04 May 2007
Broken Concrete
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I tooled out of Chicago in a piece-of-crap Toyota Corolla, rented at the train station downtown. The Dan Ryan Expressway was being rebuilt again, and traffic was frozen in place between endless rows of Jersey barriers.
No surprise, really, since the only time to work on the roads is when the frost is finally gone. I had forgotten how awful it is to be in a place where the earth heaves with the cyclic daily freeze, and the cars and the trucks batter the concrete with sledge-hammer blows all winter.
Finally clawing out of the city and past the industry at the foot of the Big Lake, I marveled at the Spring coming to the trees in the sandy soil, a month behind old Virginia, where the Queen of England is visiting the former dominion.
The little car had a mind of its own, wandering in the lanes, and never allowing me to relax and sit back to enjoy the ride. Whether this car was built in Yokohama or Kentucky, it did not have the feel of the Detroit Iron we used to plow along these roads.
Of course, there was a Detroit then, with factories and everything.
With the coming of the longer days and the warmth, we expect to drive wherever we want when it is time to attend graduations and weddings. That was the reason for this trip, and I fumed as I crossed the Michigan line, and road construction narrowed the three lanes of concrete to one, and traffic crawled behind a semi with an over-sized load, possibly part of a bridge span to replace one that has been bathed in salt spray for years.
I remember when Michigan, strapped for cash, deferred maintenance on the big roads for several years. The consequences were as inevitable as the deep grooves that were cut into the cement in the years they permitted steel-studded snow tires to be mounted on the cars. The state had to replace the roads in toto. That was a mess, and for seasons thereafter it didn't matter if you were driving a piece-of-crap car. No one was going fast enough to notice.
I don't know what I was thinking; I have clearly been away too long. I checked off the company nickel just before lunch, after some very smart and vaguely disturbing experts explained the implications of linking all the micro-processors in the world together, and providing overhead imagery to everyone in the world on demand. That includes your neighbors and al Qaida.
I left the hotel by cab, and checked before I got in to make sure I did not know who was driving. It would have been awkward if it was the guy I had the shouting match with, and he dropped me at the seedy elegance of the Amtrak station on South Canal Street where the nice people at Hertz have a rental desk. It was Thursday, but the company had got their fifty hours out of me already. Fair is fair, after all.
You do not end six years of college bills without needing a ceremony to mark the event. A hundred grand rolling out to the grand academic institutions of the Big Ten and no one except me has a debt. That is a triumph, of sorts, and the same deal my folks gave me. It is the debt you owe to the generations. When I read that the average kid is graduating from college with a student loan bill of over $20 grand, it makes me wonder what the hell we are all thinking in maintaining a system like this that starts so many out in their adult lives deep in the hole.
My younger son still doesn't get it, and there is no particular reason he should. He is talking about “taking some time” before he starts his first real job, for which he has a second interview next week. If he gets hired, he would start training in July, in Chicago, no less. He indicates that a trip overseas would be nice, and he looked at me expectantly over dinner.
I think I sighed, but I am not sure. I don't suppose another month or two makes a difference in the great scheme. The National Bank of Dad has bankrolled him reliably for twenty-two years, and it is only reasonable that he assumes the welfare program will continue.
I suppose it will, in some fashion. My sons are well launched. Both have working vehicles, neither of them pieces of crap, and no debt, each with a shiny Rolex wrist watch to tell them when it is time to go to work. That is part of the bit of wisdom I impart at graduation. Always have a valid passport. And you can always hock the Rolex for a ticket.
It is up to them now. I am eager to get back on an airplane and get home once the ceremony is done. In Arlington we are more gentle about how we break our roads.
Assuming I can flog the Corolla over the eighty miles of broken pavement between me and the airport, that is.
Copyright 2007 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com