“I hate these round-abouts,” hissed Jimmy, as he navigated one of the new traffic circles that had popped up along his route to one of the building supply big-box stores that congregated near all the other types of big-box stores (along with a preponderance of restaurants, hotels, and discount chain optometrists and dentists — not to mentions an ever-expanding desert of asphalt).

The two of them were intent on traipsing through a massive retail wonderland of seemingly endless square miles of tools and gizmos, furniture and appliances, hardware and paint, and an entire department devoted to underwear designed for the construction worker at heart. The sole purpose of this trip was for buying things they really didn’t need, only because they had rebate checks from the last time they went out to buy things they really didn’t need (instigated by rebate checks from previous endeavors). Harry’s favorite unessential item was Australian Style licorice from a candy factory in Minnesota (check it out — it’s a real thing).

“I love these new round-—response that was immediate and well-choreographed. He knew Jimmy was going to grouse about the round-about — because he always does. Jimmy knew Harry was going to take the contrary position — because he always does. It was an off-key duet the two had sung for decades.

“Too many accidents at these things. No one knows how to use them.” Jimmy continued his complaint as he slowed his approach and then deftly maneuvered along the semi-circular path through the freshly constructed orbital intersection.

“Are you telling me you liked it when there was a four-way stop every mile along this road?” scoffed Harry. “Traffic would back up forever. I remember waiting at one stop sign for my turn to pull through, only to go about one hundred feet before I had to stop in line for the next stop sign. One year, I started out on Black Friday and didn’t get to where I was going until New Year’s Eve.”

Harry might have been exaggerating, but not by much. Over the years, he had intentionally waded into an excess of unnecessary debates with Jimmy and was fully aware that no amount of logic was going to change Jimmy’s mind (about anything). As a form of therapy, Harry has taken to discarding logical debate and replacing it with theatrical argumentation. He hasn’t won a single challenge with this tactic either, but he’s having a lot more fun doing it.

“There shouldn’t be any round-abouts on this road and there shouldn’t be any four-way stops, either,” charged Jimmy. “This road should go straight through to where I’m going.”

“So you’re saying they should redesign this road by getting rid of all the stuff that slows you down?’ What about the folks in cars, waiting at the side streets, trying to get someplace else?”

“I’m going this way. I’m not on the side street. I want this road, to go this way, and take me all the way to the big-box store of my choosing. Then, I want this same road to go that way and take me right back home so I can use whatever I just bought at the big-box store. I don’t want to slow down and drive around in circles every two miles.”

“I sure hope I’m never stuck in a car, waiting endlessly at an intersection, on a road designed just so you can cruise uninterrupted to buy a four-headed screwdriver,” countered Harry.

“Oh you won’t have to worry about that,” boasted Jimmy. “If you ride with me, I can get you right there.”

 

Larry Wilson is a mostly lifelong resident of Niles. His optimistic “glass full to overflowing” view of life shapes his writing. His essays stem from experiences, compilations and recollections from friends and family. Wilson touts himself as “a dubiously licensed teller of tall tales, sworn to uphold the precept of ‘It’s my story; that’s the way I’m telling it.’” He can be reached at wflw@hotmail.com.