Traveling I-95 in New Haven and out towards the shoreline is risky business at best. On a hot June Friday in the early morning commuter traffic it is like being a five-foot tall center in a pro basketball game.

Jack is a cautious driver with a practical but perky enough car. He matches flow of traffic so as not to be the boulder in the stream and he stays in the middle lane unless necessary to exit or slip around a snail.

Jack is thirty-eight, in good physical health, has 20/20 vision without artificial optical aides, and doesn't use a cell phone when driving. Hell, he'd be nuts in this twenty-minute dramatic event to lose focus for a tenth of a instant.

But today, in that rare crossing of paths of particular planets in a certain sequential pattern and time, he does.