Old Testament Traffic
The road home is beset on all sides by the inequityof unending road repairs.
Posted on September 18, 2002

I don't know why, but I am pretty sure that the Almighty Lord of Road Construction recently parted the clouds and pointed his hand at Lafayette and said, "Don your orange vests and aqua shirts and build me a shrine of cones and barricades. Build, my children, in tribute to fender benders, busted gravel and delays. For I am your lord, and I command thou."

So, work crews hopped into their trucks and did just what he really wanted - make my life hell. See, he is obviously mad at me. How else could you explain that everywhere I turn these days there are detours, lane closures and a maze of orange and whites? I think it is because I haven't smeared enough motor oil above my door or sacrificed enough Volkswagen Rabbits to him.

The trouble started a couple of months ago when a crew took over Congress Street, turning its four wonderful lanes into two. They took the time to cut holes in the road and fill them back up, the benefits of which I still don't see. After a few days or weeks (a day of the lord's is a week of our time), the crew vanished. I rejoiced and figured that I had emerged from the wilderness. "Not so fast," heralded blinking arrows one day as I screeched to a halt behind a long line of idling cars. They had only moved their work closer toward my house. Lines formed and backed up through intersections. Idiot drivers made life so much more pleasant by waiting to the last minute to merge. Good-hearted Samaritans made it worse by letting them in. I felt tested, until I figured I could get around it with a few shortcuts.

But, the crew that had set up shop on Guilbeau Road crushed my puny mortal attempt at circumvention. This crew had brought the wrath of a vengeful lord right into my back yard. Now, if there is a blessing in all this, it would have to be that I no longer needed my alarm clock, because the disciples were out there pulling a Sodom and Gomorrah job on the road with their jackhammers at about, oh I'd say, the ass crack of dawn. To make matters worse, the Congress crew was slowly making its way up the road to meet with this one, producing what would surely resemble a scene out of the good book. And I'm not talking about one of those nice milk-and-honey tales, but more along the lines of one with all the hurting and eternal fire.

If that wasn't enough, another holy sign declared that the underpass right by my office, on the corner of Jefferson and Cypress streets, needed to be closed for five months for repairs. While they rebuild it in his glory, people have to go around it and then swing back onto Jefferson from the side street. I couldn't tell you how many times I have nearly had my bumper taken off by a soccer mom in a Sports Utility Tank trying to curve around the small, concrete island that carves a turning lane into Cypress.

Adding to my frustration is the heavy weaponry this particular crew uses. Every day there are horrible sounds of concrete being scraped off the road and enough jackhammering to fix an Englishman's smile. Along with the jackhammers, there now seems to be a new plague. It's not pestilence or all of Grant Street's beer turning to blood - it's the creeping dust of death. It rises from the overpass in thick, gray clouds and looms into the streets, waiting to ensnare new victims.

One day, the noise got so bad that I decided to run out and purchase some headphones so I could transcribe an interview. That's when I found out that the good lord didn't forget his people on the Northside and had his minions hack up the Thruway. Then, to add insult to injury, they fixed a dirt road detour to Wal-Mart. Do we really need passersby to know that Wal-Mart is that important to us? Let's just hope they can control their laughter long enough to avoid going fender first into the canyon-sized ditch that has been dug parallel to the road.

After my excursion, something dawned on me: Maybe it's not just me. Maybe, this town has spurned the wrath of the almighty. Quickly, pilgrims, strap your first born son into his car seat, lay down thy cell phone and ready your brakes. Repent sinners, and pay your insurance tithes, for the hour of holy wrecking is upon us.