A Typical "Cory Friday"

A Typical

This year, I've been lucky enough to be the beneficiary of anywhere between one and six Mets tickets, for a total of six games. It's called the "Mets Six Pack", and it's awesome, especially when your family puts down the money for them.

Due to scheduling conflicts with the rest of the Arthus family on Friday night, I had all six tickets to the Mets vs. Astros game at Shea. I managed to fill five of the spots, and as usual, was counting down the minutes until Friday at 3:30, when I'd sprint out of the office and head down to pick up Cara and then speed (if the traffic let me) to Shea.

The "Cory Luck" kicked in almost immediately. The skies opened up almost as soon as I left work. Pouring rain pounded the roof of my car, producing the only percussion sound my '95 Jeep Wrangler has produced since April 5, when someone was nice enough to invade my privacy and commit larceny in the fifth.

It took me two hours to get to Cara's house, usually a one-hour drive from my office. I hustled her into the car and we were off on the second part of the trip, from New Rochelle to Flushing, Queens. This trip, without traffic, should take no more than twenty minutes.

We got on the highway and immediately hit a brick wall of impatient drivers in impatient cars. Horns were honking, people were screaming at each other, and tires were not spinning. The traffic was at a standstill. Half an hour later, we finally got to our exit, just to notice that it had been closed by the Department of Transportation. The entire time, it was still pouring rain. Roads were closing, felled trees and power lines were rendering roads impassable, and puddles, some several feet deep, forced engines to seize.

So, there we were. Some 25,000 New Englanders and New Yorkers, going nowhere fast. The woman behind me was screaming at her windshield, the kind of screaming we've all done once or twice, where we're left with nothing but a ripping headache. She was on and off her phone again and again, punching her steering wheel, revving the engine of her unidentified SUV to cover each foot of free road that infrequently opened up behind me. I had honestly never seen someone this angry in traffic, but I suppose that's because when I'm that angry I don't often look in the rearview mirror.

After another forty-five minutes, we decided to give up. Two of the ticket holders had already bailed due to the weather, and Ken hadn't left his house yet. So we crawled in traffic for another twenty minutes, until we finally reached an exit. Of course, I wasn't the only one whose brain was shouting "get me out of here!" The exit ramp was just as backed up as the main road.

The woman behind me was still arguing with her windshield or my car, letting the horn do most of the talking. She tried to skirt around me on the passenger side (of a very narrow exit ramp) and pull up just inches from the car now in front of both of us.

If you know me, I'm not about to give this one up. So I continue jockeying for position, because I still had a two- or three-inch advantage (that's right, ladies). She tries to make one last maneuver, and, YES! She tags the car in front of us! Of all the redemptions I've had this year (I count, um, two), this was the greatest. I did, however, feel bad for the girlie girl she crunched, but the damage was minimal, if any - just enough for the girl, now four cars behind me, to learn her lesson.

Ten minutes later, once I was off the exit ramp, the rain stopped and the sun came out. I bought a new t-shirt and sandals at American Eagle to make me feel better.

Maybe there is a god. And maybe it does hate me.