Three young men stand at the intersection of Marshall and Nineteenth. Jeans, saggy cargo shorts, ancient gray t-shirts dragging past their hips, they face the cross street. One unwinds black duct tape from a thick roll. Another shades his eyes with a hand and points up the hill.
As we drive by on Marshall, I see they are taping block letters onto Nineteenth. Black duct tape on faded gray asphalt to spell out P-O-T-H-O-L-E-S. "Potholes? What is that? Some kind of performance art?"
Oz says, "Maybe they're protesting poor road maintenance."
On our way home, we pass them, still messing with tape. Now they have completed their message: POTHOLES AHEAD. Ten yards beyond the lettering, squares of black tape surround spots in the asphalt where the blond gravel of an older surface peeks through.
"Potholes ahead. Like that's a surprise or something."
"You'd think that white or yellow tape would show up better. Or that yellow green."
Later on, we see several downtown streets closed off and lots of bicyclists tooling around. We figure maybe there's a race and the route will take the cyclists up Church Hill. Poor sods. The potholes will be the least of their worries.
199 words | May 8, 2004 09:13 PM | Real true story