DB: Robobridgelady

A wonderful friend of mine, Jamie Chase, is allowing me the use of her car this winter. As hard core as I wish I was, there is little in me that desires braving the streets of our tilted geography with my hands frozen to the green handle-grips of my Moto. Having not driven much at all these past months, it is shocking how much less aware one must be in a sedan. On the moped every moment is spent in white knuckle anticipation of gravel in the road or some 4×4 forgetting to check its blind spot before it swoops into my lane. In the automatic powered everything green four-door it is easy for me to relax at the wheel and forget where I’m going at all.

I heard a statistic today that 5 months of my working year goes toward paying taxes. That’s a combination of sales, income, and this and that taxes, but still…really? Nearly half of the time I am doing my fair share, Uncle Sam is taking his. The question was brought up about the concept of stealing. At what point is the government stealing from me? 6 months? 7 months? How much work should I do for these people who seem to be incapable of keeping me working in the first place.

When the economy sinks, the first thing small businesses cut is advertising. I just so happen to work in an industry that depends on advertising dollars. So my job is disposable. In times like these its hard for me to believe in our system. Maybe my tax dollars have nothing to do with keeping the economy going, but I need to have a job if I’m they want me to keep paying taxes.

Having been denied the privilege of the highway system for a short time due to the slower nature of my scooter, I decided to take full advantage of the new interchange our tax dollars paid for from I5 to HW16 on my way between Downtown and U.P. The biweekly trek to Trader Joe’s for spelt bread and cheap superfood juice, is about the furthest that I travel on a regular basis, but I am rarely willing to brave the freeway even in the luxury of an auto. The empty lanes of a Sunday afternoon commute were peaceful and I was lulled into a state of contemplation pleased at the ease of hurtling my carcass across the surface of the planet in such rapid poise. While resembling a sterile womb, the highway serves as an interesting hypnosis in my world and by God, I paid for it, why the hell not enjoy it.

Daydreaming, I remembered that while still reeling from the second crash, my friend and scooting companion Sam pulled up out side my house on his new Yamaha and giggled as he said, “Watch for falling brokers today, huh?” Its odd to me that someone would commit suicide over loosing money, but I’ve never really had enough to leave my tax bracket much less my sky-scraper window, so what do I know?

Meaning to exit the freeway at Bridgeport, I found myself startled by the realization that I was about to drive over the Narrows Bridge. Talk about leaving my tax bracket. Finding no possible way of escape (aside from a fleeting desire to crank the wheel while throwing the e-brake and 180 my way to safety) I decided it was as nice a day as any to see the water from such a magnificent structure and found the first exit post-bridgeumous with which to return to my side of the sound. It dawned on me that I was going to be required to pay the toll on the way back. Sweet, and what if I’m running on my last $3 in the tank with just enough money to get this medicine back to my dying wife and our dying children?

Getting back on the bridge proved to be a problem. Not having a “Good to Go” sticker meant I was led through a maze of woody winding roads and a series of difficult to comprehend highway signs. As if I wasn’t already burning my precious fuel supply, I began to feel like my tax dollars were well spent on this wonderful system of bridges we’ve got here…so more people can drive faster further and use more gas in the process. Meanwhile, we are all spacing out on the highway, cruising right by downtown where the businesses that can’t advertise are waiting for customers notice something other than the commute.

I explained to the woman at the toll booth that I was an accidental bridge user, and she said, “That sometimes happens.” She sounded like a robot, and then she said, “The way the system is set up, I can’t let you cross until you give me $4.” The way the system is set up, that four dollars means a hell of a lot more to me that it ever will to Sound Transit. Robobridgelady, you don’t need to advertise to get your product out there. I gave her a five dollar bill and tried not to imagine myself handing her a loaf of spelt bread from Trader Joe’s. At least she had change, maybe I can get a pack of gum so that the people who pick me up on the streets tonight wont have to smell my empty-stomach breath. Oh bummer, gum is $1.08…with tax.

Stupid highway, stupid system.