by Garrison Frost

Just a couple of steps into the party, you can see that all the major freeways are in the room: the San Diego, Harbor, Golden State, Long Beach, etc. You would think that they would all be standing together – apart from the surface streets – talking about all they have in common, things like carpool lanes, maintenance schedules, Sig Alerts and such. And in a way they are together, just not in a bunch. Instead, you see the Hollywood talking to the Harbor, who's got the Santa Monica listening nodding to the San Diego, who is chatting with the Long Beach. In this way, they're strung across the room, one linking to another and then to another and so on.

Of course, you are drawn to the San Diego, the lovely 405, so familiar and so attractive with her ocean breezes, fancy airport and expensive neighborhoods. Yet she seems cold and distant when you approach. "Have you seen my Getty Center?" she barks, with a smile. But it's the kind of smile that tells you she would make you sit for an hour to get through the South Bay Curve and not feel bad about it at all. I don't care about you anymore, she says with her eyes. "I'm sooooo busy," she says, explaining why she can't remember your name.

Much friendlier is the 105. "Can I get you a drink?" he asks. "How about a beer? Really, anything I can do?" And he means it. With his Green Line and his fancy onramps and new pavement, he's all about service. But he seems a little overeager – he would promise you everything, make you feel completely comfortable, but never really take you anywhere.

Just then you realize you're feeling cramped. Something's pressing down on you, forcing you into a corner. You realize it's the Long Beach Freeway. "Something the matter?" he asks. He's sweating, always in a hurry, and always carrying a lot of stuff. "Maybe you're just too small to be here. This is a busy area." You try to get away, but there are all these bits of metal and debris underfoot, and you wonder what they're doing to your shoes.

You move across the room and spend some time with the Hollywood Freeway. She's wearing sunglasses, making no effort to hide her tattoo, telling someone "Hey man, don't worry about the wait. It's all so cool." And sure, she's interesting, with her Hollywood Bowl and her Universal City, but she always comes off as a little dirty. Maybe too dirty for your taste.

You get a completely different vibe from the 91. He looks like an aerospace worker -- shorts-sleeved shirt, Dick Cheney eyeglasses, short-but-not-too-short hair peppered with gray. "Let me tell you about property values," he says. "There's no reason to live at the beach when you can get a three bedroom in a new development for 400K." You can tell he's very serious. "And the kids love having Disneyland and Knott's right down the road. We get a yearly pass."

Just then you notice an old woman, elegant and seemingly friendly, but a bit out of place among all the others. "I remember the good old days when driving was an adventure," she says to you between polite nibbles of her cracker. "No one needed to go fast because you always wanted to enjoy it." The Pasadena Freeway smiles awkwardly, and then tells you a story about a wedding she once attended at the Huntington Library.

(Aug. 5, 2005)

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