I’m a genius.
Now,
equipping yourself with the proper technology could be a challenge.
It’s not like you can just stroll into a hardware store and buy rocket
casings and fuel; this isn’t Syria. This means you’ll probably have to
make your own, and as much as I’d love to launch into a full
step-by-step description of how to build your own flying apparatus, two
things are stopping me. One is that it would be irresponsible to provide
directions for assembling a device that could be used to cause even the
smallest harm, like singeing the hairs on Tom Selleck’s mustache. Two
is that I have no idea how. I doodled through chemistry.
For
the sake of argument, though, let’s assume you’re a prize-winning
physicist who worked on the Manhattan Project and could make a toaster
out of two paper clips and a can of asparagus. Let’s also assume that
you have to travel from, say, Biddeford High School to Thornton Academy
in Saco. In this scenario, a home-made rocket pack is probably your best
bet, because with all the construction going on, driving there in an
actual car would take longer than reading “War and Peace” while on heavy
painkillers. And it wouldn’t be as fun.
It’s
bad enough that Route 1 is blocked off. Not only is it a convenient
artery through the city, but there are a lot of local businesses that
reside smack-dab in the midst of the maelstrom; to patron one of these
establishments, you’ve almost got to be air-dropped like a care package
from an Army helicopter.
But
if you take the alternate route to Saco, down Biddeford’s Main Street,
you’ll be locked in traffic for longer than it takes to get onto a ride
at Disney World. That’s because the detour goes right through the heart
of downtown, a busy area to begin with; and at the epicenter of all of
this stands a lone traffic cop, directing vehicles this way and that,
and likely wishing he was doing something exponentially more exciting,
like writing tickets for expired inspection stickers. I kinda feel sorry
for whoever’s got that beat, considering what they have to do. Stand
... point. Stand ... point. There’s more intellectual stimulation in the
plastic ball pit at Chuck E. Cheese.
For
years I’ve been wishing that the state would start patching over myriad
stretches of pockmarked roadways with a less punishing surface; the
shocks on my car have already gone through several rough drafts of a
suicide note. Now I’m getting what I wished for, and it’s been an
unforgiving reminder that the fulfillment of wishes is always a more
complex business than we assume. When I envisioned the city’s streets
undergoing much-needed rehabilitation, I figured it would be done in
sections, staggered so that getting from A to B wouldn’t involve the
kind of planning usually required of vacations and mob hits. Instead,
the strategy is apparently to do everything at once, which has made
Biddeford look like a city recovering from a Godzilla attack. At least a
monster rampage would have given us some fun anecdotes, maybe a cool
picture or two.
Unfortunately,
Biddeford’s only a microcosm for a state-wide road work extravaganza.
The turnpike is a Kardashian-level mess. I zipped up to Lewiston a few
weeks ago to hang out with my dad on Father’s Day, and found that even
the simple act of driving in a straight line for an hour is fraught with
complications. At least three different sections of the Pike were
whittled down to single-lane travel on the short 50-mile stretch, and
the Lewiston exit – to my chagrin – was completely blocked off. Closed.
Inaccessible. A myth as fanciful as the unicorn, or the mighty hammer of
Thor. I understand Lewiston has a reputation for being a rough burg
teeming with ne’er-do-wells and hard-drinking goons, but on rare
occasions, people do actually want to go there. The way it’s been
quarantined by heavy construction, you’d think the strategy at the state
level is to let the city cannibalize itself, collapse under its own
weight like a dying star, so the land can be razed and a 24-hour mega
WalMart erected in its wake. One of the lame ones, too, with no air
hockey table.
Most
Mainers have heard the old joke that there are four seasons in this
state: Almost winter, winter, still winter, and construction. (Cue
rimshot.) The yukster who coined this aphorism probably had a summer in
mind like the one just past, one dominated by pavers and diggers – which
are great fun if you’re six years old and playing with Tonka trucks,
less so if you’re 46 and stuck in gridlock, the guy in back of you
blasting Springsteen at window-rattling decibels. Obviously, this road
work is long overdue, and there’s no way to get it done without flaggers
and orange cones and the whole grand production. But to do it all at
once feels like some elaborate prank, a state-sponsored “neener-neener”
that bounds on sadism. Somewhere, in a dark office with thumb tacks
pinned to a wall-sized state map, sits a hard-hatted supervillain,
laughing maniacally while stroking an evil-looking cat. Think Inspector
Gadget foe Dr. Claw, but with a mustache.
I’m
all for infrastructure improvements, given the appropriate planning.
The nation’s roadways are starting to resemble the lunar surface, minus
dimpled balls left over from a spirited game of space golf. It’s just a
shame that large swatches of travel routes have to be blocked off in the
process. A few more weeks of this insanity and it’s off to the shed to
construct a flying apparatus; I’m thinking that, given enough Diet Coke
and Mentos, I can create enough propulsion to at least get myself to the
bridge. From there, it’s about a 20-minute walk to Thornton; not bad,
considering the current glut of detours and logjams.
Now
all that’s needed is to figure out a safe landing procedure. Something
involving a body suit made of foam insulation and marshmallows? Could
work. A quick call to the patent office and it’s clear sailing.
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