The Art of Anger Management
By Joe King

"Don't make me angry. You wouldn't like me when I'm angry."
-- Dr. David Banner/The Hulk

They're b-a-c-k. Not the ghosts, (they never left.) No, I'm talking about the asphalt A-Team that visits every month. It's become a real tradition with these guys. Coal shovels in one hand, jack-hammer in 'tother and steam roller in tow.

Why do I have a burr under my saddle? They're not here to fix the street. My little corner of heaven has more potholes than Bosnia -- actually I think some are bigger than Bosnia, but do the taxpayers on my avenue get their do? Yeah. Right. Sure. Uh-huh. 

Seems these polite gents are only concerned with a particular spot on my street.
Their first surgical strike on my macadam was three months back. I say "my" because the proximity of their 7:59am jack-hammer was closest to my bedroom window. When the pounding commenced without warning I could have sworn they were actually inside my skull. Lucky for them they wear hard-hats.

With deliberate and workmanlike manner they created a perfectly square hole, approximately eight inches across, into which they inserted some type of pipeline neck-fitting or collar, sealed it with a cap, and with care that would make other sinkholes swell with envy -- perfectly patched the wound. What point of relevance this all makes is bout to be made clear. The pipe goes nowhere. It does not tie into a mainline, nor is it likely to -- unless they are expecting a reciprocal excavation from below by a crew of mole-men. If you have ever seen a chain gang forced to dig a hole, then fill it up as a form of punishment, er, I mean "rehabilitation" you have a sense of my experience. Only these guys are on the job. And someone somewhere is somehow justifying the time, materials and expense.

It gets better. Upon last month's visit they were able to enlarge the original opening to 18"x 24" before sealing it up with their black (top) magic. The problem is, now this entire "star gate" or "dimensional portal" or whatever-the-heck it is supposed to be is sagging beneath the level of the surrounding street surface. Being primarily self-centered but espousing pride in my neighborhood I cajoled them about the lingering quality of the repairs. "Sorry," they said, "we don't fix potholes."

Copyright 2002. Joe King. All Rights Reserved.