Back in my Lane: The fork in the road

It’s time for me to put this whole thing — the “Back in my Day” and “The Carpool Lane” shenanigans — to rest. Even in writing this, I have made peace with moving on from the publication which has given me a home for the last three years. 

Every night after the newspaper gets sent off to the printer, I sling on my backpack and trudge over to the elevator in the Student Union building. Usually tired and somewhat irritable, I hop, skip and jump to my car, Bess. 

It’s a scenario that I commit to night after night, a sort of decorum that I have talked about in this column up until I start my car. Even after Bess starts humming, as I look at the light pollution skewing the brightness of the night sky, that procedure remains at play. 

The drive, one that I could do easily without my glasses and wrap up in half the time that my GPS recommends to me, recently turned into more of a weird spiritual journey. Despite always being sobered by the reality of the dreaded 8 a.m. the next day, I always manage to tear up passing a specific piece on the road, often to the point where I need to pull over and just bawl my eyes out.

Yet, interestingly enough, that spot is not the hospital I was born at, nor is it my high school or that one music school where I kept getting my ass whooped by other piano students. Instead, it’s much simpler. 

When I enter the freeway on ramp near Vermont Avenue, I come to a cruising speed at around 60 or 70 mph. As I blitz my way past Normandie, Western and Arlington before reconnecting with the 10, there sits a chunk of plastic, concrete and metal that separates the shoulder lanes from the actual freeway. 

Night after night, the yellow and black stripes that adorn its metal face stare me down, illuminated only by Bess’ lights. It glares at me, and I glare back, knowing that it may be the only escape from the often hellish day-to-day schedule that slowly tears my sanity away. 

At 1 a.m., I may just be the only car on the road — a feeling of isolation comparable to when I roll out of bed and back into it when I simply cannot face the new day. It’s feeling of loneliness and solitude that consumes and ever so gently nudges me to simply let the wheel slip from my hands. Here, I’m presented with an alternative option at this fork in the road, one that does not choose either path but rather one that goes between them — now at 70 mph. 

But it’s a sudden and incredibly sharp reel of thoughts that awakens me and sends shocks through my arms, into my hands and pulls the wheel one way or another. 

In that reel are images of my close family and friends, moments of accomplishment — such as passing my first chemistry exam and driving to school for the first time — and the Daily Trojan newsroom.

I spend an unholy amount of time there, something I’ve been trying to work on lately. Regardless, having equal amounts of time in a workplace and at home should mean you enjoy the gig, right? Well, it’s a bit complicated — like most of my relationships are. 

But, as many fellow columnists and editors wrap up their time at DT, a few messages ring true. I am honored and privileged to have my rants, trauma dumps and smartassery run under the facade of a column in this paper —the home  of much more important and relevant pieces of journalism for over a century. There are many things that I wish I had done differently, more considerately. I apologize to those who I’ve wronged in my time here and express an incredible amount of gratitude to those who contribute to the spark that keeps me around after the nighttime commute. 

I have found a great deal of joy in rummaging through different layout options, editing and fact-checking articles and just spending time with friends who value what this publication stands for. I can only ask of myself to be better as I move into my final semester at USC and continue to fight every night — or probably just switch freeway onramps, to be honest.

I hope whoever’s words take up the space I once had in the newspaper makes a definitive change in the community, regardless of the size. Who knows, maybe another gero kid will pick up where I left off. I just hope they have their previous romantic relationships in better order.

When I become older and reminisce as I am doing now, I’ll be able to say that, “Back in my day, I was a part of something bigger than myself” and then rant about how easy kids have it compared to my 1 a.m. drives on the freeway.

So, as I sign off one last time, I intend on fighting the good fight that is my wacky evening commute. Remember to cherish every inch of happiness that comes your way. Always drive safe, besties.  

Lois Angelo is a junior writing about the timeless lessons learned from older adults in his column “Back in My Day.” He also wrote about the perks, downsides and necessities of the commuter lifestyle in his column, “The Carpool Lane.” He was the managing editor at the Daily Trojan.