Whenever I am stuck in a standstill, bumper to bumper—why is it so frequently Virginia?—I like to time the whole thing. I want to know how long it will take until we all start moving again, but I am even more interested in who’s going to get out their car first. You know that person who needs to see the whole arc, and maybe they’ll learn something. Perhaps just knowing the scope will ameliorate some anxiety. Or it won’t, but I like to see how long it takes before somebody feels the need to walk around.

The first person to hit the pavement in these circumstances seems to be one who will invariably look down the length of highway, one hand on their hip and another over their eyes, to survey the scene in both directions. It took this guy about six minutes, and I would be out there too if I wasn’t driving. I love getting out of the car in standstill traffic (see previous post titled “independence day”). Inevitably none of us can do much besides wait, on the hot pavement or in the cars full of cool air. Some boldly cruise down the shoulders toward escapes in which they seem confident. I watch as one man exits a car in the right lane to ask if the folks in the left can give him an out. He gestures at their driver side to roll down the window using the antiquated but entirely recognizable fist-in-a-circle motion. They back up cautiously to allow him through, and off he goes toward who knows what.

Eight minutes in, the heat from the pavement and packed-in vehicles threatens suffocation and I succumb to the need for air conditioning. I am listening to a podcast discussing the life of Malcolm X, whose rage I find perhaps the most inescapable of all righteous angers. I appreciate that the people involved in this discussion do not apologize to or try to placate their audience regarding X’s hatred. I remain stupefied that seemingly so few marginalized people are even half as hostile.

Now we’re at twelve minutes, and there are other folks disembarking. They chat and stretch and walk around. Our pioneer surveyor had long since returned to their vehicle, but makes another appearance now. Not even a quarter hour into our delay we are already giving in to social habits that we usually leave behind as we drive. See now why I like to time it?

I’ve been thinking about my harmonica. These are decent practice circumstances—the car in park with windows shut. I remember the notes I learned last week. I give “Mary Had a Little Lamb” a shot. I hit one note horribly and the next with perfection; the beauty of learning. I’m proud to repeat this ridiculous song incrementally better over fifteen more minutes.

It was ultimately a half hour that could have been spent waiting. Some people drove off, others mingled on the highway. Most spent the time in languor. Under the hot sun and in the privacy of my own home, I made a lame attempt to play the blues for us all.