APRIL 30, 2020 – (Cont.) . . . For the past few days leading up to that fateful day, town road crews had been hard at work on the streets north of Rice, putting down a coat of oil, then a thin blanket of sand. On the day at hand, it was our street’s turn. That morning the road crew had started at the end of Rice a ways down from us. By noon they’d crept to the Caine’s property directly across from our house and next door to Bob Ehlen. Just then, in accordance with how the universe worked, Bob Ehlen’s Buick brought him home for lunch—up the driveway and into the garage.
An hour later I noticed the road crew had oiled the street just past Bob Ehlen’s driveway. For a better view I climbed the street sign pole on the very corner of our lot. From that lofty perch I smelled the fresh petroleum wafting across the pavement. The guys in charge of putting down sand were parked down the way, still seated on the curb while finishing their lunches.
Shortly, the Buick come down the driveway and slowed to a halt at the apron as the beefy chief of the road crew, dressed in denim overalls, stood his ground, hand raised as if he were a traffic cop. Down came the power window, exposing Bob Ehlen’s face, tie and white dress shirt. As the crew chief approached the window, I clutched the top of the street sign pole.
I saw Bob Ehlen’s lips move as he looked at the chief, but I couldn’t make out the words. Next, Bob Ehlen looked at his gold wristwatch. More words.
The big boss in overalls stepped aside, shouted at his workers to “Get outta the way!” and waved Bob Ehlen through. I watched the Buick power up Green, then slid down the pole.
(Remember to subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.)
© 2020 by Eric Nilsson
