The Commute That Became a Hostage Situation

All I wanted to do was go home.

That was it.

I had finished work, I was tired, I was hungry, and I had already mentally changed into pajamas. My couch was waiting for me. Dinner was waiting for me. I had absolutely no interest in adventure.

Apparently, the city had other plans.

I pulled out of the parking lot and immediately saw the first orange sign.

ROAD WORK AHEAD.

Fine.

I could handle road work.

Then came another sign.

DETOUR.

Still fine.

I followed the arrow.

Five minutes later, another sign appeared.

DETOUR.

Interesting.

I followed that arrow too.

Then another.

DETOUR.

At this point, I was beginning to suspect the construction company was just moving me around for entertainment.

My GPS cheerfully announced, “Recalculating.”

“Don’t you start.”

She recalculated.

“Turn right in 200 metres.”

I turned right.

ROAD CLOSED.

My GPS paused.

“Recalculating.”

“Yes, Brenda. I can see that.”

I don’t know why I named her Brenda. She just sounded like a Brenda.

Brenda sent me left.

I went left.

There was construction.

She sent me right.

Construction.

Straight ahead?

Construction.

I had somehow entered a magical land where every road existed exclusively to display orange pylons.

Eventually, I ended up behind a giant dump truck travelling approximately six kilometres per hour.

I couldn’t pass.

I couldn’t turn around.

I couldn’t see around it.

So I followed.

For twelve minutes.

At one point, the dump truck stopped completely.

I waited.

Nothing happened.

A construction worker walked past eating a sandwich.

I rolled down my window.

“Are we moving soon?”

He looked at the truck.

Then at me.

Then back at the truck.

“Probably.”

Probably?

That is not a traffic answer.

“When?”

He took another bite of his sandwich.

“Hard to say.”

I briefly considered abandoning my car and starting a new life beside the excavator.

Finally, the truck moved.

Freedom!

I accelerated to a thrilling fourteen kilometres per hour.

Then I reached a man holding a STOP/SLOW sign.

It said STOP.

So I stopped.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited.

I watched three cars come from the opposite direction.

Then seven.

Then a transport truck.

Then another dump truck.

Then absolutely nobody for several minutes.

The sign still said STOP.

The construction worker was chatting with another worker.

I stared at him.

He did not notice.

I stared harder.

Still nothing.

Eventually, he looked over.

“Oh!”

He flipped the sign.

SLOW.

Oh?

OH?!

Sir, I have aged significantly at this intersection.

I drove forward.

Brenda spoke again.

“Continue for two kilometres.”

“Thank you, Brenda.”

“In 300 metres, make a U-turn.”

“No.”

“Make a U-turn.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Make a U-turn.”

“I WILL DRIVE INTO THE OCEAN BEFORE I MAKE ANOTHER U-TURN.”

Brenda went silent.

I think I hurt her feelings.

Eventually, I recognized a street.

My street!

Not literally my street, but a street that led toward my street.

Hope returned.

I could practically see my couch.

I turned the corner.

And there it was.

ROAD CLOSED — LOCAL TRAFFIC ONLY.

I AM LOCAL TRAFFIC.

I drove forward triumphantly.

Fifty metres later:

ROAD CLOSED.

Apparently, I was not local enough.

I turned around.

Again.

By now, I’d been trying to get home for nearly an hour. Under normal circumstances, the drive took twenty minutes.

I was no longer commuting.

I was participating in an escape room.

My fuel gauge was getting lower.

My patience had left the vehicle approximately four detours ago.

And I was getting hungry enough that the granola bar under my passenger seat was beginning to look medically acceptable.

Then I saw it.

A glorious sign.

DETOUR ENDS.

I nearly cried.

“WE DID IT, BRENDA!”

Brenda remained professionally detached.

“Continue straight.”

“I WILL.”

I continued straight.

For approximately thirty seconds.

Then traffic stopped.

Completely.

Cars stretched ahead of me as far as I could see.

I waited five minutes.

Ten.

Fifteen.

Finally, a police officer walked along the line of vehicles.

There was more construction ahead.

The road would be closed temporarily.

Of course it would.

I turned off the engine.

The man in the car beside me rolled down his window.

“Been stuck long?”

“Since 1997.”

He nodded.

“Feels like it.”

We became friends.

His name was Dave.

Dave had crackers.

I had gum.

For approximately twenty minutes, we formed a tiny roadside survival community.

Then suddenly, cars started moving.

Dave waved.

“GOOD LUCK!”

“YOU TOO!”

We drove away like soldiers separating after battle.

Ten minutes later, I finally reached my neighborhood.

No construction.

No pylons.

No dump trucks.

No men holding signs.

Just beautiful, ordinary pavement.

I pulled into my driveway.

Parked.

Turned off the engine.

And sat there appreciating the silence.

Home.

Sweet home.

I grabbed my bag, opened the car door and stepped out.

Then I noticed something attached to my windshield.

A tiny orange piece of paper had somehow become caught under my wiper.

I pulled it out.

It was a construction notice.

ROAD CLOSURE BEGINS TOMORROW — EXPECT DELAYS.

I stared at it.

Then at the sky.

Then back at the notice.

From somewhere deep inside me came a laugh.

Not a normal laugh.

The laugh of a woman who had seen things.

I walked into the house, locked the door and put on my pajamas.

Tomorrow?

Tomorrow I was calling in dead. 😂

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