Mood: party time!
Topic: "Always Wear Gloves" (3)
It was a dark and gloomy night.
A mid-winter's night in the Appalachian plateau goes beyond cold when even the slightest breeze slices into whatever blocks its path. Behemoth travelers ferrying consumer goods to distant locations cause the swirl that brings the artificial breeze through to even the best-wrapped of those who waited for their passage. Once the tail lights had diminished in the distance, and the night was again still, those who waited went to work.
Interstate Highways were the public works projects of an entire generation. The pattern, developed over megamiles of effort, was to complete a stretch of the "new road" while traffic passed on the "old road. Once that stretch was completed, then traffic was routed thereon and construction swung to the next link, which was being served by that stretch of the "old road." The spread of construction detours back-and-forth stretched for fifty miles or more at various times. There were signs and painted arrows everywhere, and even the most frequent of travelers never seemed to be concerned at changes since last they passed. Therein, dear reader, lies our true tale.
The College of the Shire is a place of profound beauty, and remote. When assignments were completed, or ignored, the able minds thereof had to utilize adolescent creativity in complex and complicated manner, for there were few organized diversions. It was they who watched the Interstate again grow dark as individual transport vehicles passed them by, and it was they who carefully started to remove a sign or a directional arrow without creating a dangerous or unintended impediment. The coordination of so many, over such a wide distance, was conducted with militaristic efficiency. Geronimo himself never planned an ambush as well.
At almost exactly 2:00 AM on that winter's morn, all of the gathered signs and arrows had been properly placed in order to divert the subject transit traffic. Down, off of the Interstate, onto the normal "old road" detour, then off it again to the road leading into the College of the Shire itself. The final arrow, of course, led directly into the driveway of the Presidents House.
At approximately 3:15 AM, the President was awakened by what is best described as a cacophony; voices and airhorns united in vexed frustration. The line of traffic, all of which were "semis" in the vernacular of the highway, stretched for more than a mile effectively blocking all traffic along the way until, quite obviously, one reached the garage of the Presidents residence.
The State Police were present when the last truck headed back onto its proper routing, just as most of the campus was making its' way to the Student Union for breakfast. Their leader instructed his minions to search for fingerprints, and other pieces of evidence so that blame and restitution could properly be assessed. He was, indeed, a silly boy.
How much time has passed since all those frozen toes were warmed by the heated countenances of those who fell prey to a prank unrivaled by any of the legacy institutions. None were hurt, although many were inconvenienced. The upshot is that all, today, look back and laugh at the memory.