The average American spends a quarter of his or her life commuting to work, according to reliable statistics I made up while driving last week.

Each leg of my commute is about an hour-long, so I have plenty of time to make up reliable statistics. One of these days, I'll make up a statistic that lets me work from home.

But in the meantime, I'm stuck with a mind-numbing commute. At least I have a few tricks that keep me awake and attentive:

1. Try not to be killed by the crazy commuters.
2. Try even harder not to be killed by the crazy commuters.
3. Try not to soil your underpants when killed by the crazy commuters.

I've never had a chance to practice that last one, but this morning's commute looks like I could get my opportunity. Traffic is thick, and so are the curse words coming from my fellow motorists. I just saw a Volkswagen Beetle nearly sideswipe a young woman who had the audacity to be stopped in unmoving traffic.

The driver of the Beetle, who has a Peace Sign on his bumper, flipped her the bird.

I live just outside of Boston, and these New England drivers are angry. You see, the radio shows are buzzing this morning about a road rage survey that ranks Boston as the 5th worst city in the Nation. That has my neighbors understandably upset — if I've learned anything since moving here, it's that New Englanders are competitive. I'm surrounded by drivers shooting for First Place.

(It could be worse. In Miami, the city that ranked Number One, people are just plain shooting.)

I've had enough of the radio, so I shut it off. I prefer more subtle forms of entertainment while driving. Like spotting cars identical to mine and pretending we're twins. Or my favorite game, "How many drivers are picking their noses?" So far I've counted 6, but I've decided to stop just now after catching a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror. (I guess that officially makes it 7.)

Traffic is barely moving, and I'm getting irritable. Road rage is contagious.

Every commuter needs to stay fueled up. It gets more expensive every day, but nobody can operate a car in the morning without first filling up on coffee. In New England, they have strict regulations for drivers — you must have a valid driver's license, proof of insurance, and a large, styrofoam Dunkin Donuts cup in your hand at all times. Maybe all that caffeine contributes to road rage?

But a car needs fuel too, and my fuel light has been glowing for who knows how long. I've been too busy picking my nose to notice.

I'm in a strange part of my commute, which is a motorist's worst nightmare. Every commuter fills up at the station with the lowest possible gas price. So pulling off on an unexplored side street could force me to spend an extra 50 or 60 cents, money that could be spent tomorrow on a doughnut with my coffee.

But I have to risk it, so I fight through the traffic and take the next exit. I stop the car and get out, but before I can get the pump working, an old man springs up out of nowhere. He's missing a tooth, and my nose-picking count officially increases to 8. When he takes the pump out of my hand, I realize that I've stopped at a full-service station.

I hate full-service gas stations. They're pointless. The frustration from the commute boils over. I'm huffing like a brat in my car. Why won't this man just let me fill my own tank? Do I have to tip him? Is that vein in my forehead going to explode?

I'm sitting in my car, wondering how it's possible to get road rage at a gas station, when the attendant hands over my change and says, "Bad traffic today, big accident messing it all up. Don't get on the highway here. Head down this road maybe 3 miles, take you right round that accident. Save an hour."

I tip him generously. With my road rage gone, the worst of my commute is over.

Copyright © 2007 Andy Murphy
Please do not remove the copyright from this work.

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