merging

 He had a friend Phil. They had been driving to the King of Prussia Mall during college. As the turnpike exit approached, he saw a slew of cars put on their right turn signal, merging into the right for the expected turn off. Anticipating this, Phil sped up instead of slowing down. Phil drives to the very last point he could turn off, crossing over the stripes demarcating the prohibition while merging in between the cars that had waited their turn. Phil ignores the glares, something he himself seems to bear the weight of. 

 

You do this often?

 

Fuck it man. Not waiting in line. Suckers. 

 

It is implied if he pushed it, a response along the lines of “they could do it too”. He gets a feeling akin to “it’s immoral not to take a fool’s money” vibe. 

 

Phil is Wharton. He figures this is what makes Phil as successful as he is, a Huntsman scholar, the crème de la crème chosen to pursue a degree in the business school and a degree from the College of Arts and Sciences. 

 

Yeah, I wanted to study history out of prep school, but yeah, you know, finance has more an allure. 

 

This was Phil’s answer to how he ended up interviewing for hedge funds his junior summer.

 

He himself felt guilt by skipping the line. But he read the Atlantic article where mathematicians proved it was more logical to do so, with the empty spacing of pre-lining up was less efficient. During residency, there was a merger from I-80 to I-270. He only noticed in his later years of his program how bad the traffic was. The beginning years comprised of schedules where he drove at 5AM and left the hospital at 8PM, thus rendering any traffic sparse. 

 

The highway had three lanes. Like most highways, there exists a segment of the population that believe they deserve to drive on the fast lane by going 5 over the speed limit. He wishes each car could post a number above their car, the fastest they’re willing to travel. Perhaps, this would alert people to move over to people like him, who’s number would be 85-90. But the fast lane is clogged with said previous people, and this lane goes barely faster than the middle. The furthest right lane, supposedly the slowest, would also contain the “zippers”, the ones trying to weave through. What compounds the mess is the large island in between the eastbound and west bound lanes, where cops often camp. More than the threat of being pulled over, is the sudden jarring stopping cars that just saw the cruisers. The drivers slowing down to avoid a ticket, but also without thought to the others speeding recklessly about them. As the exit to 270 approaches on the right, people would begin to line up, 1000 of yards before. The key is to zip along on the fast lane until the very end and merging. His sense of decency would prevent him from this, but the thought of being late to work pushed him beyond any sort of social contract. 

 

A secretary in the outpatient office once told him a tip.

 

You know the secret, right?

 

Take the exit before…

 

Ok? 

 

Well, it before it exits, there’s another exit back onto the highway. 

 

He smirks. This does save time, but usually maybe five minutes. You still end up behind the large merging lane. He almost relishes the understanding the only way to save the 10-15 minutes is to be a dick. And he’s left with this thought: is it better to accept one’s selfishness or to reach a breaking point in pretending to be good before doing so? The sad thing is, once he started to do it, he never gave another thought to it again.