no pot in my hole?

Apr 15, 2008 by

sure the city is known for potholes. which city isn’t? well, the new orleans pothole is a genus onto itself, and our pothole epidemic is a growing, or should I say sinking, one. because of katrina, it appears the earth is sucking in and exploding pockets of its flesh like a pimple faced teen after a popeye’s binge. the holes seem to be more epic, more grand. the tales of their exploration and dangers rival homer, columbus, ishmael, and gilgamesh. perhaps strange beasts and beautiful sirens dwell within them. the ones that surround my home are a strange gathering of holes akin to the louis sacher’s hand-dug variety sans the scorpions, the spotted “leapin” lizards, and the catchy disney soundtrack. they began like all others, but their growth was soon expedited by the de-railroading of my street, a process which left a uneven gutter that would drive any true lebowski or achiever nuts (and that was pre-k). immediately after the storm another don carter-esque gutter was dug by the phone company as it tried to reestablish services. unfortunately, like her friends at the railroad, ma bell did not fill in the open grave and the (now) two gutters began to grow and merge with the potholes between and betwixt. the asphalt crackled, cracked, and bristled. the amount of road became less and less… and the not-so-rhetorical question became, “is this a road with potholes or a pothole with a road in it?” the minimal road became an isthmus too thin to drive on– more likely a better flytrap, mousetrap, roach motel on the airline highway of my so-called life. everyday there was another victim, the road not prejudiced against vehicles neighbors contemplated the thought of buying a chain to haul out the helpless motorists which now number one or two per day… $50 times 2 times 365 plus holiday pay. you do the math. my once quiet street, if you can call gunfire quiet, was now the burial ground of abandoned cars and dying blinkers like a diorama of pangaea writ large and transposed straight out of the last ACT, complete with three dimensional plate tectonics and physics equations.

my ire grew daily especially when the rains came. a puddle? a lake? never quite sure where to step… never knowing how deep i stepped. cursing the mayors (past, present, and future), i was certain that nothing could or would assuage me. then i heard the family that had taken up residence in my potholes — a family of ducks. perhaps it was no longer a hole, now rather a pond, perhaps even a lake in the making. briefly I was content. now i knew how noah felt when the dove flew back to the ship.

at least I can pretend…


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