On Tuesday, my dad called to let me know that his car's engine "blew up" and he had a close call with oncoming traffic because people drive like maniacs. He's fine, though. The car will be in the shop until the weekend, so this morning I drove him around to get his errands done.

Since my role was to play chauffeur, I brought a book because I expected to spend a lot of time waiting in the car. I'm mostly through Steven Hart's The Last Three Miles: Politics, Murder, and the Construction of America's First Superhighway. It's the story of the Pulaski Skyway, which spans the New Jersey marshes and connects the Holland Tunnel to points west. If you don't know it, surely you've seen it flash by in the opening credits of The Sopranos.

The Skyway is best-known as the most dangerous stretch of road in the state. As Steven writes in a chapter appropriately named "Death Avenue":

Within weeks of its original Thanksgiving Day opening in 1932, the Skyway revealed itself as a new kind of road in more ways than one. It was indeed a time-saving boon to drivers, but it was also a uniquely efficient generator of traffic accidents. (p. 160)

When my dad got into my car this morning, he picked up Steven's book from its resting place between the radio console and gear shift. He read the title aloud and asked which road was America's first superhighway. Before I could respond, his eyes narrowed as he looked at the picture on the cover. "The Pulaski Skyway! That's where my car broke down. I was almost killed up there!"

So I got to hear the whole story. And I shared my own tale of near-death on the Skyway. Everyone who has lived in its shadow has one.

Today's errands took us from Raymond Boulevard in Newark (the mechanic) to the Meadowlands Parkway in Secaucus (my granny's hospice), but, thankfully, Death Avenue wasn't along the route.