The Freeways Are Terrible

 

The Big City

Part 13 of 28

During my time in the Big City and all the traveling I have to do, I’ve gone from the greenest blushing newbie to something of a critic, and since then to fancying myself a city planner. I could show 'em how to do it! That’s sounds like a lot of boasting, but expertise works like that; the expertise bug hits this guy, this guy, and sometimes even me. Really, though, how hard would it have been to install some decent way of killing road-hogs?

There actually are a lot of good ideas from those of us with the city planning gene, with the biggest drawback being there’s a lot of stuff set firmly in place, and that looks like how it’s going to remain for decades; they say we just can’t change. Now, I have nothing against my fellow city planners from 100 years ago, 50 years ago, 25 years ago, or even those from the last few years. Yes, they failed miserably, but they gave it their all, and now thanks to their great failure we’re that much more behind the eight ball and in the ditch.

Do I take responsibility for any of this? I actually don't, and if you find someone who takes responsibility, those are the ones you should never listen to. The rest of us can dissect the situation, carefully making the incision, gently anesthetizing the patient and opening the various folds of fat around the carcass, looking for problems wherever they're found. And later, we'll sew it all back up and either throw our hands up in desperation, cashing in our chips because nothing can be done or working our healing magic, making things right that have been askew for decades.

The only responsibility I take is to admit the fact that had I been there, these various traffic jams on the freeway would’ve never happened. I would’ve recommended a wider road where bottlenecks are constant. Or a narrower road where hardly anyone goes. There's a mall or two where hoodlums hang out; I'd close those ramps entirely. If you can't keep your nose clean, we don't want to deal with you. The fact is, I can see the whole situation, not just half of it like so many of our uninformed city planners. I know what they say, with the gift of hindsight everyone’s a critic. But I'd just brush that off and take it a step further, fining the families of city planners from the past, or at the very least herding them together and banishing them from town, if there's an open lane for their deportation.

A lot of the freeway problems we have -- more cars 'round the clock than there’s room to keep them -- were put in place by functionaries at the highest level, the Feds. And the best you can say about them is “Cookie cutter!” They found a pattern that worked in one place, where basically five cars was a busy day, and foisted it off in various places around cities destined to have 10 times that. So now we’re bogged down in endless traffic jams, stacked like dominoes, just waiting to be tipped over and destroyed. I'm not sure what the penalty should be for them, although continuing to live in polite society is not among the options. So take your pick, banishment or death, whichever is most economical.

The Interstate Paving Foreman

The job of foreman on any road project is a tough one. Because roadwork only progresses at a snail's pace, he not only manages the workers' day to day tasks, he also must inspire them over the years. After all, any job where they both sign you up for Social Security on your first day and start collecting for your eventual Gold Watch comes with many ups and downs.

In my travels, I've passed many interstate construction sites, and have always felt something of the wistfulness of making friends along the way, then seeing them grow old and gray and retire. They get the job as young, fresh-faced boys. But it doesn't take long and many years have passed. After a while, I'm just giving them a feeble thumbs up and brave face, because they're so much older and, for a few, in failing health.

It's a great thing that they get the best men they can to fill the all-important foreman role. These guys have to wear many hats, not just the standard hardhat. They're like fathers to the men, guiding them every excruciating inch of the way.

Let's say you have a lonely stretch of interstate undergoing roadwork, maybe seven miles. That becomes a community, with its own zip code and culture. There are, however, differences. Since they're working on a road, they can't allow the trees to grow to their full height, meaning they have little shade. So about half the men go blind from the sun, and there's all sorts of other difficulties affecting morale.

The first few years pass, and the foreman sees a need to gather the men for a talk:

"Men, you've braved the troubles and elements for the last seven years. For that, I pay you tribute. This seven mile stretch has demanded a lot out of us, and you have given your all. You have all gone the extra mile, so to speak. If you're down, if you're blue, believe me, I understand. But you must not flag, you must not waver. I assure you, we will -- let me repeat that, we will -- eventually get this sonuvabitch accomplished!

Those are great words. Then it's back to work with renewed vigor. But time and the fatigue of road workers are inexorable, especially when many men have retired, going off to their golden years. The foreman, however, has remained at his post. No one knows this project like he does, and although there's still four miles to go of the original seven, he believes it can be done:

"Men, our community has been enriched by new blood. Which is not to say anything against those who have dropped off. They earned their reward. They paid for their watch with their blood, sweat, and tears. But it is now for you to carry on, as well as the old veterans who remain. I thank you each and every one. And let me assure you, I still believe, men, with every fiber of my being, that eventually we will get this sonuvabitch finished!"

Brave words, to be sure, even as that final four miles stretches out endlessly, looking something like a futile journey to the stars. We'll never reach the stars. The distances are so great. But it's good to have someone who believes we will, for it enriches everyone, certainly at the level of man's imagination.

But time finally yields to reality, and the foreman had to pass from the scene, with the rest of the old timers. It was boom time for the gold watch industry. As the old foreman left, a new foreman came on. A good man, able to read the old blueprints, which were substantially well-preserved, only about half deteriorated. Marks were made showing the passing of time. So many years!

The new foreman, with all new workers, gave the inevitable seven year talk:

"Men, there's only three miles to go. A lifetime for some. But I'm confident, that with advances in medical science, most of you will live to see this stretch completed. For those who do retire, you have my solemn pledge: I will personally see that you are brought back when the road opens. Until then, buck up, and get plenty of water. I need you, we all need you ... and your all.

"In closing, let me repeat the brave words of my great predecessor -- as true now as they were 50 years ago -- You have my pledge, my word of honor, We will see this thing through, and, finally, this sonovabitch will one day be accomplished!"

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.

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*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 Oldest Powder In The World

I hate brick roads. Just hate them. In fact, you remember all those letters to the editor in the newspaper from the guy who hates brick roads? That's me! So there you have it... I have a track record on the subject... I have credibility.

Why, one might ask oneself, would they ever have made brick roads in the first place? I'm thinking maybe back then they didn't have cement. A guy would need to find out when they first started mixing cement to know for sure. Or it could have been that they had cement but it wasn't very good. A brick, on the other hand, can be tempered and hardened, whereas poor cement will instantly go to chaff.

If that's really the reason, then I guess I'll have to accept it as a pretty good reason. You can't be driving six white horses, as they did back then, down a poor cement road and have them sink to the top of their fetlocks in chaff. But that's been a long time ago, and I know cement's come a long way. I used to have an uncle who poured cement and he often spoke highly of the stuff.

OK, cement's come a long way, we all agree. And yet still we suffer old brick roads from the 19th century. It's a disgrace! Because bricks go haywire. They're small individuals that can go cockeyed any minute. The ground sinks somewhere and they're raised up on edge like icebergs. Which can take out a ship, as we all know!

One of the reasons we still have brick roads, like it or not, has to do with people's sense of nostalgia. Since bricks have been around for a hundred years, Oh good God, we can't get rid of them now! Which doesn't make a bit of sense, because if they're bad, they're bad. And they're not going to get better, only worse. Then when they get worse, we can't get rid of them then, because by now they've been around a hundred and twenty five years. And on and on. They're always going to get worse, and they're always going to get older.

Eventually then -- and the ancient Egyptians knew something about this when they made the pyramids -- they'll be so old, they'll crumble away to powder. But because the powder is so old, and we're so nostalgic, we certainly can't get rid of it. So we eventually end up with the oldest powder roads in the world!

Maybe it'd be good for the bricks to go totally to powder. Because then we could mix it up with new cement, add water, and have the old road incorporated with the new. And everybody would be happy. Whether that happens in my lifetime, though, I'll just have to wait and see. But if I die first, someone else will have to check for me.