POTHOLES By: Robert C. Eccles
Tuesday, March 31st, 2009I used to think that potholes were created by the expansion and contraction of pavement in warm and cold weather. I also used to think that there are a lot more potholes now than usual because of the lousy economy, and the fact that states don’t have the money to repair all the potholes. Boy, was I wrong. It’s because of the economy, all right, but not in the way you’d think.
I was driving home from work one night when I drove over a pothole I hadn’t noticed before. There was a crunch from my car’s undercarriage as it bottomed out. That didn’t surprise me. What surprised me was the blood-curdling scream that accompanied the crunch from under the car.
I pulled over to the side of the road and got out. I checked my tires, and saw that miraculously the pothole hadn’t given me a flat. I glanced back down the road and decided to examine the hole. Maybe I could report it to the road commission in the morning.
As I drew closer, I saw what appeared to be tiny beams of light shining here and there from inside a jagged hole in the road that spanned at least two feet. I also thought I could hear whispering voices coming from the vicinity of the pothole. I reached the edge of the hole and peered in.
I couldn’t believe my eyes. Three tiny men in construction gear and holding flashlights were huddled over the broken and twisted body of a fourth miniature man at the bottom of the hole. These micro-construction workers were no more than eight inches tall, including their yellow hard hats. The man lying at the bottom of the hole was clearly dead. The three other men looked up as I arrived at edge of the pothole.
“You ought to be a little more careful,” one of the tiny men admonished me. “You killed Danny.”
“I”m terribly sorry,” I said, finding it hard to believe I was actually speaking to three tiny men at the bottom of a pothole. “I didn’t see him.”
“Well, these things happen,” another of the men said. “Making potholes is dangerous work.”
“I’m sorry, did you say you make potholes?”
“Yes, sir. We’re a little-known division of the state department of transportation. It’s all part of the economic recovery plan.”
My mind swam as I tried to take this all in. “So you’re making potholes to help the economy?” It sounded ridiculous to even say it.
“That’s correct,” the third tiny man said. “We make the potholes, and motorists drive through them. More often then not they get flat tires. Those folks buy new tires, pumping money into the local economy.”
I was nodding my head in agreement until I realized I was doing it. This was insane!
“And,” the third tiny man continued, “we help ensure continued employment at the road commission by keeping them busy filling the potholes we make.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“No, sir,” the first man said. “It’s a line-item in the governor’s budget. You can find it under ‘road repairs’.”
I shook my head in disbelief, then motioned toward the bloody little body lying in the pothole. “So what happens to your unfortunate co-worker?”
“Whenever something like this happens,” the second man said, “we simply find a replacement.”
I chuckled. “There can’t be too many volunteers for this job.”
“You’d be surprised,” the first tiny man said, grinning. “You ever hear stories of people who go missing, and then they find the person’s car on the side of the road, but there’s no trace of the owner?”
I was about to say that I had heard stories like that, but instead I glanced back up the street at my car, sitting empty on the shoulder. I tried to run then, but those little men were fast.
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© 2009 Robert C. Eccles
