I am Highway Safety. Not a department, mind you, or a slogan on a billboard. I am the ethereal, omnipresent force that — theoretically — prevents your morning commute from devolving into a Mad Max prequel. My job? To keep metal beasts from colliding, to ensure precious cargo arrives intact, and, most importantly, to keep your fleshy, squishy forms from becoming intimate with guardrails. It’s a thankless existence, perpetually on the defensive against the twin scourges of human hubris and distraction.
My day begins before the sun, as the first drowsy truckers rumble out of lots, many of them, I suspect, holding licenses barely more legitimate than a crayon drawing. I cling to their weary minds, whispering urgings: "Check your blind spot," "Don't nod off," "Perhaps that sixteen-year-old in the sedan isn't a good target for a game of chicken." It's exhausting. Every swerve, every close call, every moment of blatant disregard for the painted lines and glowing signals – that’s me, recoiling, absorbing the impact of your collective carelessness.
Lately, though, my existence has been particularly fraught. These "CDL mills," as you call them, are a veritable factory farm for my despair. People, *people*, obtaining commercial driving licenses with barely a rudimentary understanding of an eighteen-wheeler's sheer kinetic potential. It’s like handing a toddler a loaded slingshot and telling them to aim for the nearest priceless Ming vase. I scream internally, you see, as I witness the parade of inadequately trained individuals piloting multi-ton behemoths. I watch them fumble with gear shifts, misjudge braking distances, and navigate a simple curve as if it were the Kessel Run. Do they hear me, the silent plea for caution, the desperate whisper to *just pay attention*? Rarely.
You only notice me, or rather, my absence, when I fail. When the sirens wail, when the flashing lights paint the dawn, when the news anchors breathlessly report on yet another tragic pile-up. Then, oh then, everyone suddenly remembers my name. "What about highway safety?" they cry, wringing their hands, usually from the comfortable distance of their living rooms. "Something must be done!" they declare, as if I haven't been doing my damndest since the invention of the wheel, and certainly since the combustion engine decided to get competitive.
My confession? I'm tired. Bone-weary of being the reactive force, the afterthought. I exist because you create danger, and I’m just trying to mop up the spilled consequences. I'm not asking for reverence, merely a smidgen of awareness. Just for a moment, consider the forces at play, the physics of momentum, the fragility of life. Look up from your phone. You think I enjoy seeing mangled steel and broken dreams? Believe me, I take no pleasure in your misfortune. I am Highway Safety, and all I ask is that you help me do my job. Otherwise, one day, I might just give up. And then, good luck with that next merging lane.
