Big John Hudson slunk through the front door of Sarah’s diner, slapped his ball cap down on the table with the force of an asthmatic sneeze and sheepishly sighed, “I got lost, again.”

No one responded. No one broke tempo. Knives and forks continued to shovel breakfast goodness into open maws. Eventually, the roar of internal consumption engines rumbled to a slow stop, and Arnold Tobin reacted first. “That round-about at Ironwood and Auten get you again?” he asked with an understanding nod. “That one got me a couple of times, too.”

“Nope,” Big John mumbled. “This time it was the one over by the airport. I had to pick up my uncle coming in from Florida.”

“I hate that.” Harry agreed, as he offered an uncharacteristically comforting word to the intrepid traveler. “How late were you?”

“I gave up and came home,” sighed John. “I went around that circle so many times, my NAV system got car sick. You wouldn’t believe the things that lady in there was saying to me.” John took the first sip of his coffee before continuing, “My uncle had to get an Uber.”

“Is that one of those little cars from Yugoslavia?” asked Jimmie. “No wonder your uncle got lost. He should have called a taxi.”

“John’s uncle didn’t get lost,” corrected Firewalker (pleased that he had a rare chance to correct Jimmy). John got stuck on one of them roundi-round gizmos. You know what I’m talking about. Those things that were built by the insurance companies to cause minor traffic accidents and increase insurance rates. It’s a big insurance scam, financed by highway funds, paid for by taxpayers.” Firewalker would have continued, but his soapbox fell over.

“No, that’s not what those circular death traps are for,” quipped Tommy Jones (at 82 — the most experienced driver in the group). “The city installed them so the cops can practice low-speed get-away-car chases. Nowadays, all new recruits have to pass the course. If a patrolman can maneuver the circle on two wheels, like Joey Chitwood at a county fair, then they are certified to chase any bad guy, anywhere, anytime.” Tommy smiled at Sarah, as she refilled his coffee cup. “I heard about it at the barber shop and those guys know pretty much everything that goes on in this town.”

“Nope,” Jimmy jumped in, “Those twirly-gigs are for NASCAR training — you jump on, go fast and turn left. It’s a six-week course being offered by the state to help pay for highway construction. It’s all over Facebook — and there are pictures to prove the lies. Everything is the real-deal on Facebook.”

“Nope, you’re all wrong,” corrected Harry. “One of those merry-go-rounds on the way to the mall is used for demolition derby practice. I don’t need to get my haircut, or like a video of a cat coughing up an Elvis look-alike hairball, to know I’m right on this one. Just take a drive over there and look at how many times people have hit the brick mini-mountain in the middle of that thing.” Sarah skipped over Harry’s coffee refill – he had already hit his caffeine limit for the morning. “I’ll be surprised if crumbling pile of bricks lasts through the winter snow-plows.”

“Whatever the reason for making those danged things,” grumbled Big John, “It sure wasn’t to make my life any easier.”

“What time did your uncle finally get home?” asked Arnold.

“I don’t know,” sighed John. “The Uber driver got lost.”

Larry Wilson is a mostly lifelong resident of Niles. His essays stem from experiences, compilations and recollections from friends and family. He can be reached at wflw@hotmail.com.