If I leave my house at two minutes before seven, I will get to work twenty minutes early. However, if I leave just five minutes later, I will get to work twenty minutes late. It’s frustrating, and can wholly be blamed on one woman in the dinky little cow town where I live.
Helen lives one street down from me. She pulls out of her driveway at 6:55, and manages to traverse the half mile from her home to the main street in about eight minutes. How do I know this? Because if I’m pulling onto the main road at 7:03, I will undoubtedly see this:
Helen lives one street down from me. She pulls out of her driveway at 6:55, and manages to traverse the half mile from her home to the main street in about eight minutes. How do I know this? Because if I’m pulling onto the main road at 7:03, I will undoubtedly see this:
I have never met Helen. But I hate her.
Normally, on Helen-free days, it takes me three minutes to make it from my road, onto the main street, and to the big intersection in town. (This is how rural it is where I live: we recently doubled the number of working traffic lights in town. To two.) But with Helen in front of me, it takes seven minutes and thirty-six seconds. I know this because I was running late this morning, and found myself with the unwelcome opportunity to time her as we crawled down the road. Why not? I wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.
The traffic at the “big” light in town can get a bit snarly, especially when school is in session, but thankfully, the town is on vacation this week. Helen and I rolled through the light and finally made it to a road where there are actually opportunities to pass. Legally, I mean.
Helen and I crested the hill at 26 miles per hour (posted limit: 50. I really hate this woman). We came, blessedly, to a stretch of road where the lines were dotted, and I revved it up to 35 in anticipation of passing Helen and maybe making it to work on time.
No such luck. The other thing about Podunk country living that I forgot to mention is the trucks. Not semis, mind you. Farm trucks. Trucks hauling manure, and silage, and sometimes live cattle. And right when I was about to make Helen eat my dust, what should come barreling my way but a big old corn truck, blocking not only his side of the road, but a bit of mine and Helen’s, too?
I was raised on a farm. I knew what the appropriate protocol was here. I minded my manners and meekly found my place behind Helen again. We inched along, corn kernels peppering my windshield as the truck passed. The farmer driving the truck waved at Helen. I instantly regretted giving him the right-of-way. Because a friend of Helen’s is no friend of mine.
This stretch normally takes thirteen minutes from intersection to highway entrance. Helen crept along. I tried to pass her again, but a flock of turkeys decided to dart across the road when I went to make my move. (Not as stupid as you’d think, turkeys. They clearly knew they were in no danger of winding up on Helen’s grill.) When I tried again, a cop was coming the other way. I decided to give up and accept my fate. I texted my boss this picture (via voice text, Mom, don't worry—I broke no laws):
Normally, on Helen-free days, it takes me three minutes to make it from my road, onto the main street, and to the big intersection in town. (This is how rural it is where I live: we recently doubled the number of working traffic lights in town. To two.) But with Helen in front of me, it takes seven minutes and thirty-six seconds. I know this because I was running late this morning, and found myself with the unwelcome opportunity to time her as we crawled down the road. Why not? I wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.
The traffic at the “big” light in town can get a bit snarly, especially when school is in session, but thankfully, the town is on vacation this week. Helen and I rolled through the light and finally made it to a road where there are actually opportunities to pass. Legally, I mean.
Helen and I crested the hill at 26 miles per hour (posted limit: 50. I really hate this woman). We came, blessedly, to a stretch of road where the lines were dotted, and I revved it up to 35 in anticipation of passing Helen and maybe making it to work on time.
No such luck. The other thing about Podunk country living that I forgot to mention is the trucks. Not semis, mind you. Farm trucks. Trucks hauling manure, and silage, and sometimes live cattle. And right when I was about to make Helen eat my dust, what should come barreling my way but a big old corn truck, blocking not only his side of the road, but a bit of mine and Helen’s, too?
I was raised on a farm. I knew what the appropriate protocol was here. I minded my manners and meekly found my place behind Helen again. We inched along, corn kernels peppering my windshield as the truck passed. The farmer driving the truck waved at Helen. I instantly regretted giving him the right-of-way. Because a friend of Helen’s is no friend of mine.
This stretch normally takes thirteen minutes from intersection to highway entrance. Helen crept along. I tried to pass her again, but a flock of turkeys decided to dart across the road when I went to make my move. (Not as stupid as you’d think, turkeys. They clearly knew they were in no danger of winding up on Helen’s grill.) When I tried again, a cop was coming the other way. I decided to give up and accept my fate. I texted my boss this picture (via voice text, Mom, don't worry—I broke no laws):
His reply: Is that Helen? See you at 8:15.
Did I say my town is small? My whole state is small.
My boss has been stuck behind Helen twice now.
____
Have you stopped by The Storyside lately? Here's what you might have missed!
"Deep in the Heart"—free fiction by David Daniel
Red by Jack Ketchum—a book review by Rob Smales
"Sick"—free fiction by Stacey Longo (hey, that's me!)
RSS Feed