t bad. Sure, there might be the occasional spot right after the Delmar exit where everyone slows down by 10 miles per hour (of which I am still looking for the cause), but all in all, everything is smooth sailing.

Then, you have to avoid the traffic entering from Ladue Road and take the big looping turn onto the parkway. Here’s where it all starts.

Every few weeks I see the smart person who decided to go 50 around the turn and corrects too much and ends up in the bank of trees staring at their totaled car and telling the police where it all went wrong. Naturally, no one has ever seen an accident before, so we all get to slow down to 10 and observe. I can always tell if the person isn’t paying attention to driving when they swerve to avoid the parked police car on the side of the road. I wonder how they passed the driving test.

I get to accelerate for about five seconds before the gentleman in the right lane decides that his blind spot is not very important. Keeping my cool, I carefully navigate the gradual turns that cause the Escalade driver to move to the center and occupy both lanes. I mutter under my breath.

Right around the Forsyth exit is where the traffic really starts. For some unknown reason, a lot of drivers think that changing lanes in bumper-to-bumper traffic will let them avoid the bumper-to-bumper traffic. After five minutes averaging 10 yards per minutes, I see flashing lights telling me to be prepared to stop ahead. I chuckle.

I get to the stoplight and the person ahead of me decides to go halfway through the intersection instead of waiting their turn behind the white line like everyone else. Of course, the people from Pershing can’t get on and think that honking at the person to make move up three inches will solve their problem. In fact, it doesn’t, and then everyone else decides to throw in their two cents and honk as well. I start looking for Advil.

Twenty minutes and four songs later I make it across Big Bend. Every so often, someone get even more frustrated than me and pulls a U-turn. That person in the Escalade decides their music isn’t loud enough. I hear Miley Cyrus, or Hannah Montana for that matter, I’m not totally sure. I roll up my windows.

Wash U students have gotten out of class and are now walking down the sidewalk. I realize that I have now finished my whole CD and must switch to the radio. Every channel I turn to is on commercial break. However, I learn that Burger King lets you have it your way and I think outside the bun when listening to the Taco Bell commercial. Boredom has set in and I start looking around. I see a woman with a walker pass me on my right. I think about “Office Space.”

Miraculously, I get to Skinker. I debate whether to cut through on Lindell or keep going on the parkway. I choose Lindell. I turn right and sit, waiting for the left turn signal. An ambulance is approaching from the distance, and the person behind me in the brand new Mustang takes this opportunity to not move to the right, but turn left on red. I check the time. I am late. Very late.

I turn onto Lindell and finally all is clear. As I turn to take the last leg of the parkway, where all traffic has disappeared, I see the Mustang. It’s been pulled over by the police. I now believe in Karma.

I get to my internship at Barnes and slam on the brakes as pedestrians do not look both ways and cross in the middle of the street. They wave “sorry.” I don’t return the wave. I turn to the parking lot. I press the “help” button to get let in. It is broken. I try to back up. The bus driver yells at me with a few choice words. I pay $5 for the lot across the street and walk in frustrated and with a neck cramp. I find out that I am not a winner on “Boiling Points.” I don’t make $100. I pledge to take the metro next time.