Time Out of Mind

By Rena Kunis

Our 12-year-old grandson, visiting from California, was enumerating the sights he wished to see in New York. He mentioned the Guinness Museum, and Shea Stadium, and the World Trade Center. As we drove along the Long Island Expressway, slowing to 15 miles per hour at the usual bottleneck, Greg exclaimed excitedly, ''Are those the Elmhurst gas tanks?''

I had had no idea that the fame of those twin symbols of frustration had penetrated the western reaches of our country. Indeed, I would have preferred that their notoriety had never impinged upon my consciousness. But in the long hours I have spent inching toward the Queens Midtown Tunnel every workday morning, I learned to deal with the time-wasting delay.

The car radio presents an obvious means of entertainment when we are stuck on the road. But after hearing the Shadow Traffic report three times, not once explaining that the particular hassle in which we are embroiled is caused by road construction, or an overturned tractor-trailer, or the weather, I have had enough. Alternatively, I purchased tapes of the best symphonies, and enjoyed a private concert each morning until the tape deck was stolen by some other music lover, who probably hocked it for a few dollars.

When someone suggested a more profitable use of the captive time, language tapes, I replaced the deck with a less conspicuous model. I had always promised myself that some day I would learn Spanish. Here was my chance! I found, however, that there was a catch: when I didn't understand when to use ''tu'' and when ''usted'} there was no one to ask.

One warm spring day I accidentally discovered another way to use my incarceration to advantage. The car windows were open, admitting the feeble breeze -- and the carbon monoxide -- and, suddenly, the voice of a fellow sufferer in an adjacent car. ''Hi!'' he greeted me, ''Isn't it great that we can't use our air conditioners because the cars would overheat? Now we can get acquainted.''

In the endless half hour until we reached the moment of decision as to which was the manned lane at the Tunnel, we had become fast friends. Subsequently I made it a practice, until the icy winds of winter forced me to keep the windows closed, to commiserate with new neighbors on the road every morning. This procedure paid off unexpectedly once when a new client arriving at my office recognized me as a companion on the ''longest parking lot in the world.''

In winter I am thrown back on my own resources. Those advertisers who think a billboard on the crowded road will pay off in name recognition for their products should take into account the backlash. Willy-nilly, one's eyes are drawn repeatedly to the advertisements for liquor or cigarettes. After staring for an unconscionable time at an ad for some alcoholic libation, I swear never to allow that product to pass my lips.

To try to avoid looking at the grinning visages of the happy drinkers, I evolved a word game that I can play solo while inching forward every few minutes. When this palls, I plan my next dinner party, work off frustration by singing, at the top of my lungs, some Golden Oldies, or get some exercise by flexing and relaxing the muscles of my arms, legs and neck. Between cigarettes, or, hopefully, instead of them, I munch on the latest packaged fast food, thus canceling any benefit I might have reaped from the exercise.

On the occasion, earlier referred to, when my grandson accompanied me on my daily pilgrimage, I feared some disaster. Suppose he decided, with some justification, that it would be faster to get out and walk? He wasn't likely to appreciate the diversions I had devised. Suppose he had to go to the bathroom? Suppose he insisted on returning immediately to California, where the freeways at least move?

De gustibus non disputandum. To my surprise and relief, his delighted comment was, ''Now I can tell everyone I was in a real New York traffic jam and I even saw the Elmhurst gas tanks!''