Ode to an Intersection

Wood, Eric. “Downtown Plainfield, Indiana.” Oct. 21, 2012

Zach Foss, Writer
April 12, 2018

Time is but a matter of taste of differences

Alterations that eludes the greatest inferences…

From the closing of a teenaged haven

To a barber shop in the business of whiskers shaven…

Time shapes and molds the greatest century

Only to remain a strange and omniscient mystery… (cont. p.6)

In the early morning of a typical day in Plainfield, the sun was rising over the former farm fields that were constructed into new complexes of commerce and entertainment. The streaks of light and color led to glistering morning dew shining from lamp posts and windows. The breath of new life and a new day gracefully flew from the sun’s rays and nestled into the crevices of the ditches warming every inch of the lingering night’s darkness. As this occured the three friends of the intersection started their typical morning conversation. The stop-light, who was the one with height and perspective always started the conversation with a warm and hearty, “Hello my dear friends Mr. Stop Sign and siblings Lord Street and sweet Lady Sidewalk. What a fine sunny sunrise it is today.” Mr. Stop Sign was always the one to reply with promptness (as the two were leaders in representing the rules of the sacred intersection: in a way they acted as guardians).

Mr. Stop Sign bellowed his reply, “Why indeed it is quite fine, my metal parts are warming sooner today which is always welcome.” The brother and sister were usually the gloomier bunch of the intersection. They usually replied with components of doubt and stipulations on positivity. Lord Street replied groggily, “Yes it does seem like a nice day, but will it end up being so, one does not know…”

Lady Sidewalk agreed, “Yes such a lovely view, however the rush of the unruly subjects have yet to surface over the horizon. That is the most awful occurrence at such an early hour.”

Stop Light replied to re-establish the mood of such an early morning, “There there Lord Street and Lady Side Walk, the day isn’t ruined yet. Say Mr. Stop Sign, isn’t that new business starting up next to the Town House today?

Mr. Stop Sign replied, “Yes, the new barber shop is most certainly starting up today—”

Lord Street and Lady Sidewalk clambered together, “Dear God, not one of those again they never work.”

Mr. Stop Sign replied, “I hope they stay. It isn’t good for business having new shops in old buildings every week. That continuous change gives my personified head a major headache.”

Stop Light reassured them, as usual, “Come now, we have to give them a chance. It is a new business with new owners. It is bound to be different for sure.”

The others groaned saying, “Stop Light old friend, you say that every time, and every time it is the same”

Stop Light gingerly replied, “The times are bound to change back to when these shops were occupied. I remember the old ice cream shop with the Pharmacy next to it. Don’t you guys remember?”

Mr. Stop Sign replied reminiscing, “Ah yes, old man Darrell would make sure his windows were sparkling clean and make sure the trash around his store was disposed of by the time the store opened.”

Lord Street joined and said, “That was back when people actually walked places and I was able to enjoy the gentle rumming of tires over my asphalt.” He seemed in good manner after he remembered that memory.

Lady Sidewalk in turn had a positive remark to add, “Indeed my friends this was when people took care of us not avoiding the responsibilities of upkeep. They were much more conscientious and attentive to our well-being. I equate it to what they call a pampering.”

They all remembered those good days. They seemed at this point, once again, united. They joked and laughed (as much as intersections do) and enjoyed this hind sight. Then they remembered the time and saw the stream of metallic chrome shimmering on the horizon. The day was beginning. They started off speeding over Lord Street against his comfort level of 40 miles-per-hour. Lady Sidewalk, who did not receive much traffic anymore, felt her brother’s pain and felt his anguish, his frustration over the speeding line of traffic (as they were conjoined with the same asphalt and cement, they were the same in both family and material). The two leaders looked gravely on as they witnessed the progressing disregard for their sacred job of guardianship over this intersection. They felt their leadership dwindle and tick off from their pride. Mr. Stop Sign had less of a filter than his superior, he loathed such insubordination and spoke out against it. Their leadership had been under attack for some time, but there was nothing to do about it. School buses whizzed by crushing Lord Street. The frustration on Mr. Stop Signs face was that of border line tears. Stop Light could not do anything, but look on at the oncoming traffic. He waited till the end of the day to talk again. However, after every-day of constant disrespect they all wore down bit by bit. Lady Sidewalk always had a new crack in her by the end of the day. Lord Street seemed to always have a collection of trash and broken vehicle pieces lying about, and also has holes in his structure that never seem to heal properly, they seemingly get worse in the winter. Mr. Stop Sign, an object of self-pride, has been tilting over ever so slightly at the weather and the drift of racing cars desperate to get from point A to point B. He has a demeaner of a hunched aging man, with scratches of wear on his sign. As for Stop Light, he takes it all, he takes the weight of another day’s wear on his structure, with the new splash paintings from above, sure enough never to be cleaned. However, he watches from his crow’s nest as his friend’s experience hardships, he watches them omnisciently breaking down on the inside at the wear of age and disrepair on his friends. All he says one can count on is hope. So that is how he ends the day.

Stop Light sighs deeply and gently asks, “How do you think, my dear friends, the new barbers fared today?”

He asked this even as he watched from afar the lights from the barber shop being turned off and the familiar “For Sale” sign placed in the window. He knew all to well what this meant. They did not cut any hair today. No profit. to keep a familiar face around. He listened as his friends discussed their opinions; however, it was he who carried the burden of the truth: The truth that nothing will ever truly be the same again.

But hope drives the progresses that are made

Hoping to instill a snowy mount of change; a domino effect to cascade

From the groups of youth of naïve innocence

Brought to this world of hopeful remnants

Hope shapes and molds the greatest century

Hope seems only to remain and omniscient mystery