The Pothole Rebellion

There is a pothole in the middle of the street in front of my house. It's been there for a while, so I decided to call my city-council member to see if there was something that they could do about it. My call went to voice-mail and I left a detailed message. That afternoon, one of the street-maintenance workers, Bob, rang my doorbell and I showed him my pothole. He agreed that it was definitely a serious hazard and promised to have it filled in short order. He left me his card with his cell-phone number on it.

It's been a week, so I called the number on the card and Bob answered. He explained that it turns out that my pothole isn't the only one they've discovered. A team of inspectors has been sent out to visit every street in the city in order to take an inventory of potholes. He promised that they would have a final tally by the end of the month. He assured me that my pothole would be at the top of the list.

I didn't want to sound like a nag, so I waited an extra week after the first before calling Bob again. He apologized profusely for the delay, but assured me they were working on it. Apparently, due to the number of potholes that they've found, the effort needed to fill them will involve a vast army of workers. The city council has decided that if they have to send so many people out just to fix the potholes, they might as well widen some of the streets at the same time. Bob didn't know how long it might take, but he said that he would know after the next council meeting.

Bob actually called me! He explained that the city council had approved the street-widening project, but since that would require replacing the side-walks as well, they were looking to add more of them where there were currently none. This was being discussed in a workshop next Monday and would be voted on during the next monthly council meeting.

It's been several months now since I first contacted the city about my pothole. The sidewalk expansion project has grown to include bus cutouts and medians. All of the bus shelters will have to be replaced as well, adding to the time and expense, but the city has applied for state and federal matching funds to defray the costs significantly. They expect this to be expedited since we qualify as having shovel-ready projects. Yesterday, I called Bob and got a recorded message saying that his number was no longer in service.

This morning, I went over to Home Depot and bought a small bag of PatchMaster and spent about thirty minutes filling and tamping down the asphalt mix in my pothole. Fortunately, the traffic was fairly light and I only had two close calls. When I was done, I surveyed my work and basked in that inner glow of a job well done. It was still a couple of hours until lunchtime, so I decided to take a short nap. I dozed off, still thinking about how nice the street in front of my house looked now.

I was awakened prematurely by someone insistently ringing my doorbell. "I'm coming!" I yelled, as I made my way to the front door. I yanked it open—somewhat angrily, I must admit—and stared at a man in a suit accompanied by two uniformed officers. "Can I help you?" I asked him. I nervously noted that the officers were holding their assault rifles at the ready.

"We received several anonymous tips that someone was working on the pothole in front of your house." He turned and pointed at my work. "Do you know who might have done this?"

I relaxed. "Why, yes, I do." I grinned with pride. "It was me. I fixed that pothole!"

He grabbed me by the arm and roughly dragged me out of my house. Spinning me around, one of the other men pulled my arms back and snapped handcuffs on my wrists. "You are under arrest for criminal activity involving critical infrastructure. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to speak to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you. If you decide to answer questions now without an attorney present, you have the right to stop answering at any time."

"This is some sort of mistake!" I yelled at them. "What's wrong with you people?"

"Please calm down, sir," the man in the suit warned me. "We don't want to have to tase you."

I could see that he was serious, so I bit my tongue and said nothing as I was escorted out to the curb and seated in the back of the patrol car. The man in the suit got in an unmarked vehicle and the two officers drove me to the local precinct.

I managed to stay silent while they did the thing with the camera and fingerprints. Finally, I was allowed a phone call, but I didn't know anyone's number without my phone—which they had taken from me along with my wallet. The only number I could think of was one that had been subliminally etched into my brain from their ads on late-night TV. The nice-sounding woman on the other end took my name, date of birth, and the number of the precinct. She explained that they only handled personal injury cases but would transfer me to a sister firm that could help me. I waited on hold until the phone disconnected because my three minutes was up.

I was led downstairs to a holding cell that wasn't so terribly bad. It was relatively clean and nice and—as I was relieved to see—empty. I sat down on the cold metal bench and wondered what was going to happen to me.

About two hours had passed when a young woman was let into the hallway and she approached the bars of my cell.

"Are you Jim Hamilton?" she asked.

"Yes, I am. Who are you?"

"My name is Janice Vinmorea and I'm here as your lawyer."

I looked her up and down. I'm not sure what I expected, but she certainly wasn't it. "When can I get out of here?"

"As soon as you sign this form." She passed me a clipboard and a pen through the bars.

"What is it?"

"I need your permission to act as your representative." She smiled. "Just sign it and I can get you out of here."

I glanced through the fine print that covered the page and shrugged. Whatever. I signed the form at the bottom and passed the pen and clipboard back to her. "Here you go."

She smiled once more. "I'll be back in a few minutes with someone to let you out." I watched as she disappeared from view. After a moment, I returned to my seat on the bench and waited as patiently as I could.

True to her word, only a few minutes later, she returned with a young rookie who unlocked the door and slid it back. "Come with me and let's go collect your belongings," she said. I followed her down the hall and back up the stairs to the booking area. I signed for my phone, car keys, and wallet and thanked them for their hospitality.

"What happens now?" I asked. "Am I off the hook?"

She shook her head. "Not exactly. I stood in arraignment for you and paid your bond." She looked encouragingly at me. "That's a good sign, you know. Homeland Security wanted you held without bail."

"Homeland Security?" I asked. "Why would Homeland Security be involved?"

We walked slowly out to the sidewalk as she explained things to me. "If you had only fixed the sidewalk, it would have been no big deal. But you tampered with the roadway which is in violation of Federal law since it's part of the critical infrastructure and falls under the Department of Transportation regulations."

"Why Homeland Security?" I was trying to make sense of this. "I fixed a hole in the road. They should be thankful."

"Any time someone messes with the roads, they treat it as a possible terrorist activity until proven otherwise." She nudged me with her elbow. "Luckily, the judge didn't buy into that and she granted bail. Which, like I said, is a good sign."

"Umm, how much trouble am I in?"

She looked concerned. "Technically, you could be sentenced to five-to-ten years in a Federal penitentiary."

"For fixing a fucking pothole?!" I counted slowly to ten to calm myself down. "Sorry about that," I muttered sheepishly.

She laughed. "Don't worry. You're out on bail until your hearing, which is three months away. Go home. Have fun. I'll call you."

As she headed off to the parking garage, I summoned an Uber ride. While I was waiting, I spent the time mentally composing my email that I would soon be sending to the police department. I planned on CC-ing the police chief, the mayor, and the entire city council as well. I was on my fifth iteration when my ride arrived.

As we neared my house, I was surprised to see that my pothole was back again. It was now a bit wider and noticeably deeper than before. "There's no need to be swearing like that, mate," admonished my driver as I angrily exited his car. I slammed the door and stomped up the sidewalk and let myself into the house. At least the police had locked my door. I mentally included this in my email tirade since I never mind giving credit where credit is due.

On the evening news there was a three-minute segment about the city's street-and-sidewalk renovation project that had just been approved by the city council. A lot was made about the addition of bike lanes and extra bus stops plus the safety aspect of more sidewalks. Toward the end, they showed a map with the estimated dates of when each section of the city would be upgraded. My street was in Phase V, some two years from now. I ate a pint of chocolate ice cream for dinner and went to bed depressed.

This morning, I woke up and began my email to the city. However, no matter how I tried to tell my story, I couldn't keep the accusatory tone out of it. I wasn't really angry with any of them. It would have been easy enough to vent my frustration on them, but they were just doing their job. Besides, what was my email going to accomplish? They would tell me to be patient and my pothole would be fixed in no time. By government standards, two years is no time at all. Just one more election cycle to get through.

I stood patiently on the sidewalk, admiring my work. It had taken another trip to Home Depot, but my pothole was no longer a pothole. It was packed and level and as good a job as any. It would certainly hold up for a couple of years until the professionals get here. As my great-aunt Cecille would say, "Any job worth doing is worth doing well." I was still admiring my handiwork when the first police car turned the corner and headed my way, its lights flashing and siren blaring.

I grinned as I raised my hands and waited for them. [TO BE CONTINUED]