Tulsa construction had reached its final evolutionary form: pure chaos with a reflective vest.
Every morning, Stan tried to leave his driveway like a normal human being, only to discover that overnight, while he slept peacefully, a new set of orange cones had multiplied like rabbits with a union contract. By 8:15 AM, he was still inching toward the highway, whispering the same prayer he’d whispered every day that week: “Lord… just get me to work. I don’t even have to be on time. Just… get me there.”
Getting home was worse. Much worse. The morning commute was a battle. The evening commute was a pilgrimage. He’d leave work at 5:00 PM and somehow arrive home at 7:42 PM, spiritually aged by at least three decades. His Apple Watch thought he’d taken up stress-based cardio.
At one point, stuck behind a backhoe that seemed to be digging a hole for fun, he muttered: “Can I work from home like in 2020?” No one answered. But the cones seemed to nod sympathetically.
Going to the store had become a joke. One of those jokes that’s funny until you realize you’re the punchline. Stan tried to order groceries online, but even delivery had changed: “A road construction fee has been added to your order.” A construction fee for groceries in Tulsa? He stared at the screen as if it had personally betrayed him.
Sunday morning didn’t offer much relief. Getting to church required the faith of Abraham, the patience of Job, and the navigation skills of a medieval cartographer. He prayed to get there. He prayed to find parking. He prayed to find the exit. He prayed to find his way home.
By the time he finally sat in the pew, he was spiritually warmed up. Not by worship, but by surviving three detours, one lane closure, and a construction worker who waved him forward with the confidence of someone who absolutely did not know where he was sending him. When the pastor said, “Let’s bow our heads,” Stan whispered, “Already did. Several times. On the way here.”
Every day, the thought crept in: “Maybe I should move… just until this is done.” But he knew the truth. By the time the construction finished, he’d be too emotionally invested in the struggle. Too bonded with the cones. Too familiar with the detours. Besides, Tulsa construction never really ends. It just… relocates.









