Call Out the Big Guns and Shoot Me

Approximately seven months ago, The City, in their infinite wisdom, ignored a leaky fire hydrant at a local condo complex despite the best efforts of the inhabitants of that complex to raise awareness and action to stop the problem. The City then watched, over the following weeks, as a crack in the pavement of said complex began to widen and the homes of that complex began a slow descent down the hill and onto The City’s roadway with the innocent beginnings of a tipped-up sidewalk that was, at worst, treacherous to walk upon.

In an as of yet unrepeated moment of action, The City, realizing the imminent danger to the aforementioned roadway, took it upon themselves to evacuate the inhabitants of the complex and dig up the driveway to review growing disease beneath the black top. It was within the next week that eight units were out for good and the true nature of the innocent-seeming damage began to rear its ugly head in the manner of spewed clay, dirt, rock, concrete, and plant life that was wretched up from under the falling units and onto The City’s roadway. Cones went up. Large, flashing signs with arrows pointing away from the encroached upon traffic lane were situated a quarter mile from the devastation with the solar panels turned on to procure an infinite power supply for the indicator, which was left as a semi-permanent reminder that The City’s road was ill.

Five months passed. The catastrophic upheaval inched its way across the sidewalk and the traffic lane until it began to push and lift the cones directing oncoming drivers, now within inches of the massive spew. The City and The Complex fought and argued about what should be done, but neither did anything. Other units began to creak and moan, sliding with immeasurable patience towards the gaping Pit that had once been tar and pitch leading to homes and families. The homeowners were promised action again and again until not even the optimistic believed it to be true. The money has been approved, The City said.

The problem will be solved, The Complex cooed. We will start soon, They chimed together. And yet, still nothing. The Wall was promised. A means of stopping, preventing, even reversing the damage. The Wall was all that was talked about. Memos flew about The Wall. Letters promising and beckoning. The News ran the story. The Wall never came.

And then, one night, The City sprang into action for the first time in five months. They caravanned their loudest, brightest machines onto the roadway, dressed their finest overtime workers in bright orange vests and matching hard hats. They got permits. And so, at nine o’clock in the evening one Tuesday, they scarred and ripped the existing demarcations on their roadway, blackened out the pre-existing directionality, created a blank slate of black road to be reconditioned, repainted, and shrunk from four lanes of traffic with a turn lane in the middle to a crunched up two lane road that bypasses a huge, bursting pimple in the side of the hill. This they did with equipment that a jet engine would admire, with all the bells and whistles, literally, that The City could throw at it.

This They did until four in the morning on Wednesday with no rest. Pay The City workers overtime! They shouted. Do it in one night! They exclaimed. We are acting! They bellowed. The police got many calls. Noise ordinance, the poor people wailed, where are our rights? Permits, They replied. How much more do we have to endure?, the people whimpered. Permits, They replied. The machinery produced ninety five decibels of cacophony all night long. Yep, said the pessimistic homeowner, that’s freaking brilliant. Can’t act for five months, but you must repave your road in one night so that the landslide has more space to grow, three lanes more space, before you have to act on total devastation of the road and might actually have to do something about it. This is a great semi-permanent solution. Bravo.