by Freida Marie Crump
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Greetings from Poosey.
Certain occupations fascinate me… the guy who rakes the pitcher’s mound between innings at Kauffman Stadium, coffee testers for Starbucks, window washers on cruise ships, the lady who calls you to ask why you missed your physical therapy appointment. These jobs may not be all that exciting to those who hold them, but they each hold a certain curious element, something out of the ordinary. That’s why I walked over to where the state workers were eating lunch and asked Jason a few questions.
I’m not the nosy-newsy type who sticks her microphone into the face of grieving mothers or asks tornado victims how they feel, but I knew Jason’s parents and figured that I could sate my curiosity while he was finishing his pie. Jason’s a flagman. He corrected me. “We’re called flaggers. We took the sex out of the job.” I told him I wasn’t aware that there was sex in the job and he choked on a bit of pie.
“It’s a good job,” he said. “Actually, my wife’s a flagger, too. We’re a pair of flaggers.” The most obvious question related to boredom on the job. “Oh, you have your days,” he said. “We’re not allowed to wear any sort of earphone so we can hear what’s going on, but you get used to standing in one spot for most of the day.” So what are the main disadvantages to the job? “Heat and cold,” he said. “Since most of the work is done in the summer the heat’s the main problem. But at least we don’t spend any money at tanning salons.”
I hesitated to ask what I most wanted to know, but blundered on in my interview. “Uh…Jason. . . how do you, you know… ?” Jason smiled. “Go to the bathroom?” Relieved that he’d broached the subject before I had to put it into words, I said, “Yes.” He smiled again. “Just like everybody else.” This made me recall what a smart aleck Jason was when I knew him as a kid.
With over 100 highway workers killed last year and over 4,000 annually injured, it’s not a funny business. I asked Jason if he’d had some close calls. “Actually,” he said, “it’s getting worse. People on their cell phones. Nobody’s paying any attention to the law. And it’s usually not the first car you stop, it’s the second guy who doesn’t see me and doesn’t see the brake lights of the car in front of him. I’ve never been hit, but I’ve seen lots of bumpers get crushed.” Do people get angry at being stopped? “Oh heck yes. All the time. Like it’s my fault that the road is falling apart and we’re trying to fix it. People leave home with just barely enough time to get where they’re going and then they have to slow down or stop for road construction. Hey, the road needs fixing. I can’t help that. Maybe we should just let ‘em drive through the potholes.” Jason went on to say that he’d had various items tossed at him from a McDonald’s sack and drink cups to a shoe. “I’m not kidding. This one lady tossed a shoe out the window as she went by. I hope she limped the rest of the day.”
Some 30 states have begun to test out robo-flaggers, pairs of programmed stoplights with crossing guards that are lowered to stop the traffic. “I’d hate to be replaced by a machine,” said Jason, “but I’d also hate to come home some night with only one leg. Maybe it’s a good thing.”
I told him that I remembered the days before two-way radios where if you were the last car on one end of the waiting line the flagger actually handed you a flag to dangle out the window and deliver to the guy on the other end of the construction zone. Jason was too young. He’d never heard of such a thing.
The workers at Jason’s table were finishing up and pulling out their billfolds so I asked him the question that had been burning in my mind. “One more thing… are you supposed to wave at the flaggers? Do they like that or do they get tired of waving back?” Jason took but a second to respond, “What’s wrong with being friendly? I’m standing out there all day with a line of folks who are mad because they have to stop. It’s nice to see a pleasant wave. I’m human, ain’t I?”
Yes Jason, you are, and as the summer construction season ramps up and we’re faced with a flagger waving his paddle …it’s called a “paddle,” not a “sign” …it would do us all good to remember that that guy is human and he’d like to get home safely tonight …just like you and me.
You ever ‘round Poosey, stop by. We may not answer the door but you’ll enjoy the trip.