Traffic Can Turn Our Lives Into Late Show

It was 12:45 by the time I slid into my seat at the noon luncheon. My silk jacket had an embarrassing diagonal crease across the front, an imprint of the seat belt that had pressed against it for the past hour and a half.

Any place else, my hostess may well have been miffed at my tardiness. But this is Orange County, so instead, she was sympathetic. So were the others seated at my table.

“The 55?” asked the woman seated on my left.

I nodded. She understood.

As I unfolded my napkin and picked up my fork for a few belated bites of salad, I explained the details--not that I really needed to.

After spending more than 45 minutes trapped between the Katella Avenue and Chapman Avenue exits, I finally saw what the holdup was: Five crumpled cars were over on the shoulder, their drivers--apparently uninjured--pacing in the gravel around a California Highway Patrol car, talking to an officer with a clipboard.

Past the wreckage, I could see that the freeway was wide open and traffic moving swiftly. But instead of taking advantage of the opportunity, I had to get off at the next exit and find a pay phone so that I could call my hostess and let her know I’d be late.

When I was a newcomer to Orange County nearly six years ago, I would have been ashamed to show up 45 minutes late for anything. Back in the Midwest, where I came from, it just wasn’t done. The only justifiable reasons for being that late were blizzards and floods, and in those cases everything was canceled anyway. And if there did happen to be a freeway accident serious enough to cause delays, no explanations were necessary because it would be the lead item on the evening news.

But the highways here are flooded every day, not with snow or water, but with cars and trucks, along with the occasional spilled load of something weird or toxic or both. So I soon learned not only that I couldn’t promise to show up at a specified time, but that nobody really expected me to.

It’s an odd combination. We have in Orange County one of the nation’s highest concentrations of expensive, fast, state-of-the-art cars. But when we get in them to go someplace, we have to approach the journey with an attitude of “I’ll get there when I get there.”

Which is not to say that we don’t try to be prompt; I know I do, and when I can’t be, I try to call, at least. But if you’re late, you’re late. What can you do?

Of course, some situations simply have no flexibility. A few weeks ago, for example, I took a shuttle bus to Los Angeles International Airport. My flight was at 6:20 a.m, so the bus picked me up at 4 a.m. Sure enough, I was at the gate with time to spare--a good thing, because my ticket was non-changeable and non-refundable. But most of us can’t routinely allow two hours between appointments, which means that we’re going to be late now and then.

For business dealings, I still make appointments for specified times, and most of the time I arrive on time or a few minutes early, just in case. The same goes for dental and medical appointments, or scheduled events, such as last week’s luncheon.

But in other situations, there’s more slack. When we go out for dinner, my friends and I meet in an area where the early arrivals can shop or browse until everyone has arrived. If we’re going to a movie, we don’t get irked if one of the group hasn’t shown up by show time. We know it isn’t a snub; they’re just stuck in traffic somewhere. And if we’re getting together at someone’s house, we usually don’t even set a time, not even “sevenish.” Instead, we leave a “window” of a half hour or more either way.

The other day, when I was arranging to visit a friend in Pasadena who used to work in Orange County, we considered the time of day and the routes I might take and decided that I’d be there sometime between 7 and 8:30 p.m.

“OK, I’ll see you whenever you get here,” he said. It’s a phrase I’m hearing--and using--more and more.

All this doesn’t mean that I don’t get frantic whenever I’m late; I’m not quite Southern-California-laid-back enough for that yet. My blood pressure still goes up. I still pound the steering wheel and make disparaging remarks about the ancestry of the drivers around me. I still worry that whoever is expecting me won’t understand and that my life, or at least my day, will be ruined. But so far, that hasn’t happened. And eventually, I get where I’m going.

“It’s kind of strange that this would happen to you, considering that it’s the kind of thing you write about,” said that patient hostess at last week’s luncheon. Not at all, I told her. That’s exactly why I write about it.

Looking Like New

Do you wash your car often? Or do you wait until the kids can write graffiti in the dust? We’d like to know about your car-cleaning habits, inside and out. Do you wash it yourself? What kind of cleaner works best? Do you insist on a chamois, or will paper towels and rags do just as well? Maybe you go to a carwash. Or do you prefer having your car detailed?

A Little Road Music

What’s the sound track for your daily commute? Do you prefer rock to get you going, or easy-listening to calm your nerves? Maybe you keep it on the all-news channel. Tell us what you like to listen to when you drive, and why.

Life on (2) Wheels

Hey, you out there, zipping between lanes. Are you crazy, brave, or what? If you travel the freeways and surface streets of Orange County on a motorcycle, we’d like to hear from you. Why do you prefer that mode of transportation? How often are your brushes with death? And how do you feel about helmets?

Send your comments to Family Life, Orange County Life, The Times, 1375 Sunflower Ave., Costa Mesa, Calif. 92626. Please include your phone number so that a reporter may call you. To protect your privacy, Family Life does not publish correspondents’ last names when the subject is sensitive.