We crossed the Peace River. Arcadia had a small red brick building. “Florida Department of Transportation.” I thought: what a momentous institution; what a mundane house with its lonely pick-up truck in its parking lot. I would be miserable not to have proper acknowledgement of my status as an employee of power.
Then, I saw a small old bridge over Peace River. The bridge was gray and covered in black smears – sure signs of architectural age and unrequested isolation from humanity. It was made of that most mundane building material – concrete – and yet, its structure included three arches. This was a bridge no boat would ever go under, for how narrow Peace River was and how little space the arches left between them. It was a decorative, albeit unsightly, construction. despite everything, it had innate potential for pleasing the onlooker’s eye.
The dirt that had accumulated on the bridge’s surface showed no intervention of the sanitary forces of government-mandated maintenance or corporate homogeneity. The bridge was autonomous; free fom the hegemony of people it had never met.
The brick Department of Transportation, perhaps, did not desire anything grander either. After all, were it to possess the facilities of the Pentagon, well, then it would become the Pentagon. And who wants a burden like that when one lives on the Peace River.