There it is once more—that cursed red glow from above the intersection of Maple and 4th that does nothing but taunt me and mock my very presence. I’ve been lingering here long enough for the seasons to change, or at least it feels like I’ve been here that long. My coffee has gone from fresh and scalding to old and wet, having passed through the stages of its first existence.
The radio has cycled through three different awful tunes, none of which have improved my situation in any noticeable way. I swear these traffic lights work on some strange algorithm meant to push human patience to the brink. Yesterday morning at 8:43 AM, I was stuck in automotive purgatory.
What should have been a quick trip to the post office before work had turned into an exercise in existential pondering. The traffic signal at Maple and 4th—a technological marvel that’s supposed to bring order to the roadways—had apparently decided to give me a life lesson in stillness and patience. Used to be that traffic lights were simple.
Red meant stop, green meant go. Now they’re smart systems with sensors and timers and Lord knows what else buried beneath the asphalt. Progress, they call it.
I call it a conspiracy. I began to notice things as I sat there and watched the cross traffic flow by in an endless stream. The upholstery on my steering wheel was worn.
The exact shade of red that filled my vision was somewhere between “stop sign” and “minor emergency.” My left eyelid twitched each time I glanced at the clock on my dashboard. Minutes passed—five, then seven, then ten. The man in the SUV next to me had gone through all five stages of grief and come to acceptance, his expressionless face the very picture of numbness, a face so unexpressive that it—somehow—expressed something.
A woman in a blue sedan behind him was having a vigorous argument during what must have been the most important phone call of her life. We had become, for this moment, an unwilling community, bound together by red-light solidarity. I have a theory about the long red lights.
They’re not broken. They’re working just like they were designed to work. And who designed them to work that way?
Why, it’s our friend the traffic engineer, of course. A sadistic traffic engineer, to be more precise—a male traffic engineer, I assume, because when was the last time you heard of a female traffic engineer? And what does he do when he’s not overseeing the lighting of up to 12,000 streetlights?
He watches us, of course! I was indeed having a conversation with myself. And it was a very lively discussion, as I had progressed from simply murmuring to a full-out critique of contemporary infrastructure, gesticulating as if I were critiquing a modern art piece.
At least, I hoped I was not being too abstract. I was trying for concrete examples. Most likely, any car passenger beside me was thinking my infrastructure rant was just plain weird.
But, infrastructure is only one topic in my repertoire of awesome rants. During these long red-light periods, a series of events occur in a person. First, there’s impatience—the fingers tapping, the constant checking of the clock.
Then comes bargaining—”If this light changes in the next thirty seconds, I’ll donate to charity.” And last is the true crisis, the existential phase—”Why am I even on my way to the post office? What’s the point of going postal in the digital age? What’s the point of anything?”
At fifteen minutes in, I had achieved a curious kind of zen.
Time was meaningless. My hold on the steering wheel was looser than it had ever been. I was at one with the red light.
The red light was at one with me. We were two beings in perfect, motionless harmony. And then—miracle of miracles—it changed.
Green! That beautiful emerald beacon of freedom! The cars ahead moved forward, and I followed, perhaps a bit too enthusiastically, accelerating in their wake.
The satisfying sensation endured for about twelve seconds before I arrived at the next stoplight. The traffic engineers in our fair city have perfected the “red wave”—the opposite of the almost mythical “green wave,” where you catch all the lights just right. No, the red wave ensures that you don’t catch any lights just right, and, in fact, ensures that each light turns red just as you approach it.
I once measured the time it took for my morning commute. Actual time spent driving: eighteen minutes. Time spent waiting at red lights: twenty-seven minutes.
Nearly sixty percent of my journey spent staring at a red circle, contemplating my life choices. These long halts cause you to see strange aspects of your environment. The curious appellations of nearby businesses to which you’d otherwise roar by without a second thought.
The hardly visible tattoos that graffiti has left behind on the edges of abandoned buildings. The way certain people seem to enjoy filming a nose-picking contest in roadside rest areas. At red lights, I’ve witnessed many things.
I have watched couples argue and then make up. I’ve seen more than one marriage proposal go down. I’ve seen a man eat a plate of spaghetti, steering with his knees while using a fork as if it were a last-ditch, thumbs-up-to-always-remember kind of thing.
I have seen a woman apply a full-face of makeup (using a precise, practiced, and oh-so-reliable routine) as if steering a two-ton vehicle was an inconvenience that somehow didn’t involve her full attention. And, oh yes, I have seen a dog with sunglasses sitting upright in the passenger seat like it was normal. That is the thing you realize when you’re compelled to stop: you see the universe as it actually is and not as the smear it tends to be when you’re hurrying through it.
Don’t misunderstand me. I’m not saying these never-ending red lights are some kind of blessing in disguise. They’re time-thieving tortures, and the fact that I’ve got the pavement at certain intersections down by heart is not a sign of any kind of enlightenment—it’s just a sign that I waste too much of my life waiting for some kind of signal to move ahead.
Occasionally I ponder whether traffic signals might be the best representation of contemporary life. We come to a complete stop when instructed, and we proceed at speed when directed. We sit and stare, waiting for the next command from on high, even when there is no other traffic to contend with, even when it’s the deadest time of night imaginable.
We’ve become so trained to look for authority that we sometimes forget how to be self-governing. But last night, sitting at a red light in a nearly empty Old Town, I thought about how well the traffic signal functions as a portrait of obedience. There is a red light on my path to home—you probably have one too—that seems to exist solely to test character.
It is not at an intersection of great import. It does not serve the heavy cross traffic of which I am part. It just sits there, turning absurdly long stretches of time into short tests of the presidential pep talk I am liable to give myself as I watch the light and wonder what it is serving.
This light, in particular, has seen the best and worst of my creative cursing. It can testify to the bargains that I’ve struck with forces much greater than myself. It has watched me turn off the engine to save fuel, then turn it back on, then off again, in a pathetic little ritual of hope and despair.
I began departing for my appointments fifteen minutes sooner than what would seem necessary. It’s not that I’m suddenly more responsible; it’s that I’ve figured out I can outsmart my portion of the timetable. I know that along my path a red light awaits me.
But red lights don’t bother me anymore, because I can now figure in my schedule about how much time they will take and not lose any more time in my travel. Next time you see yourself held up at one of these interminable red lights, look around. Notice your fellow prisoners of this moment.
We are all in this together, this unplanned break in our otherwise frantic existence. Make eye contact. Nod with a shared recognition of our plight.
Maybe even smile in a way that says, “Aren’t you glad we aren’t dead-zoned by this light forever?”
Another thing you could do is what I did yesterday. I turned off the engine, shut my eyes, and imagined I was at the very place I was supposed to be. Because, for those minutes, I was.
Eventually, the light will change. It always does. And, ironically, once you find yourself rushing toward the next red light in your path, you will probably forget that you were ever stuck in a maddening crosswalk for just a bit too long.
Life on our regulated roads is a series of stops and starts, of forced pauses and brief movements, all directed by unfeeling signals that don’t know or care about our individual journeys. I’ve commentated too much. The light has altered.
Time to leave.
