To The Guy Holding The Stop Sign For The Road Construction Crew
Nothing ruins my commute like a sign saying LANE CLOSED AHEAD. If they could warn you, say, five miles ahead before you get to that point instead of 50 yards, when there’s nowhere to turn and you’re trapped like a cow in a chute at a slaughterhouse. (Wow, that turned dark.)
I know it’s not exactly your dream job to be holding a stop sign on a stick for eight hours a day in the rain/hot sun/freezing cold. But it’s not exactly my dream to creep past you at one mile per hour while your eyes bore holes into me, you know what I’m saying?
Do they send you to school to learn that patting motion that means “slow down”? Because, if so, you were a star pupil. You’re using your entire arm and actually bending at the waist to tell me to slow down as I squeeze my SUV through half a lane to get past. Your breath is fogging up the outside of my window. I can read the laundry tag on your shirt. In some states, we are now legally married.
I’m going as slow as I can, Brian. If I went any slower, I’d be in reverse.
Yes, I know there are steel plates strewn across the road, mostly because there’s a giant sign that says STEEL PLATES IN ROADWAY. That was my first clue. And also the fact that I have eyes. I can see the steel plates, and let me tell you, I hate them.
What are they, six inches thick? If I go over them at more than idling speed I’m going to blow a tire. Maybe in the next James Bond movie, his car can spit out steel plates to slow down his pursuers. Even evil henchmen care about their rims.
And the walkie-talkies. What is this, 1973? Can you talk about more than traffic when you’re on them? Maybe exchange recipes with the other Stop Sign on a Stick Guy at the other end of this slalom of horror?
And while I’m at it, how do you decide when enough cars have backed up to twirl your stick with a flourish worthy of RuPaul to SLOW so I can maybe get to work in this lifetime?
What’s the magic number of cars? 20? Is it 20, Brian?