That was the headline I wrote — rejected out of hand by my editor — for a New York Newsday story about all the years of broken promises and well-meant but aborted plans for once and for all fixing the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, aka “the freakin’ BQE.”
It was a great twist on an old saying, in my mind. But there’s no accounting for an editor’s taste, right?
There was no accounting, either, for the horrible shape that road was in during this commuter’s days in New York City. Tire-ripping, suspension-busting mess, it was. But the BQE was, and surely still is, such a high-traffic area that the city didn’t feel it could shut the thing down long enough for any real repairs. And so worse came to worst on many occasions, automobiles losing wheels and drivers losing control.
Bang!
Though there was a good scare with a nasty blowout early one morning on the way to LaGuardia Airport, I had the good fortune never to be involved in any collisions during my daily drives to and from Newsday, which sat in Melville, N.Y., about halfway out onto Long Island. We lived in Brooklyn.
That doesn’t mean I didn’t see more than my share of wrecks.
First thought: Boy, I hope they’re OK.
Second thought: Idiots! I’ll kill them myself if they survived. We’ll be stuck here all night …
And so there I’d be. Hot summer night, 4 a.m. Only a single exit from Flatbush Avenue (no prize itself, I should mention), five minutes from home. Sitting on the hood of my Mazda 323, feeling every sway and bounce of the ancient roadway beneath the fleet of cars now parked on an elevated section of the BQE. Was the hot wind moving the road all by itself? Geez.
True story: There were a few attempts made to fix the absolute worst stretches of highway. And forget blowouts … one of these projects nearly got me and a whole lot of construction workers killed.
It was late at night, of course, since my shift on the copy desk at Newsday ended at 2 a.m. The Mazda was cruising down the Long Island Expressway, making good time for a change as I approached the exit ramp for the BQE. I put on my right blinker and moved into the left one of two exit lanes. Coming over a blind hill, I spotted a traffic cone at the last second and — %&%$#@&%!, or very, very bad words to that effect — swerved right as an orange helmet popped from the hole.
As I sped past, the enormity of what had nearly happened became scarily apparent. The hole was 5 feet deep, the width of a lane, and maybe 30 yards long. Oh, and there were a dozen or so guys with shovels in there.
Protected by a single cone.
Over a blind hill.
With no road construction signs.
We didn’t get any tips the next day about a dozen dead guys in a ditch on the BQE, so I’m guessing they, um, set up a few cones a bit farther up the road once I’d passed.
My heart somehow survived as well. But my soul was scarred. When I finally had made that commute safely for the last time, I got out of the car and kissed the ground …
Blowing out a lip on a pothole.
Tags: BQE, Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, commuter blog, Newsday
