Work Convoy
Admiral Biscuit
It wasn’t often that I slowed to appreciate roadwork. Usually, I tried to avoid construction zones, or get out of them as fast as possible.
I’d just gotten off work and was setting out on my way home when I saw a bright orange truck roll by on the state highway, one I’d seen in action before. A paint truck, spraying new lines on the road.
They were a fascinating bit of equipment. All the ones I’d seen had been cabovers, which was rare in America. They had a long flatbed body fitted with tanks of paint and some kind of air compressor, and then down at the very back of the truck there were two little platforms that hung down—that was where the painter sat. Which side depended on whether he was doing centerlines or edge lines on the road.
The back of the truck was splattered in white overspray on my side, at least; the other side would have had yellow on it.
Years ago, back when I was in college, I’d stopped at a Wendy’s and there had been one of the spraying trucks in the parking lot—the crew was getting dinner after a long day of spraying roads.
While I waited for my order, I noticed the guys sitting at the table. Most of them looked pretty normal, like any kind of road worker that you might notice and then your eyes would just slide over them. One guy, though, he had a Carhart jacket on that had faded to an almost white color, and the ends of both of the sleeves were splattered with road paint. He was obviously the guy who sat outside and ran the sprayer.
It had been years, and I genuinely couldn’t remember what the rest of the crew had looked like, but that guy stuck in my memory.
The paint truck was followed by a road commission stakebed truck with one of the side panels taken out, and a guy on the back was dropping traffic cones onto the freshly-painted center stripe. I noticed that he had a fall-arrest harness on, which was tied to something strong on the truck. I couldn't tell what; it was blocked by a stack of traffic cones. The back of the truck also had a lowered crash attenuation barrier on it, offering some additional protection to the workers.
He was very skilled at dropping road cones; every one of them landed in the middle of the freshly-painted stripe, and every one remained upright. I suppose that came with practice. Back when I’d worked at Meijer, one of the guys running the Tennant floor scrubber had that kind of talent with the collapsible ‘wet floor’ cones; he’d grab them out of the tube as he went by and chuck them behind him to unfold, upright, on the floor.
And of course behind that came the inevitable traffic backup. They were probably going exactly the speed limit, maybe a little slower. I wasn’t sure how fast those trucks could paint, although in town it was probably a moot point. When they got out into the country, I doubted the truck would be cruising at fifty-five—or the sixty plus that most people drove.
I’d seen evidence on the road before of people passing these trucks—the idea of the cones was to keep people from crossing the fresh paint, but they did anyway and left an arc of road stripes on the pavement from their tires. And presumably got paint on their cars, as well.
I had no doubt that some Karen had ignored the road cones, and then called the road commission to complain about the yellow paint on her car.
I had to wait until the slow parade of cars had passed by, and there was a short break I could have gone for but I saw another road commission truck approaching, yellow and green lights flashing, and I decided I didn’t want to be that guy, so I let it pass and pulled in behind it.
This one was also a stake truck, a twin to the first. It also had a crash attenuation barrier on the back, and a sign that said “WORK CONVOY DO NOT PASS” and a road worker in the back of it picking up the traffic cones.
This was fast-drying paint, it had to be in the fast-paced modern world.
I didn’t catch just how the road worker was picking up the traffic cones, not at first. I wasn’t quite in a position where I could see them disappearing. The last time I’d seen one of these trucks in action, it had a work platform right at the back where a guy was standing and picking them up.
I realized that this truck didn’t have that platform, and wondered if they had some kind of robotic arm like garbage trucks did these days, but I didn’t see that so I edged over as close to the line as I could get without crossing it and watched in amazement as the next traffic cone was suffused in a ruddy glow and then lifted off the pavement and soared through the missing stake panel as if by magic.
And in fact, it was magic, for just a moment later I caught a view of the worker. Not a human, but a unicorn—it stuck its head out to look for the next traffic cone.
I couldn’t see much of it, but it was lavender-colored with a safety vest on and a hard hat which appeared to have cutouts for its ears and horn.
As the front wheels of the truck passed the next centerline cone, its horn lit and then the cone started glowing, and as it came alongside the back of the truck, it was whisked up and neatly stacked, and then the unicorn leaned out and waited for the next one.
It was utterly fascinating to watch, and I stayed behind the truck as it passed the road that led to my home, any thoughts of kicking back and relaxing long gone—I wanted to see this free magic show for as long as it went on.
An hour later, the back of the truck was nearly full of cones and I’d just started to wonder if they would switch which truck was in front. Presumably if the rear truck was nearly full, the front truck was just about out of cones.
Sure enough, they did. I saw that the truck was slowing, and then I saw that the gas station ahead had a paint-sprayer truck and the other stakebed in it.
One of the road workers was leaned up against the side of the truck, smoking a cigarette. The painter—easily identifiable by the yellow and white paint on his long-sleeved shirt—was pacing around, probably getting a break from his seated position. As soon as they saw the second truck pull into the lot, they sprang into action: the painter walked back to the paint truck, and the guy with the cigarette walked alongside the stakebed.
The unicorn stuck its muzzle over the edge and then jumped down and started walking towards the other truck, and I got my first good look at it. The safety vest it was wearing was obviously not meant for a pony, I could see where they’d duct-taped it shut around its barrel. It had a short-cropped blonde tail which I think meant it was a stallion, although I couldn’t be sure if that was a thing that some mares did as well. Appropriately enough, its cutie mark was a traffic cone.
I wasn’t sure how it was going to get in the back of the stakebed. The cigarette-smoking worker had just boosted himself up, but that option wasn’t available to the pony. Would someone lift it up? Or would it get a running start and jump up?
It turned out it did neither. There was a bright flash, and it went from being on the ground to being in the back of the truck.
Another free magic trick I got to watch.
By the time I turned my attention back to the paint-spraying truck, it was already gone; I caught a glimpse of it in my rearview mirror. As expected, it was followed by the now re-coned stakebed truck.
The one holding the unicorn stayed in place long enough for the driver to go inside, get a couple of snacks, and return, offering one to the unicorn before he climbed back up in the cab, and then it turned back on the road and I followed.
After all, it was headed the same way I needed to go, and there was no reason not to watch more of this magic show.
