In Wake of Kaboom

Roadwork was happening at Piney Forest and Franklin, the busiest junction in town. It was a five-lane nuisance that promised everyone easy driving when finished.

When my mother and I came upon the intersection that summer day, cars were lined up at the traffic light. We watched a dozer ahead on the right dig earth as we sat. A man on the ground was assisting the operator.

Then, with a chink, the dozer struck something. In a split second the assistant had hurled himself away, arms outstretched like Superman in flight. We realized that air was rushing out of the ground so fast that it was tossing dirt from the hole. We could hear the hiss even with the windows closed. The assistant scrambled to his feet again and shouted to the driver to back off.

In the confusion it took drivers only seconds to assess the situation. A natural gas main had been ruptured and now filled the air—and our cars—with the gas. The traffic light still held red, but this was a game-changer. Drivers got nervous and zipped through the intersection and made quick U-turns. I was a passenger ready to bolt.

The assistant began directing traffic but with little effect: No one seemed to need his advice. Yet my dear mother sat waiting for instruction! I had the mind to strangle her but couldn't know whether if in this life or the one coming any second. It was time to get the hell away before our next stop became the pharmacy on the right or the cemetery on the left.

In the end there were no fireworks and everyone was safe. The gas main was repaired without further incident. And I—and my mother—lived to tell the story.