Excerpt #1

But to commute via I-55 or the Kennedy or to head into the City on a weekday morning at rush hour, seemed like one of the most foolish, wasteful activities you could ever attempt. Accidents created huge gaper’s delays as drivers gaucked at the misfortunes of the slow footed cell phone business people that made a daily habit of talking a bit too much, and watching a bit too little. One car would careen into another, sending the lead car flying forward like a sling shot, only to squeal on their breaks a second time to pull to the side of the road and assess the damage. Taillights broken, trunks crushed in, spewing forth all of the condiments assembled in the Chicagoans trunk—windshield wiper fluid, scrapers, Morton rock salt, blankets, Cubs hats, Bears hand-waving thingys, last week’s Tribune covering the latest Daley scandal, the current Reader listing the current Malkovich performances at Steppenwolf, and some other large, unwieldy lawn care device—some of these things always scattered themselves behind the wreck and attracted even more gazes from the passing cars. The gaper’s delay is not a phenomenon distinct to Chicago, sure, but the City that Works has turned it into a full holiday from driving the speed limit. Radio, TV, and the Weather bug keep everyone informed of the lastest traffic delay, and even though an IPass user can drive through any lane in the toll plaza and use their nifty RFID box, most stay to the inside lane just to ensure a delay. Why start the habit of moving fast on the way to work?