It’s Saturday. I was finishing up the mad dash around southern Cecil County that included trying to get get gas, get to the bank, stop at the vet for bulldog meds, get what’s probably the last of the summer fruit from the roadside stand, stop at Petco for dog food, hit Walmart for people food, and then get back to the house before noon. I’m a man with a plan… and a schedule. Usually that schedule runs like a well built Swiss watch and it would have today, too, if the picture postcard town of North East hadn’t been overrun by people wandering in and out of traffic on the one street in and out of town. With every minute that these asswagons plod around, I have frozen stuff turning into thawed stuff… and that doesn’t make me a particularly happy traveler.
With every car length I inched down Main Street, my usually sunny disposition degenerated further into a seething rage. I mean here I am trying to be productive and get shit done and there’s a town full of people wandering around like they don’t have a single thing to do or a care in the world. People like that make me crazy, or maybe I should say they make me more crazy than the run of the mill people you can’t avoid on a daily basis.
After ten minutes of swearing a blue streak at everyone who had the audacity to cut between me and the car whose bumper I was riding, I felt vaguely bad about driving past the Race for the Cure “finish line” set up at the far end of town. I’m sure all of these people are perfectly nice and they’re trying to do a good thing, but it seems to me that they could have managed to plan a route somewhere that didn’t tie up traffic coming into and out of town in every possible direction. Today I got to see a whole lot of people with a whole lot of heart, but there’s not a jack one of them that knows a damned thing about logistics or route planning. Clearly, I’ve gotten past the part of the day where I felt bad yelling at them.