Crews were laying pipes on our side street all week (the gas company is replacing old cast iron with more durable materials), and the disruption it has caused was more than just a minor inconvenience on occasion. The usual Monday through Friday routine would be affected by the necessary closures.
My street had the privilege of getting a traffic signal a few years ago, so when the side street was closed off while the crews jackhammered their way through the fairly newer asphalt to dig up the pipes, one would simply head for the light and wait to make a turn.
In an ideal world, that is.
Several of the homes on the block house tenants on the second floor, adding to the usual parking woes on streets which were designed to hold one vehicle per house. The tenants usually obtain parking permits to be allowed to stay on the street overnight, but then the block becomes a one-way only thin strip of available navigation space.
The other day, one of the bus company’s senior and handicapped vans was pulled over to allow a resident to board with their walker. The driver parked on an angle to allow space between the curb or driveway and the first step on the van, but in doing so, she made passing impossible. Queue a driver heading toward the traffic light, who became impatient at having to wait and did not want to do a k-turn (also known locally as a “U-ie”) and head the other way, so she began yelling at the driver and poor disabled person, who were working together to get in and get going.
What alerted me to this chaos (since I was in my home office on the clock doing my job) was the sudden cacophony of raised voices coming from the street. I went to the door to check out what was happening, along with my neighbors next door, and I realized I was encountering my first Karen. She didn’t want a manager, however; she just wanted everybody to hop to it and get out of her way.
I then saw my neighbor using the walker, with whom I’ve had little actual social contact, wave his hand at the instigator, flip the middle finger and start chanting “get lost” in so many words (I don’t think I need to spell it out). The scene was so deliciously bizarre; nobody of Boomer age would have considered thinking of that particular term, let alone using it aloud, in one’s prime. But here he was, letting her have it in classic dismissive style, arms waving while the walker remained on standby at the curb. The van driver then walked over to the lady’s window and started giving her a lecture about consideration for the elderly and infirm who depend on the transportation for therapy and some quality time in the company of others. I did not see the outcome, because my next door neighbor pulled us aside and discouraged us from being gawkers. He had a point, but had a fist flew at that car window, despite my total lack of experience in such things, I would’ve been over there in a flash. That did not appear to be necessary; in minutes the block was clear again.
All this chaos because a side street was blocked.
Normally, I set my trash out the morning of pickup, but this was the first week ever that it didn’t work for me: the waste management crew, who had apparently been alerted to the situation, came early, before I had even gotten dressed, and my trash didn’t make it to the curb in time.
To add insult to injury, Mister Softee decided to take advantage of the nice weather to show up for an ice cream run. Fifteen minutes before dinner. I lay the blame upon the construction slowing down their route. So I missed trash collection, and I missed my ice cream. And I saw my first live Karen showdown.
Those new pipes better work well until I leave this earth; I don’t want to go through all this again.
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