It’s 55 miles to the Boerum Hill section of Brooklyn. I’m on my way to help my daughter transport the last of her stuff from her apartment. I made sure I ate a bagel for breakfast, not oatmeal, so I wouldn’t have to “go to the bathroom” while in transit. I took an empty water bottle just in case, but then I thought, how the heck am I gonna get it in there?
The first 45 miles took 45 minutes. The final 10 miles took 75 minutes. The BQE (Brooklyn Queens Expressway) is my sworn enemy.
But this time my classic Magellan GPS, I call her Magela, and I are gonna outsmart the wicked BQE. As soon as we get over the Verrazano Bridge, I exit at 92nd street. Simple plan: I find 3rd or 4th Ave and drive north about a hundred streets and, wa la, I’m there.
Somebody put Prospect Park between me and my plans. The next thing I know, I’m driving south and headed for Coney Island Avenue. Stupid “Magela” keeps telling me to go back to the BQE. I start pushing her buttons, but no reply. She’s frozen, and I’m lost, and, oh yeah, I have to take such a wicked leak. I AM DYING!
I hang a left onto Church Ave and pull over. I shout to a congregation of people on the corner who are all apparently wearing ear-buds and don’t hear me yell, “Uh.. excuse me, excuse me, E X C U S E M E !!!!”. A man driving a van in the opposite direction stops and opens his window. I shout “Can you tell me the direction to Barclay Center?”. People behind him beep. He ignores them. I love this man. He gives me advice, and I’m on my way to find Flatbush Ave. Magela says, “Go to the BQE. We are waiting there to kill you.”
My bladder is fifty shades of over-filled. I telephone my daughter so she can listen to her Dad have an anxiety meltdown, just in case I haven’t scarred her enough for one lifetime. Suddenly, we are so far away from the BQE that Magella recalculates the route.
To sum things up, I made it to St Marks Place. I relieved myself, during which my daughter filled my double-parked car with boxes. I reprogrammed Magela, and took 3rd Ave down to the 60-somethings and entered the BQE. Yes, it was once again a parking lot for miles, so that three men could shovel some asphalt into pot-holes in the TWO lanes that they just had to shut down (as opposed to shutting down one lane, duh..). I turned up Little Steven’s Underground Garage, lit a cigar, let the cold air slap my face, and thought, life is good.
Peace, love, dove homies.