The oceanbound lanes across from them are bumpertobumper and crawling, and without a doubt it’s worse on the far side of the accident, everyone overriding their carbrains to slow down and stare over into the other lane, bloodlust curiosity surging.… But going upcanyon they can still move; they haven’t reached the accident’s backup yet.

“Indications seem to be that the track has once again been left behind, causing two cars to occupy the same space at the same time,” Xavier says in his rapid on-the-job patter. “We suspect lane changing is perhaps the culprit. My, look at the traffic ahead.”

“I know.” They’ve reached the backup. Ahead of them the brake light symphony is blinking, redred, redred, redred redred redred. Overrides everywhere, nowhere for people to go, impossible for the computers to clear things up when the lanes clog this badly, it’s time to take the old Chevy supertruck offtrack, yes this baby has an internal combustion engine under its big hood. “Independent lo-comotion,” Xavier sings as Abe turns the key and revs the engine, 1056 horsepower, atavistic Formula One adrenaline rush here as he steers them off the magnetic track into the narrow gap between fast-track cars and the center divider, roaring along in vibratory petrol power, let the poor saps breathe a bit of that carbon monoxide ambrosia, nostalgic whiff of last century’s power smog as they zroom by almost taking off door handles, sideview mirrors, sure why not clip a few to give them a story to tell about this ten-millionth traffic jam of their OC condo lives? Abe still gets a bit buzzed putting the antique skills to work, firing by all the cars; he’s just short of his first anniversary on the job. He cools it, drives closer to the center divider, still just manages to squeeze the gap left by some Cadillac monster, fiberglass body a replica of the 1992 cow, “Sure buddy, I’m the one in a car, here, a big fucking truck in fact and I’ll shave your whole plastic side off if you don’t get over.”