Road Messages

Thomas had been the electronic sign manager for the Department of Transportation in Florida for four years. From the control center in Miami, he loved watching the road logistics screen. He sifted through incoming data for continuous updates on delays, accidents, roadwork, and complete traffic standstills.

Though he had never become the writer he once aspired to be, he took pride in the fact that his lit messages were visible for all – gold bulbs flashing over I-95 from Jupiter to Miami. It was a fun but hectic job, especially since the addition of Amber and Silver alerts. In Florida, with so many senior citizens, Silver alerts were now a daily occurrence.

After failing to become a published short story writer, and also unwilling to work in insurance or retail, the only careers he envisioned for an English major, he enrolled in a certificate program in computer science and road engineering, securing a job for the state DOT. Even though it wasn’t short story writing or poetry, Thomas still found joy in writing code and entering the daily message board updates. The flashing lights on the road board spoke to him, like a heart constantly beating or a mouth spitting out new lines.

On a Sunday at the end of August, a tropical depression formed off the coast of Africa, and he had a feeling that this hurricane might eventually hit Florida. There had never been a hurricane evacuation order since he’d started at the DOT. This was the event he always dreamed of. His day in the sun. His time up at bat with bases loaded and two outs. Evacuations of three million Florida residents meant that he would be front and center. All of those evacuees would be reading his words on the signboards as they escaped the swirling winds of Hurricane Jane.

He watched eagerly as the storm grew in wind speed and size. The Weather Channel became his constant companion, even at night as he dozed off. On September seventh, he sucked in his breath when the hurricane reached category five status.

On September eighth, Thomas cracked his knuckles and typed the first important message: Hurricane Watch, Evacuation Route, Traffic Expected. The second message occurred when watch became warning. This was followed by No Parking on Side of Road and Fender Benders Move to Shoulder.

Fourteen days after the initial formation of Jane, he had grown tired of listening to Dr. Rick on the Weather Channel. He’d set up a cot in the situation room, gathered his hurricane supplies: flashlights, canned goods, beef jerky, water, and Oreos. The cameras aimed at 95 showed only a few cars moving north. Everyone else was either hunkered down in their homes or apartments, or had already gone. Having cabin fever and no one to talk to, Thomas became restless. He began typing hurricane haikus:

       Your windy arms fly
       We hold our heated breath close
       Category five

This was picked up by the highway camera, and by that night made the national news. Twitter feeds picked it up and hurricane fans re-tweeted it. Thomas wasn’t aware this was occurring. He stared in a meditative gaze at the outer bands arriving in the Keys.

He heard wind at the door and water began to leak in and then cover the floor of the building.

He entered a second hurricane haiku on the signboards when Dr. Rick announced that the eye was over Miami:

       Jane, no longer plain
       Doppler radar indicates
       Your arrival soon

When the loud wind and scary sounds stopped, Thomas opened the door outside to see sun and sky as the eye passed over. He walked to the road so he could witness his haiku live. A smile spread across his face. Published, he thought. As he walked back, stepping over palm tree branches and roof shingles, the light faded, dark clouds slid in, and a roaring sound moved behind him.