Being A Road

I got to thinking the other day, as I sat in my jeep at a green light. I got to thinking about the absurdity of this road I was travelling on between points A and B. Both metaphorically and literally. And 'metaliterally.' I think 'metaliterally' is the most appropriate term I can think of to describe where I'm headed and I don't even know if it's a word or not.

And as car after car honked their loud horns and flared their bright lights, all I could do was think of how I left the clothes in the dryer and how they would probably be smaller now than they were when I put them in. This thought seared into my mind's eye, the clothes suffocating and shrinking, I now jammed on the gas, right through the red light and in between some cars that decided to go on their green. 

I've been on this road many times, this road that was cut out of wood and grass and hill, actually as I look around I'm not recognizing where I'm at. Regardless, this road brings important people to important things everyday. This was the road that would bring me home, to my dryer full of my shrunken clothes, each item more unimportant than the last. 

I loved the road for this. Roads get the job done. Most of the time. But sometimes roads crack. They crack from the incessant grind of our important lives treading over them every day, over and over. And over. They buckle under the pressure and give in. Let's face it, roads sometimes choke.

I think I played a road in a play once. A big, thick, grey, cardboard sandwich around me, the air heavy with the stench of spray paint and hope, hope that this Justin kid could be a good road and just lie there. He did have a tendency to mill, a teacher once said.

The dash mark lines on my front were painted lovingly by my mother. I can still see her eyes as she put the finishing touches on the last yellow dash. I was a two-way road. Literally, not metaliterally. Or maybe metaliterally, too, again, I really haven't the foggiest.

But I do think I saw a tear in my mother's eyes at that moment. My mom was always crying over things I did. The pride she had in me was unmistakable. Actually, looking back on it, she could have been crying over any number of things, really. It was awhile ago, stop yelling at me.

But I was good at being a road, I'll admit to you, most faithful of readers. I laid perfectly still while my peers, the outgoing kids cast in speaking roles did their thing in front of me. I peeked out of the corner of an eye every once in awhile to see if my folks in the audience were looking at me, yep they were, my Mom crying again, my Dad maybe not looking at me as much as I first thought.

But this road, I'm happy to report, didn't choke. I did, however, pee. I hated being that still  for that long. I felt like I was playing hide and seek, which is easily the most pee-filled game in our world's existence. 

The outgoing kids cast as the leads in the play were a boy and girl that I've forgotten names to, but they sure did know how to entertain back then. At such a young age, too. I never could do that, really. The shyness, ya know.

I was better at being a road back then. Metaliterally.

Another car horn.

Guess I better get going, this red light isn't going to run itself.