ERIC E WALLACE
ROAD WORK Dez had been given the finger twice this morning, though his shift was barely underway. By now he was used to getting the finger. Used to assholes like the Lexus jerk and his vicious back spray of gravel. Used to idiots like the cell-phoning bitch with her scary one-handed turn. Used to fuming, red-faced pricks slewing into abrupt 180s. Take it out on the flagman. Rude and angry drivers were getting to be the norm. Well, fuck ‘em. Who were they to look down on him? Remington said to write such people up, but how the hell do you read license plates when you’re dodging rocks or diving aside? How do you remember numbers when your blood pressure’s demanding a coronary? “Get their number and we’ll do a number on them,” said Remington, who loved inventing turns of phrase. As bosses went, Remington was okay. For one thing, he was adamant about making sure relief arrived on time. “There’s nothing badder than an anxious bladder,” he’d say. Dez couldn’t agree more. In his former job – his ‘real’ job, as he thought of it – junior execs had their own washroom, separate from the plebes. Dez had risen to that gratifying perk just months before the layoff slaughter. Now he had access to a stifling Port-a-Can in the boonies. Despite the big comedown, despite the lurching redirection in his life, Dez at least had a job. He knew 97
