IEATASS

The cars that don't wait in line on the Major Deegan

Only a sucker waits in line on the Major Deegan.

The line of cars in the exit-only lane is backed up for miles, mostly minivans with Ohio plates on a visit to the Big Apple to see a show and stay at a Courtyard by Marriott off 10th Avenue. Behind them are volumes of Volvos. Families in for the day from the suburbs and seeking to impart the rules of polite society onto their kids, as they patiently wait their turn on the expressway. 

“Yes, I know everyone else is cutting in line, Ethan.” says a rage-fueled dad in chinos, as he strangles the steering wheel. “But in our family, we follow the rules!” 

His principled stance elevates the ETA to Westport to two hours and 17 minutes.

Meanwhile, the cars never waiting in line are always the same, some version of a mid-2000’s black Nissan Maxima. The windows carry a deep tint, the driver’s side slightly open to allow the smoke and air freshener vapor to escape. The trunk is rattling due to a Coachella-sized subwoofer that occupies the entire backseat and shows up as seismic activity with the United States Geological Survey. A vanity license plate, hidden behind a tinted shield to avoid tolls, reads “IEATASS”. It’s less of a celebration of one’s sexual proclivities and more of a disclaimer to others that this driver tailgates so closely as to be able to adjust the climate control in the car ahead. Another parkway pilot has adulterated his muffler so it sounds like he’s driving an AK-47, sending surrounding drivers fleeing for cover. 

Just as the cars all look the same, so, too, do the drivers. All males of a certain age who, according to New York State’s decreasing DMV standards, opted to watch every Fast & Furious movie and then complete a Vin Diesel coloring book rather than pass a driver’s test. They are Black and white, rich and poor, local and foreign, urban and suburban. What unites them is the newfound liberation from the tyranny of parents and public transit. Unable to drink, vote, run for office, get married, own a gun, or even rent a car, the state bestows the freedom to wrestle with one’s raging hormones and toxic masculinity in a 5,000 pound weapon that maxes out at 134 miles per hour.

Moments after leaving the DMV, they are racing down the shoulder of the BQE. Drivers lean so far back as to be in the trunk, eyes barely able to see above the dashboard. Seatbelts are permanently removed to ensure death while looking cool in a crash. The front windshield is replaced with a 54-inch plasma screen TV so the driver can watch the director’s cut of Fast & Furious 47: More Fasterer and Even Furiouser, while doubling the speed limit.

These predators of our parkways operate with near impunity. Dashing across three lanes to advance three inches, racing through a red light, and refusing to move as an ambulance wails behind for fear of ceding space. They sense weakness on the road, cutting off a school bus or eighteen wheeler with slower acceleration as they cut in just before the on-ramp to the George Washington Bridge. 

While much of this behavior is not technically illegal, it does legally make you an asshole.

Thus, to accept the invitation to drive in New York City means that you must also decide what kind of person you will be. Will you be the one to wait in line and get cut off by a million Maximas, or will you join them and cut off a million minivans? While it’s a metaphor for life in a dog-eat-dog city, it’s also a practical reality when you need to make a dinner reservation and the better and worse traffic angels appear on each shoulder, urging you down different paths.

As drivers wrestle with the question - scouring the Talmud for rabbinical commentary about proper usage of the Bruckner - the real test comes as the kids are melting down, your wife is yelling at you “to just cut in line like everyone else," and every inch of you wishes your car had a machine gun turret to deter any Nissan Maxima that dares to cut in front of you in the exit-only lane. But, alas, your 2019 Toyota Sienna didn’t offer such add-on features. 

So, you adjust your lumbar support and ask yourself what kind of a person am I really. Meanwhile, a distant Nissan Maxima has sensed your hesitation and raced past the long line, leaped across four lanes of traffic, and cut you off mere inches before you had patiently waited an hour to exit. 

No wave, just a reminder: IEATASS. 

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If I Can Make It There is a collection of stories about the things and people, including me, that move through New York City. A celebration of the characters who crawl through endless traffic, slog through the subways, and stroll under the shade of scaffolding.

Like our fragmented and broken transportation system, some stories race with enthusiasm to a red light and others remain hopelessly stuck behind a double-parked Mercedes with New Jersey plates and blinkers on as the driver screams over the honking, “Just hold on for a minute! I’m only stopping in for a quick dinner at Sardis.” 

And, all of these stories could occur nowhere else but the greatest city on Earth - New York Fucking City.