Rush Hour: A Biggest Curse

The Big City

Part 19 of 28

I never once in my life thought I’d plan my day based on rush hour. But I never lived anywhere else crazy enough to go crazy every morning and afternoon like clockwork. Which is the way of life in the Big City, and no one’s thought of a way to fix it.

Maybe no one else sees it as a problem. Which is a legitimate solution to the problem if there isn't a problem, just deny it. I had a friend who had lots of girlfriends and some of them weren’t good for his health. And he didn't see it as a problem. He kept denying that the constant itching of his junk was indicative of something requiring at least a doctor look-see. And then once it began creeping north of the belt-line, it was too late. Sexual fungus finally ate his head off and made a mess of his torso; it's tragic to say, what remained was suddenly of little value. The good times were but a memory, and he died somewhere in the vicinity of his head being eaten and his torso becoming a mess.

But back to rush hour. Even the word we use for it tells the trouble. We’ve legitimized it: “That’s just the way it is,” with city planners sitting helplessly on their ass, throwing up their hands and saying, “Don’t look at us!” Or they speak some foreign lingo, pretending that it’s impossible to be engaged on the subject, when obviously they’re guilty as sin. I’d love to get every one of these scoundrels on the carpet and dress them down with indignation: “You did this, and you are hereby banished to some unpopulated wilderness where there’s two intersecting roads, and the only thing besides an occasional stagecoach are the skulls of those who've fallen by the wayside." That place could use a little more traffic, just nothing like what we’re dealing with now.

The honest to God truth is -- take those guys of the old west -- they’re a lot like the city planners we have today. Completely irresponsible. Have you ever tried to talk to one of them? Whatever problem there is was done by XYZ, someone on the scene 10 to 50 years before they showed up. Or it was in a neighborhood that they claim that they've never heard of. Or, or, or, you name the excuse. They’re certainly creative enough to escape responsibility, you’d think their so-called city planning "skills" would allow for a little more thought! (That's gotta hurt!)

I know it’s too late to go back now and do it right. You’ve have to tear down everything and start from scratch, which at this point would only make traffic jams worse than what we face now, if that’s possible. But if we could redo it, we’d have some decent roads with 50 nicely-paved lanes and the ones we know now would barely be used. We’d just leave them rough like cow-paths, as a sad reminder of having done it all wrong.

The Road Commandant

I don't live in the most congested area of the country, but it's still pretty damned congested. They've either lowered the driving age to 10 or issued a second car to everyone, because traffic is crazy, terribly bad! I can only imagine how it must be in the worst places -- it takes three hours to get out of your driveway.

And nobody seems to be doing anything about it, such as tearing out houses and businesses and widening roads, at least not enough to make a difference. I frankly think our city parks would make pretty good holding stations for cars waiting to get on the road, if they'd pave them and put in some roundabouts for easy entrance and departure.

Until then, it looks like we're just going to have to make do. There would, however, be another way to handle things. Such as only allowing driving for everyone every other day, going by your last name. A through H one day, I through Z the next. There's not that many X Y Z names, so it's not exactly split in half. Or assign us all a rank and let the higher ranks have some privileges.

I feel I'm mature enough (61) and healthy enough that I'd make a very decent civilian commandant. That'd be a simple system for the roads, a commandant/peon social system. With higher/lower commandants and higher/lower peons. Keeping it simple. The peons would all have gray cars, the commandants gold, with red stripes showing their ranks.

So traffic stops at an intersection, the commandants go first, then the peons. If there's varying ranks of commandants or peons present, they respect the stripes. That's simple. If there's more than one commandant of the same rank, the first one to salute the other goes first. If both salute at the same time, they keep saluting till one's salute appears superior. The peons hash it out between themselves as well, as best they can, having the incentive to hash it out quickly lest another commandant appears.

I think that's pretty good. And it would work in other areas of life. I honestly can't think of any areas it wouldn't work in, except, probably, in peon adoption cases. As a commandant, I'd be open to adopting another commandant child -- like in a case where a commandant was killed in a crash by a peon. The peons would want probably get up in arms if too many commandants tried to adopt their children. But we could always do it at night or in secret.

It'd definitely be a plus in pet adoptions. Still, you can see there might be problems. Say you've just about chosen your pet when a peon family -- more prone to snap decisions -- takes it out from under your nose. But let's say we have a common sense commandant/peon system in place. The peons are making snap decisions, yet they're held up by too many peons doing it. A commandant enters and all snap decisions are officially put on hold. The commandants can now browse in comfort and silence and make their decisions in peace.

A certain amount of cruelty would be allowed, although a commandant could be merciful if he so chose -- tough to imagine but theoretically possible. I can picture a case like this. A peon family has just lost a pet, and the pet place has one close enough to it to be a DNA match. The peons are just about to make their snap decision when the commandant enters. The commandant chooses that very pet. The peons are left crying. He could show mercy, although you can see the clear downside. Why give them false hope, since that's just going back to the old failed system? There's more than one dog ... Wait your turn!

Lest you think it sounds kind of Gestapo, let this word go forth, to friend and foe: I don't mind Gestapo, just so I get mine.

Dilly-Dolly Dick-Around

It's a sign of the times, dilly-dally dicking-around. I can't remember exactly when it started in a major way. I had a friend in the '70s who dilly-dally dicked-around somewhat; if he said he'd be there at 3:00 p.m., he'd certainly arrive by 4. But things have gotten so much worse now, probably having to do with people's busyness in general. We have so many labor-saving devices, computers, etc., but it means we take on so much more, then we compensate by dilly-dally dickin'-around.

In addition to people being behind on their schedule, I see a lot of dilly-dally dickin'-around at stoplights. You're in a line of traffic 15 cars long. The light changes green at the front, but the front guy's never ready. He's checking messages, writing an email, taking a nap -- who know what? The second guy's not much better. Then the third. So we have to get the third guy's attention, who gets the second guy's, then he's able to finally rouse the first guy. Now the light's red again. Too much dilly-dally dickin'-around!

OK, the whole concept's infected society -- it's everywhere! -- so it was just a matter of time before some big-time entrepreneur, with his finger on the slow pulse of a plodding society, would capitalize on it in various ways, one big way being for kids, with the Dilly-Dolly Dick-Around doll. A baby for the times! Dilly-Dolly Dick-Around perfectly embodies today's spirit, never quick to start and only arriving when she does.

You can raise her from her bed, put her down, raise her, put her down, and she does nothing. But set her in the corner for a couple minutes, and finally sweet Dilly-Dolly Dick-Around says, "Ma-ma, Ma-ma!" How joyous, she called out "Mama!" Better late than never.

Our Little Mommy has planned a fun tea party with Dilly-Dolly Dick-Around, lifting Dilly-Dolly's tiny cup to her little lips, pretending they're really doing something great together, being refreshed. A few minutes later you hear the sipping noise, she lets out a breath of satisfaction, and gladly announces, "That was a fun tea party!" The table's already cleared.

Too much tea, of course, means a coming bathroom trip. Dilly-Dolly Dick-Around is prepared for this one, fitted with a washable bladder and three little sets of undies. Little Mommy comes over, "You have to pee-pee?" Dilly-Dolly doesn't say anything and seems very content in silence. Until several minutes later when she announces, "Have to pee," when it's discovered she's already wet.

This teaches Little Mommy patience, and probably more to the point, Little Daddy, whoever he may be. We see him when he's around, which isn't very often. It was probably Little Daddy's errant ways that gave Dilly-Dolly Dick-Around her biggest personality defect, putting things off like this, and other signs of irresponsibility. Little Daddy dicked around too, not even acknowledging Dilly-Dolly the whole first year.

Little Mommy says, "Dilly-Dolly Dick-Around, you need to tell Mommy when you need to pee before it happens, so I can set you on the potty, OK?" Mommy's supported by Little Daddy, looking stern and just itching to take his belt off. But little Dilly-Dolly speaks not a word, simply staring blankly into the distance, a number of clouds taking their time to pass casually overhead.

Mommy and Daddy go in to watch something -- they're binge-watching parenting shows. From the quiet of Dilly-Dolly's crib comes her soft answer, barely audible over the baby monitor, "OK, I have to pee." That was a long time ago! You've already been wet and changed! Or is she referring to a brand new pee, something she'll do a half hour from now? Too much damned dilly-dally dickin'-around!

Time passes, and Dilly-Dolly's now pretend-grown-up. Little Mommy and Daddy try to kick her out of the house. She promises to leave voluntarily, "Just let me go to my room and pack a few things." But all this happened two years ago and she's still there.

Iowa -- Land of Roadwork

Traveling in Iowa recently, I couldn't help noticing there's a tad bit of roadwork going on. I'd like to give a thorough description of it, but it's quicker to list the places where there isn't any. I saw a one-mile stretch, I think around Osceola.

The state colors being orange and white, you definitely see their pride in the many barrels, pylons, and fences. This is also true when you consider the state bird, the robin, actually only the robin's breast. Then there's the annual Orange and White Bowl. And the state fruit, wax oranges and marshmallows. Just driving a couple days, my poor eyes had serious orange burn. I've been living in the cellar with the lights off, trying to reset them.

You can't help thinking Iowa is a great client for the various roadwork supply companies. So I did some research on the subject. And that's really an understatement. Iowa is such a great client they're able to make a nuisance of themselves. It's like anything else. When you get too big, you have a lot of sway, so they're able to throw their weight around, and even break out the brass knuckles and break a few kneecaps. Anything they want...

OK, here's the lowdown. There's an industrial orange barrel company, called just that, the Industrial Orange Barrel Company. "For roadwork safety, we go the extra mile" is on their advertising. But their official motto is "Our competition sucks, sucks bad."

IOBC's had a huge portion of the Iowa contract. But like I was saying, Iowa's been breaking out the brass knuckles, clamoring for a better deal.

So the boss had to send a sales rep over, right to the heart of the Iowa government to talk it over. Only no one really wanted to go. The government had them over a barrel, so to speak. So it would be a thankless task, fraught with peril for anyone's career.

The boss told the secretary to get a particular guy on the horn, their best man, Kellerman. Who had the brains and experience to call in sick that day. "Well then get me Adams!" But Adams was sick, too. "How about Bardot?" Same story, sick. The boss ran down the list of sales reps in order of their worth: Lawhead, Rackley, Mahlor, Hargrave, Taylor, Kirby, Beveridge, Zalumas, Edwards, Vann, Smith, Maddox, Stewart, Robison, Gordy, Craig, Harden, Bass, French, Truitt, Barber, Watt, Jerger, Stribling, Herman, Grantham, Russell, McGiohon, Anderson, Aiken, Reese, Head, Vanderbilt, Hazelton, Feinberg, Myers, Tittle, Cheshire, and, lastly, Mays.* All sick.

There was literally no one left, no one at all, zero, zilch, nada, not one living soul remaining, except ... No! not the new guy! ... yep, him ... Jason Klutz. But when you have no one else, what can you do? The boss said, "Klutz, I'm sending you, against my better judgment. Do not screw this up."

Klutz being new, and Iowa being perilous to anyone, it was bound to be a disaster. And Klutz had other issues. He didn't see himself as wet behind the ears; he had all the confidence in the world. So when he got to Iowa, he was unyielding, hardnosed, and stupid. I should explain, he'd just moved to Indiana, IOBC's headquarters, from Texas.

Klutz gets to Iowa, who wanted a nickel off each barrel, pylon, and mile of orange fencing. Doesn't sound like much, but that might've been a million bucks right there. I think I would've jumped at it, even if just to minimize the agony of dealing with them at all, but Klutz held out with iron determination, finally giving Iowa his final offer: IOBC would go down a penny. No more, no less. Take it or leave it!

Just reading the boss' mind, as I'm able to do, without ever having met him, he would have jumped at a nickel. He probably should've given Klutz guidance, but he figured they might want a dime off, but could reasonably be talked down to a nickel. Klutz could handle that, right?

But Klutz had that recent connection to Texas, which naturally spells disaster, and he figured maybe he'd be in line for a big bonus if he held Iowa's demands low. Plus, the annual Go-Getter award was about to be given -- as you probably know -- and every greenhorn covets it.

Well, it's sad what happened. Sad, unless you happen to work for IOBC's biggest competition, Orange Barrels, Pylons, and Fencing, Unltd. Who, being unlimited, cut the price not just a nickel, but six cents, and threw in some premiums that the Iowa government craves: steak dinners and trips out of state.

So that's it: Klutz was totally out, IOBC lost the Iowa contract completely, and the roadwork has kept pace and even intensified, thanks in large part to OBPFU. With the savings, Iowa is now working on roads they didn't even know they had.

--------------------

*When I was in Iowa, it was raining cats and dogs. I and about 300 other people took shelter at a reststop. I spent part of the time there writing the rough draft of this post. The non-Iowans in the group were laughing, most of them having struck an orange barrel at least once that day. I solicited the names of a number of people. The list of (fictional) sales reps are them, their last names in the order of getting them. I thought it was especially interesting that we had a Barber and a Head in the group. "Barber, meet Head ... Head, Barber."

The Traffic Light Lord

It recently came to my attention, thanks to a newspaper article, that in my town there are cameras at the traffic lights, with guys watching them at headquarters. They said they've seen some really wild stuff going on. So now all I can think of at intersections is this. Of course I'm making sure I'm driving right. But also that every hair's in place, and I turn so they'll get my good side.

I'd like to see the operation, if they had an open house. Are they good cameras, or are they like what robbed convenience stores always have, black and white, very grainy, and impossible to detect individual differences in human forms? They might be very precise, very clear, able to read license plates, and see if a guy is turning his good side.

If I could do this job, it'd be fun. With the remote control, I'd make the red lights come on for Hummers and other gas guzzlers, and folks who looked ostentatious or simply annoying. Like cars with crazy big hubcaps, cars playing loud music, etc. But for the poor and humble, for the average guy, it'd be green lights all the way. Or if I saw the Birdseye guy in the old truck, from the commercial, taking veggies to market, he'd get the green light, too.

Bedman's Downfall

We're getting too many dancing people dressed in pizzas! They're clogging up the side of the road! It's too much! It's making me hate pizza!

What happened to the good old days, when the merchants simply waited for us to show up or had faith? They don't leave anything to chance now, taking every opportunity to stick it in our face, as though we didn't know they were there.

Probably the worst one has to be the income tax preparers. Seriously, income tax preparers dancing on the side of the road. Dressed like the Statue of Liberty, cheapening one of our best loved statues. I don't really see the point. You might stop in for a pizza on impulse, but I never just happen to be carrying tax papers and receipts.

The whole thing reminds me of the only guy I ever knew personally who was a road dancer. He's Kevin something, but to protect his anonymity I'll just call him Bedman, since that's the job he had most recently.

Kevin/Bedman actually did start as a dancing pizza, but he was just a big single slice. He told me all about it. He was full of complaints. He had what you'd call a sadistic boss, one of those guys who liked to grind it in his employees' face that he's the boss and they're the underlings. He'd be out there dancing quite a bit without a peep from his boss. But if he slacked off, Boss would call on the phone and criticize him. He was looking out his office window (a one-way mirror), so you couldn't tell when he was watching. He'd call to complain, that Kevin was "too lazy," or if he was dancing wildly, he was "too manic." "I'm paying you! I don't want to lose my reputation!" That kind of crap. In the end, he got fired.

Other jobs he had around town: He was a dancing cookie, a dancing pulled pork sandwich, a dancing oil filter, and the dancing dollar sign outside a payday check-cashing place. He didn't get fired from those jobs, but he was in demand because he could stand the changes in weather, the long hours, etc.

The last job I know about along these lines was when he became Bedman, obviously for a bed store. Bed World, Bed Universe, something like that. He was inside a big mattress, of course carved out so he'd fit in it. He was perfect, because they needed someone with strength. It's not a job for a small or even medium-sized woman, certainly. It'd take a man, or a very husky gal, and he was perfect.
 
Among the skills needed, other than carrying that much girth, is watching the wind. If southerly, you have to put the edge of the bed into it. Then be able to adapt to any shifts, along with the man-made gusts coming from traffic. Then somehow keep up a dance good enough to provoke people to come in and buy a bed. That's a lot to ask. Especially with the wind, because you've got the enormous broad surface. You have to have the skills of a cruise boat captain, or someone more competent, to keep it righted.

But what if the wind gets super tricky? A southerly breeze that shifts to the east just like that! Or that whips from the east instantly to the west, if that's possible. Or does a quadruple whammy and goes through the four directions and all the angled combinations in random order. Something like that must have happened because he definitely got flipped into the road one day.

To hear him tell it, it was terrifying. How he struggled to keep up with the wind before he fell or was pushed into the road face down. That'd be very terrifying, hearing the traffic honking, trying their best to avoid hitting him, because no one wants to mess up their car. I'm just trying to picture it. Bedman's out there struggling, flopping around. And nothing's any good. But what can he do except keep up the fight? Then somehow, thanks to the strength in his legs, he got the damned thing flipped over, which was half the battle.

Now he could at least push his head up, like a turtle, so people could see it wasn't just big debris on the road but an actual person craning his neck out to get their attention. He's doing everything he can to get to his feet, he said, when a semi truck going by helped him with a big gust of wind, pushing him back, and toppling him, on the curb. It still wasn't all the way, but far enough to keep from getting killed.

Then, getting his breath, he was able more easily to push himself with his legs all the way on to the parking strip. He said he looked up at the sky and thanked God. Then he heard the honking of geese and saw them fly by, heading south, and reflected on the miracle of life, which is a happy ending.

Kevin had a better boss at the bed store, who when he finally came out was understanding. Of course he didn't lose his job, but in fact was given an extra 5 minutes (on top of his normal 15 minute break) before waddling back out to finish his shift.