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| A shaft of streetlight just before it pokes The Prude awake |
Let’s imagine The Prude Family, going home after enjoying Easter afternoon with relations. They will travel two hours through the soft evening of spring in the country. Husband Prude will drive, swig coffee, and argue with talk radio to keep awake. He keeps alert for amorous deer, raccoons etc. in the throes of Spring Passion.
These are mammals who, on catching the fragrance of an enticing female on the other side of the road, display their manliness by throwing their lusty selves in front of oncoming vehicles. (Look along any roadside in the country in the spring and you’ll see splatted hoards of virile young males of whatever species. The shy, under-muscled, bespectacled males of these species, conversely, find themselves objects of great desire by females since they are, after all, male. And alive.)
The Prude, nursing a chocolate-induced headache, dozes in the passenger seat.
So you have the scenario: a vigilant Husband driving, a headachy Prude snoozing, and dark country roads ambling gently past as the stars twinkle above. All is calm.
Until the blazing bane of the vehicular napper ruptures her dark and inky peace.
Street Lights.
Every tiny town, hamlet or burg is littered with them. Like clockwork, as soon as the sun drops, sadistic small town powers set them alight. Oblivious of light pollution, energy costs and a cranky Prude, each populated village beams a barrage of 400 watt light shafts in the car window, past The Prude’s fragile eyelids and into her throbbing head where they ricochet from her right-brain hemisphere to her left and back again, ad nauseum.
4 mini-towns, 6 fair-to-middlin towns, 1 metropolis and hundreds of light flashes later the Prude is home gulping down ibuprofin. But in her dreams that night she takes revenge as the Crusading Nemesis of the glaring streetlight. And she is armed with a BB gun.
Please come back tomorrow for ‘Readin, wRitin’ and ‘Rithmetic Wednesday!
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