I'll be home for Christmas.
Well, I hope.
Last week in this space, I wrote that by the time my column made it to print, I'd be back on Long Island for Thanksgiving. That very nearly was not the case.
To avoid massive traffic, I chose to head home very late Wednesday night, leaving Binghamton around midnight; ETA was 3:30 a.m.
By 1:55, the trip was nothing out of the ordinary. I had made the requisite stop at Sheetz — all savvy travelers heading south know the wonders of this fabulously futuristic gas station chain — and was heading from the Keystone State into New Jersey, searching for radio stations.
I stumbled upon 93.5 FM, a frequency dedicated 24 hours a day to Christmas songs. How pleasant.
For a moment, I was joined on my journey by Bing Crosby and his mellifluous melody, reminding his loved ones that he'd be home for the holidays — if only in his dreams.
Cruising along Interstate 80, perhaps a little more quickly than I should have been, I changed lanes on a tight curve. At this hour — exactly 2 a.m. — the road, both eastbound lanes, was all mine.
Or so I thought.
Suddenly, a pair of bright white lights appeared. They started small, but they were getting bigger. Much bigger. Quickly.
I realized what was happening: on this two-lane stretch of road, connecting Pennsylvania and New Jersey, there was someone coming towards me — heading the wrong direction.
Of course, I freaked out. Screaming “Oh my God!,” I swerved back into the right lane, from which I had just switched.
The car — I think it was white, but who knows and who cares — blew by me on the left, heading from the four-lane interstate in Jersey to a dark, windier, two-lane hellride through the mountains.
Hyperventilating, I pulled off to a weigh station about a quarter-mile later and called 911, only to be reassured that they “already knew about the problem.”
Really? That's nice. Could you maybe send me a text message or something next time? An e-mail, perhaps?
(The scariest part is, I have no idea what happened to this rogue car after he/she passed by me. One could see how the car made it that far, with 80 East being four lanes through most of Jersey, but the ensuing two-lane stretch that connects that spot to the Delaware Water Gap is much more treacherous.)
Having calmed down just a tiny bit, I made two more late-night calls: one to my parents, and one to the girl of my dreams.
Because it's experiences like this that make you realize that every step you take, and every mile you drive, could be your last. For dozens of people every day around the country, morons (you can imagine what word I'd rather use, but this is a family newspaper) like that guy/girl take someone else's life into their hands.
And so I know this sounds cheesy, but it's so important to live every single day like it's your last.
Do yourself a favor. Put this paper down and tell your spouse, kids, girlfriend, best friend, whoever, that you love them. (Then, of course, pick it back up and check out the classifieds — call 231-SOLD!)
I'm just 22, and I was maybe 50 feet, and/or one drunken swerve, from being roadkill.
Instead, it turns out, someone upstairs likes me — and I'll be home for Christmas.
I hope.
Strub is a senior at Binghamton University and a part-time copy editor at the Press & Sun-Bulletin. His column appears Thursdays.
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