Corn Syrup

As I’m getting ready for work this morning, I realize that I had forgotten to charge my phone last night. No matter, there’s a phone charger at work. I chuck it in my bag and head out the door, a few conservative minutes early after getting stuck in traffic for 20 minutes yesterday.

Smooth sailing on the morning route, coupled with sunny skies. Smooth and sunny onto 55. Smooth and sunny merge onto 70. Smooth and sunny past downtown. Smooth and sunny, hello north side graff! Smooth and sunny, sailing right past my alternate route, Lindbergh, and onto 270 South. Smooth and sunny, I’m going to be 20 minutes early for work! Sunny, sunny… oh no. Wait, what’s happening? Traffic is stopping. Traffic is stopping on 270. I’m three exits before mine, and just before the first alternate escape route. That’s ok. It’s sunny. And I still have 20 whole minutes to get to my office, which is just beyond yonder ridge.

But wait. Traffic has stopped completely. As in no movement whatsoever. I’ve been sitting here for nearly 15 minutes. I’m probably going to be late. I should call into work. But my phone. Is dead.

“Mwahrn Rorip!” I look up. There seems to be a strapping, heavily tattooed gentleman wearing a tan work shirt sitting in a matching tan work truck, and I think he is yelling at me. I reach over and roll down my window.

“Corn syrup,” he cries, almost gleefully. I tilt my head. “It’s a tanker full of corn syrup, spilled on the highway! They’re going to be cleaning of the roads for a while.” I wave and shrug, wondering less at the accident and more why he chose to impart the news to me in this environment of normally isolated driving with windows up and radios on privately playing the same stations, but remember that any collective experience, even the most mundane of commuter incidents, tends to change all that.

I shut off my car and my mental cartoon world takes over, projecting a little movie of tiny men with oversized automated push brooms and power washers scrubbing down four lanes of 270 against a backdrop of angry men and woman sporting 1940s fashions honking their horns and shaking their tiny fists up at the sunny sky. It’s funny.

After twenty more minutes, a chapter of my novel, half a bag of purse bottom salvaged trail mix, and two cigarettes, I get out of care and visit the bearer of sticky news to use his phone. An admin in our office answers.

“Linda? Hi, it’s Amy.”

“Yes.” She sighs in frustration. We’re shorthanded, it’s a little stressful at the office.

“Guess what happened?” Her silence does not sound amused, so I try to cut the funny stuff. “There was an accident. I think a tanker filled with corn syrup, er, spilled onto 270.”

“BUWAHAHAHAHA!”

She’s still laughing, “My phone wasn’t charged, so I had to use one from someone in another car.” She tries to listen seriously, but then erupts into giggles. I hang up, and spend a few obligatory minutes surveying the situation with new friend. It feels strange to stand in the middle of a field of parked cars on the highway. It’s pretty quiet. Everyone sits patiently. Eventually, I return to my novel.

Corn syrup.