To The Guy Holding The Stop Sign For The Road Construction Crew
I'm going as slow as I can, Brian.
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.)
But no.
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/smoke from a Canadian forest fire. 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? Am I in an episode of CHiPs? 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 so you can twirl your stick with a flourish worthy of RuPaul to the side that says SLOW so I can maybe get to work in this lifetime?
What’s the magic number of cars? 20? Is it 20, Brian?
Because that’s how many cars are ahead of me right now while I visibly age, trapped in my vehicle vaping exhaust fumes through the air ducts.
And another thing, since I’ve got nothing better to do while I sit here having a brain embolism — who set out the cones? A drunken toddler? A coked up spider monkey? Sure, let me just drive into the storm ditch to avoid your precious cones. That’s fine. IT’S JUST MY TAX DOLLARS PAYING YOUR SALARY, BRIAN.
Technically, those are my cones since I paid for them.
But what would I do with a cone? Put it in my driveway to prevent all human contact? Sounds enticing, but the Amazon guy has to get through — I need those shower curtain hooks shaped like octopuses.
Oh, you gave me a little wave as I passed. Now I feel bad. Have a nice day, Brian. I won’t see you tomorrow because I’m going to drive 20 miles out of my way to avoid this section of road.
I hope there isn’t any construction.
I've been purposefully driving by the same construction site for two weeks now because one of the guys is buff and wears his reflective t-shirt hiked up so he can tan his belly. Unlike the rest of the burly crew, he's attractive. This passes for high entertainment in a retirement community.
"Oh, you gave me a little wave as I passed. Now I feel bad. " - Me everytime I rage in my car at construction works and their orange cones. I politely smile and wave back as if I wasn't cursing them and their mother out just a second ago.