
This Is How I Die.
I write short stories during my morning commute. This is one of them.
“And it’s like, there are 660,000 people here right now. The infrastructure can’t support it. They put that tax on the ballot you know — “
“ — to increase the metro — “
“Yeah, to increase the metro. But that takes time, decades, to get everything approved and done. We gotta start investing now in the infrastructure before it’s too late. They’re taking it out of my taxes already that’s for sure. But I swear I don’t know sometimes. They gotta fix these roads! Come on! It seems to me like common sense isn’t so common.”
“Uh huh.”
I’m interested in her conversation, but I’m distracted by the lights on on her dash. As she drove up to my house, I heard a low and steady rrummmpppph, and these yellow icons confirm it. She has a flat tire. She has a flat tire, and I’m certain this is going to become a catastrophic, likely fatal, problem.
Yes. It will definitely be one of the very potholes she’s lamenting that does us in. I can see it. Probably the one they’ve tried to cover with a grate, right after the second stop sign at the Dupont intersection, in the left lane. She’ll hit it, her tire will fully pop, exposing the metal rim of her tire which will make a shockingly loud noise as it grates against the concrete, and in her reaction to the noise, she’ll lose control of the vehicle. We’ll swerve into the lane of oncoming traffic and crash head-on. And I’m not wearing my seatbelt. Of course that will be the end. God is nothing if not ironic.
It’s common sense.
Like not adjusting your tire pressure while complaining about piss-poor infrastructure.