Could Be Better

I’m riding along the part of the Burke-Gilman Trail in Kenmore where they’re doing some roadwork and you detour onto the road for about a mile; I’m getting to the part where you head up a short incline to reconnect with the trail. There’s a flagger there—seems like she has a pretty awful job, standing around all day turning an octagonal sign that reads on one side “Stop,” and the other, “Slow.”

As I pull up, it’s apparent that she isn’t quite ready to dispatch her duties; she’s just stepped off the trail to light a cigarette. So, she sort of hops in front of me and says, “Wait. Stop. He’s backing up.” The “he” she’s talking about is a cement truck, inching its way down the incline from the trail to the road.

So, I stop, even though I think I could probably fit around him if I’m careful. But I’m sort of in a hurry and I don’t like being told what to do, so I kinda inch around the flagger. “Wait right here, sir,” she says in that voice that authorities use when they’re trying to exercise their authority.

“I just don’t want to be behind your cigarette,” I say, which is true, but not really why I’ve moved.

“All you have to do is tell me,” she says, not meaning that either.

Then, while I stand there, she strikes up a conversation with her fellow flagger and says, obviously for me to hear, “I don’t give a shit. You could die from any air you breathe.”

And at this point, I feel bad because this whole little interchange between human beings has gone so badly. I’ve made her feel guilty for not doing her job and she’s lashed out at me in a passive-aggressive way. We could have all been nice to each other on a lovely fall morning, but instead, I ride off having made a minor enemy without even meaning to.