Blue
paint poured onto the road like a belly dancer doing a horizontal.
Instead of doumbecs popping and pulsating a steady stream of profanity claps through the air.
Truck loaded for a paint job had a bad date with a cell phone distracted driver.
The overalled contractor is waving one arm in the air, now talking on his cell phone and spastically pacing up and down the road. His march accents his verbal cadence.
The car driver is slumped in her seat behind the limp bumper and punched out lights. Deer in the headlights or just being overcome with the tremendous fumes ghosting from the pavement?
Someone must have called 911. Three or four different sirens are piercing any ambient sound within a thousand yards. Flashing lights too. Fire, Police and Ministry of Environment. How clever.
Cop puts on his hat as his partner discretely puts the donut and coffee out of site; still chewing as he leaps from the car.
Ministry Man puts on his white helmet, pulls out a clip board full of papers flapping at the loose end. Pen top in his mouth; Nothing like the taste of plastic first thing in the morning.
One cop dashes to the middle of the street to take charge of traffic. The Donut Guy, with his hands a little away from his body and head calked a little, walks over to the female driver. He doesn’t want to add to her misery. He must have done the course recently.
Meanwhile the Paint Guy looks like Charlie Chaplin on an imaginary tight rope swaying in the wind. With the police at hand he’s toned down a bit. Ministry man - one eye on the paint snaking its way to the sewer and the other looking down the street, looking for the clean up crew. His head and neck are cradling a cell as he jots down information.
No breeze can dispel the pungent chemical intoxication. Everyone is seeing things a little differently.
Instead of doumbecs popping and pulsating a steady stream of profanity claps through the air.
Truck loaded for a paint job had a bad date with a cell phone distracted driver.
The overalled contractor is waving one arm in the air, now talking on his cell phone and spastically pacing up and down the road. His march accents his verbal cadence.
The car driver is slumped in her seat behind the limp bumper and punched out lights. Deer in the headlights or just being overcome with the tremendous fumes ghosting from the pavement?
Someone must have called 911. Three or four different sirens are piercing any ambient sound within a thousand yards. Flashing lights too. Fire, Police and Ministry of Environment. How clever.
Cop puts on his hat as his partner discretely puts the donut and coffee out of site; still chewing as he leaps from the car.
Ministry Man puts on his white helmet, pulls out a clip board full of papers flapping at the loose end. Pen top in his mouth; Nothing like the taste of plastic first thing in the morning.
One cop dashes to the middle of the street to take charge of traffic. The Donut Guy, with his hands a little away from his body and head calked a little, walks over to the female driver. He doesn’t want to add to her misery. He must have done the course recently.
Meanwhile the Paint Guy looks like Charlie Chaplin on an imaginary tight rope swaying in the wind. With the police at hand he’s toned down a bit. Ministry man - one eye on the paint snaking its way to the sewer and the other looking down the street, looking for the clean up crew. His head and neck are cradling a cell as he jots down information.
No breeze can dispel the pungent chemical intoxication. Everyone is seeing things a little differently.
