Once I learned that the roundabout at Taft Hill and Vine had been completed, the dreaded countdown toward the inevitable began. The subject of rancorous debate in our community had become a reality, and I needed to face it.

I headed over at 2 a.m., leaving wife and kids behind in relative safety. I left my cell phone too because if my wife were to awaken, she would call and plead for me to return home. But I had to charge my windmill, to stare my Moriarty in his wicked eye.

I approached the monster slowly in the Subaru, which I chose carefully for its maneuverability. The circular black asphalt seemed to shimmer in the faint moonlight; was it residual heat from the day, or perhaps the emanations of pure menace? Yellow directional lines stared back at me, like the squinting eyes of the Beast himself. I slowed, wringing my hands on the steering wheel, now slick with sweat. My mouth felt dry. The car’s metal and glass were tinfoil and tissue paper as the reality of my vulnerability sank in.

As the car crept forward, the headlights struck the signs. Signs everywhere! I counted 15 or 20, each imparting vital information—go this way, don’t go that way—on which my life depended. But amongst the signs, there were no signals. Nothing told me what I most needed to know: when to make my move. What I would have traded for the blessed reassurance of red, yellow and green.

My mind raced back to the debate. The protect-our-way-of-lifers had argued passionately against the roundabout. Maybe they were right. Maybe 90% fewer traffic deaths and hundreds of thousands of dollars saved weren’t worth uncorking this genie’s bottle.

Before the full meaning could register in my addled brain, I found myself within the maelstrom of black and yellow. Signs flickered in my peripheral vision, canceling out their confusing messages. Reflecting my headlights, they contained no energy of their own, just metallic deadness.

I longed for a light to give me guidance. Wait! There was a light, actually two lights, but not from a traffic signal, from an oncoming car! My knuckles now blanched and head reeling, the realization struck that I’m destined to share this nightmare with another hapless dope. Our frantic eyes met for a fleeting moment, and I could see that she too was regretting any past thought in favor of this circular demon. My mind cried out: give me back the ever-present threat of a side-impact demise! Give me back the endless games of four-way chicken with the unpredictable public! Give me back red lights! It’s better to be going nowhere than going through this hell.

Then it was over. The cacophony of signs vanished behind me. The Subaru itself seemed to accelerate on its own, beckoned by the next intersection, one with a traffic light.

I felt reborn. I had survived! I considered my future, now brighter than ever. Determined to overcome the next fear, I made a promise to myself: finally, I will walk straight into the Drunken Monkey and sit on one of those barstools that hangs from the ceiling like a child’s swing. And after I collect my courage, if only for a second, I’m going to take my hands off the ropes.