bobsled

"911 Dispatch; what is the location of your emergency?"
"Uh, yeah, hi, Center Street in Provo."
"And the nature of your emergency?"
"One of those, um, barrier things tipped over."
"Hold please."
Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring.
"Highway Patrol."
"Yeah, hey, hi, so one of the barrier thingies tipped over."
"On the freeway?"
"Yes."
"Off ramp or on ramp?"
"Um, the exit..."
"Is anyone injured?"
"Well, no, but you know, someone could be if it's not moved."
"The concrete barrier is destroyed?"
"Oh, no, sorry, not that barrier, the orange thing. You know, like a cone but not."
(Long pause)
"Ma'am what is your name?"
"Meg. Walter."
"And your number?"
"555-555-5555" (I gave them the real one, settle down.)
Click.

It's been a while since I've felt that dumb after a phone call. I don't know what the orange things are called. I know that it probably would have been ok if the minor obstruction went unreported. But what if? What if there was a horrible accident cause by the tipped orange not-cone? I couldn't live with that. I get that the dispatcher wasn't super responsive cause he was writing down all the important deets, but how hard would it have been to say "Thanks for being a good citizen!" or "You probably saved a life today!" or "That's ok, most people don't know what the orange thingies are called." Also, my name technically isn't Meg Walter. The government still thinks I'm Meg Morley. So who knows what sort of list I'm on now. Maybe the official "Liar" list that Obama looks over every morning at breakfast. All night I waited for he or maybe Joe Biden to call and say "Meg. Orange thingies tip over all the time. It's not an emergency. One more 911 panic dial and that's it. You'll be Canadian. And it's been five months. Change your name already you dirty liar."