I’m the Guy Who Rejected June McCarroll’s Proposal to Add White Lines in the Center of Roads to Stop People From Crashing Into Each Other All the Time

Based on the true story of June McCarroll.

It may be hard to imagine now, but there was a time before lines were painted on the roads. A time when you’d look out above your dashboard and see nothing but open gray. A time when you can drive wherever you please: left side of the road, right side, center, into another car's windshield, you name it. The choice was yours. You were the captain of your destiny, not a white-line-painter, castrating your freedom.

But all of that changed when pro-white-liner June McCarroll stepped into my office. The year was 1917. I was Head of Roads back then and I loved my job.

She told a story of how she was recently run off the road by a truck, which landed her car in a ditch and how something should be done to separate the drivers into lanes so they know where to go. I laughed hysterically and then told my co-workers what she said and they laughed too. Personally, I thought that was a ridiculous leap in logic. Why would you need lanes to separate us when you can just swerve away from the truck at the last second and then swerve back onto the road before landing in the ditch? She clearly has the first swerve down, but needs to work on the second swerve yanking her back onto the road. It's an open-and-shut case of user error.

She responded with an anecdote about Indio Boulevard - a road in her hometown. She said the road used to be 8 feet wide, but then was expanded to 16 feet wide. Great, now math's involved. I took mental note of the numbers in case she was going to quiz me, but then they turned out to not even be relevant so it was a waste. This woman was ruining my day. She said the point was that the expansion of the road created a natural line in the center, and that line, albeit unintentional, divided the road into two lanes, causing everyone to not crash into each other all the time.

I leapt out of my chair. No way in holy hot hell will there be lanes on my roads! I bolted out the door and raced through the hallway when I bumped into Helen coming from the other direction, spilling my coffee all over the place. Goddamnit Helen. Stay on the other side of the hallway or something, don’t just barrel into me! Anyway, I got in my car and drove in the center of the road the whole way, as that was my right and that was my mood at the given time.

On the way to Indio Boulevard, I swerved away from two trucks that would have killed me, and back onto the road again, proving my point that as long as you successfully swerve four consecutive times you’re perfectly safe. It’s really not that difficult, you just have to jerk the steering wheel harder than you think. Plus, there’s the adrenaline release of the near-death experience to help you along the way.

When I got to Indio Boulevard my heart sank into my stomach. Just like June said, there was a natural line in the center from the construction, resulting in drivers neatly driving on the right side of the road. Fun fact I just realized, if both sets of drivers are driving on their right side of the road, they stay clear of each other, because of the science of facing opposite directions. Who knew.

The lanes were so neatly organized with drivers they reminded me of ants in an ant farm, blindly doing what they’re told, like communists or something. It made me sick. This is America. The land of lineless roads and unbound freedom. A battle against lines were brewing and it was a battle to save America.

I ordered a construction crew to pave down the line better so the road looked like what it was meant to be. One giant slab of gray.

Eight people died the next week but that's a small price to pay for keeping this nation intact. And it’s not like they died in vain. The very next day I created a driving course called "How to Swerve Away from Oncoming Traffic at the Last Second and Then Swerve Back Again at the Last Second.” That's how you save lives, June McCarroll. Two people died in that class, but those guys also didn’t die in vain because they showed the other students how important it is to swerve before the truck hits you.

June came into my office the next day in a horrid mood. But I sat her down and explained it all to her. "You see, it all comes down to driving philosophy--what you think the road system should be like. Should it be an organized system where everyone can pass each other safely and predictably like a clichè story where there's no surprises and everything's boring? Or should it be more like go-karting where you can bash--nay, are encouraged to bash other cars out of the way to get where you want to go, while gifting and receiving free doses of adrenaline. Personally, I think the choice is obvious." But she didn’t get it. Instead, she decided to take matters into her own hands.

She went back to Indio Boulevard and painted a two-mile white line in the center of the road, again turning drivers into communist ants. So I painted a two-mile gray line over it. Then she painted. Then I painted. Then she painted, and then I stopped, because Jesus Christ that was a lot of paint and this woman was relentless. I didn’t know where she found the energy or the paint.

I fought her tooth and nail for the next seven years, before the State of California sided with her and decided to paint center lines in 1924. Apparently, June had, like, statistics or something and that played a big role in the decision. I remember the day I found out, because I was fast-walking to my desk when I bumped into Helen in the hallway and spilled hot coffee on myself again. I swear, Helen’s blind or something—how did she not see me speedwalking in the center of the hallway?! There should be a hallway system or something to avoid these kinds of things.

I put up a good fight, but lost to June McCarrol as other states started to follow suit. They claim that thousands of lives have been saved, and maybe millions in the future. Whatever. When people lose the art form of swerving off the road and swerving back again at the last second, don’t come crying to me.

It’s 1938 now and I’m onto the next thing anyway. There’s this guy named Rolla Harger working on a way to prove intoxication while driving. Get this, if cops suspect you of driving while drunk, they can now use Rolla’s device called the Drunkometer that can prove you were drunk and land you in prison. So not only can you not drive in the center or left side of the road anymore, you can’t pound whiskey while doing it, which really takes most of the fun away from driving. These were truly the last days of Sodom.

I’m not Head of Roads anymore; I was demoted on account of thousands of people saying I was an obstacle to road safety. So I’m drinking away in my office, which now says Assistant to the White-Line Painter on the door. They had to combine two plaques to make it fit. I take my last swig of the day and notice that I downed half the bottle today. Depression can do that to you.

I was walking through the hallway when I bumped into a blurry version of Helen and spilled whiskey all over the place.

“Goddamnit Helen!” I yell.

Although this time I realize it may have been my fault, as I had no idea she was even there and the hallway was sideways.