Pliable Pete

by Donna Poole

Back when I was just a piece of pliable plastic, PVC, Polyvinyl Chloride to be exact, I had a lofty goal. Some of my plastic friends hoped to become window frames, or drainpipes. Others wanted to go into high fashion and footwear. Many hoped to enter the automotive industry and become car interiors and seat coverings and contribute to that new car smell everyone loves. The brainy ones aspired to careers in medicine; they wanted to become medical devises and blood storage bags.

Not me!

I wasn’t interested in any of that. I had my own ambition, even though my friends laughed.

“Pete, you gotta be kidding! You want a job where you bake outside in the summer and freeze your base off in the winter? For what? Where’s the glory in that?”

They didn’t get it. I wanted to be a traffic cone, a pylon, and not just any pylon; I aimed for the top. I didn’t want to be just a six-inch pylon used for driver’s ed classes, or a twelve-inch one marking out an athletic field, or an eighteen-inch one used for landscaping or in parking areas. No sir: those weren’t for me. I aimed sky-high; thirty-six inches high to be exact.

I wanted to warn people of danger on roads. I would save lives, hundreds, maybe thousands of lives! What could be more glorious than that?

I knew I had what it took. I was the right color, Orange-152, blaze orange, the high visibility color. I was sturdy but soft and pliable enough so I wouldn’t dent vehicles that might hit me. I practiced my flexibility exercises to get prepared for my dream job. I had courage too; it takes courage to be a pylon. You can’t flinch when semi-trucks come within inches of you.

Not every piece of plastic is cut out to be a traffic cone. Pylons must be patient. They can’t lose their tempers when a stray dog decides to add a bit of yellow to their orange or when a disgruntled construction worker tosses them into a truck with unnecessary force.

I was ready. I was waiting. Would they pick me?

Finally, my day came. I was what I’d always dreamed of being: a traffic cone, a channelizing device, a pylon. Not just any cone; I was Pete, the Pylon! When they loaded me on the truck my orange heart almost beat out of my chest.

Where are they taking me? Chicago? New York City? Los Angeles? Atlanta?

Don’t laugh, but even Pylons dream, and I’d always dreamed high as you may have noticed by now. So, at first, I was more than a little disappointed when they plopped me down on a little two-lane road in rural southern Michigan where they were doing construction. But my dismay didn’t last long. Unless you’ve been part of something bigger than yourself, you have no idea how it feels to stand soldier straight in a line with others, doing your duty in all kinds of weather.

The cone next to me was weathered and dented. He told me I could call him Mr. Bill. He said he was the oldest cone he knew; he been made by the Kelch Company.

“I think I’m about forty years old now, kid,” he said. “I belong in a museum somewhere. Some cones like us only last minutes.”

“What happens to us?”

“Oh, a semi runs over us, or some kid steals us for a T-ball stand or a soccer field marker. It’s a misdemeanor to steal us or deliberately run over us, but about one million of us are taken every year. Some people use us to advertise their garage sales!”

Pliable Pete shuddered.

“You okay there, kid?”

“Yeah, it’s just I’ve dreamed my whole life of standing straight and true warning people of danger, and I don’t want to end up advertising some old lady’s garage sale.”

Mr. Bill laughed. “Your whole life, huh? That can’t have been very long. Tell you what. You have a good heart. I’ll do my best to look out for you.”

Through the long, hot Michigan summer the two cones stood next to each other. Pliable Pete told Mr. Bill he wanted to live to be the oldest traffic cone in history and save hundreds, maybe thousands of lives. Mr. Bill told Pete stories of when he’d been in the Big Apple, the Windy City, and within sight of the Golden Gate Bridge.

“Do you think I’ll get to go any of those places, Mr. Bill?”

“Maybe, kid. Never hurts to dream.”

And then it happened. One rainy September day a semi barely missed Mr. Bill but clipped Pete. Dented and crumpled, he tumbled on his side partway into the ditch and began to cry.

The last thing he heard was Mr. Bill saying, “Hey, kid, you did what you could for as long as you could. No one could do more.”

A car was passing, windshield wipers whipping away the deluge. There were almost as many tears inside as outside; the husband was trying to comfort his wife. Neither of them saw the long line of straight warning soldiers, Orange-152, but at the last minute she spotted the traffic cone lying on its side partway in the ditch.

“Honey, be careful!”

He swerved just in time to avoid joining Pliable Pete, and who knows, two lives may have been saved.

They continued their journey to the cancer center at the University of Michigan.

“I just feel so useless these days. I can’t do one-tenth of what I used to do,” she said.

“Rest when you need to,” he said, “and then do what you can for as long as you can. No one can do more.”

She wiped her face and nodded. “Do you think I’ll ever get well?”

The rain had stopped. He took one hand from the steering wheel and squeezed hers. “It never hurts to dream. And pray.”

And they did.