King Cone
Great moments in building history: Using a cone makes you a lot cooler than walking around with a tape measure
Remember those classic comicbook “origination” tales we read as kids, the ones that explained how various superheroes acquired their powers, often by accident? I always believed they were just stories, until two summers ago, when I learned that under the right circumstances, it could happen to anyone—even me.
I was well into a curb-strip rehab project in front of my home, a monthlong ordeal that included the removal of 4 in. of soil from the 200-ft.-long corner parkway, then dry-setting bricks over the whole area. Beach stones would encircle four mature palm trees, standing in pairs on each side of the driveway. As the work progressed, it would be necessary to route passing cars around the pallets of bricks, the equipment, and the work crew, which consisted of just me and my helper, a high-school senior.
I bought several large fluorescent-orange cones, the kind we’ve all driven around many times as we passed public-works projects. On the morning the first two pallets of bricks arrived, we were busy muscling the gas-powered tamping machine over the sand/cement foundation bed. (Actually, my helper was doing the muscling; I was standing by, trying to look muscular.) I placed several cones in the street to divert traffic around the bricks and our work area.
Then it happened.
The cones not only willed passing cars into instant, dutiful obedience, but they also cast an aura of respect over the project. Drivers suddenly were doing approving double-takes as they examined the site; children were pointing in awe as we tamped and measured. It seemed the project had become The Project.
Slowly, the hidden powers of the cones were revealed to me. A man with cones to distribute assumes an air of importance, officialdom, competence. Drivers may fail to stop, yield, or slow down when directed by signs, but no one questions the authority of orange cones. They are their own law and enforcement in one.
With the cones proclaiming the serious nature of the project, people began stopping to ask, “Can you take a look at my curb strip?” and “Can I get an estimate?” Thanks in part to the cones, passersby were assuming that I was a contractor. On a scale of handyman coolness, that ranks well above walking around with a tape measure clipped to your belt or even driving home with a pickup truck full of lumber.
The presence of the cones also seemed to announce to the neighbors that This Guy Means Business, and several came by to investigate. One nearby couple even brought me a cold beer on a steamy afternoon, only to comment as they walked away, “That wife of his doesn’t even bring him a cold drink!” I wasn’t going to share the remark with my wife, but when I came back inside the house, I could see from her tormented expression that she’d heard every word. (Those folks were absent from our next neighborhood get-together.)
After a couple of weeks, my helper left for a cushy job as a valet at swank charity events. My orange comrades and I were left to finish the job alone, and we were equal to the task. Besides, the plastic pyramids had more magic to conjure up.
As I literally rounded the corner on the project and began working along the busier of the intersection’s two streets, I came into view of more passing drivers, including various building tradesmen who often shouted a reaffirming “Good job!” Thus I witnessed the final power of the cones. Thanks largely to the authority of their presence, I was acknowledged by professionals as A Guy Who Knows What He’s Doing, which was high praise indeed.
It was late on a warm afternoon when, with some regret, I arranged the cones for the last time. As always, they continued their quiet discipline of traffic. A few mallet taps settled the remaining bricks into place. After a final haul of equipment back to the house, I cleaned and put away the tools, and washed and stacked my trusty neon-bright helpers. The job was done.
As I turned to my next few projects, I realized that I wouldn’t be needing the cones in the foreseeable future. With my powers dormant, the orange sentries now sit silently in the garage, waiting for their next call to action. Hmm, is that a crack in the driveway?
Drawing by: Jackie Rogers
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