The Median

You know what’ s crazy? I’ll tell you what’s crazy™

The median.

What the hell am I doing out here?

It’s like an automotive deserted island.

I’m a freak show in a grass cage, as hundreds of cars drive by, gawking, staring, wondering.

“What the hell is that news man doing out there?”

It’s 90 degrees. The sun is baking down upon me. There’s a heat index of 106. Cars and trucks are whizzing by. The stench of super heated exhaust is in the air.

I’m standing in overgrown grass, that’s 7 feet tall in some spots.

Bugs are wallowing below me.

Creepy Crawlers are flying around me.

If you like gasoline flavored insects, this is the place for you.

I’m in the middle of this on ramp on I-65 because my boss drove to work and he noticed the grass was so high, it prevented him from merging safely onto the interstate.

I am standing in this jungle of weeds and high grass and I am starting to itch, to scratch.

I don’t know if I really itch or it’s just a psychotic episode.

Whose got some calamine lotion I want to scream.

“Watch out for ticks,” my camera man shouts over a loud car with no muffler.

Ticks?

That’s all I need to hear.

What am I a Border Collie? Do I need an Advantax Choke Collar.

I’m sweating, and grass is sticking to my skin, and bugs are buzzing and now ticks might be sucking my blood.

Yikes.

What’s next? Lawn mowing Vampires?

I pull out my iphone and set it to video.

I walk through the forest of grass, the skyscrapers of weeds, the bastion of over growth.

The weeds and grass are taller than me. The stalks are thick cardboard.

I watch as the stalks of grass bang into the camera lens, then bounce away.

The little screen has amazing clarity, and I can tell that the shot is interesting as I walk through the brush.

It’s compelling, like a roadside version of star wars, jumping into hyper-space.

People honk as if to say “hey, dumbass, what the hell are you doing in the middle of an interstate?”

I ignore it. I always ignore it.

“go,” my camera man shouts. “let’s do this.”

I am sweating profusely, and my eyes are starting to itch.

Can you itch your eyes, I wonder.

“Rolling,” my camera man says, shouting over the roar of an 18 wheeler.

He is agitated. He wants to get out of this median of bug infestation.

I grab the mic and walk through the grass.

I disappear into the thicket, and push aside a shrub of some sort with little purple flowers that explode into a pollen induced neutron star as I push through.

That’s gonna be bad to inhale I think holding my breath.

“Go,” he shouts.

“I’m out in the middle of this on ramp where two roads merge to show you how difficult it is to see traffic,” I say walking in a desultory fashion. “Weeds and grass are six and seven feet high and cars don’t see approaching traffic till the last second.”

I finish the stand up and look at my camera man.

He looks like the answer to the question, “Are you ready to leave yet?”

“I’m done,” he says scratching his beard and then his neck and then his shoulder.

He looks like a photographic pin cushion of discomfort.

We get in the car and put on the air conditioning.

It’s soothing on my clammy, sweaty skin.

I wipe away grass, real and imagined, from my forehead.

“That was awful,” he says, merging blindly into traffic.

“That median really is hard to see through,” I say as we narrowly avoid a collision with an oncoming Jag.

He doesn’t care. He is tugging at his beard and his hair and his face.

I hope he is not infested with ticks. I hope I don’t have a bronchial condition from inhaling neutron weeds.

“You think we got enough?” I ask.