THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Saturday, June 3, 1995 TAG: 9506020093
SECTION: DAILY BREAK PAGE: E3 EDITION: FINAL
TYPE: Column
SOURCE: Larry Maddry
LENGTH: Medium: 72 lines
GEE, THE TOLL canopies on the Virginia Beach-Norfolk Expressway are gone. Also missing are the uniformed toll collectors in the booths near Independence Boulevard.
And, of course, the collection bins, those greedy little mouths always waiting to be fed.
Gone but not forgotten.
Several years ago, a nice gentleman in coveralls who swept the area around the toll plaza loaned me a quarter when I had given out of money. I dropped it into a bin in the exact-change lane and sped on my way.
When I returned to pay him, he said he'd never had anyone fail to repay him and believed it proved that most of humankind was pretty decent.
We were decent. . . most of us.
I slipped now and then. Usually when things were going well and I was full of myself. The toll collectors, listening to the music on their portable radios, had heard it all. Mine were pretty weak:
``Excuse me, do you have change for a thousand dollar bill?''
``If I follow this to the end, will I reach Spokane?''
``Do you give green stamps?''
``Do you take Italian lira?
``My father is three cars back in the green Chevy and is paying for the entire family.''
The uniformed folks in the booth rolled their eyes and held out their hands. Bored. Toward the end of the day, their hands got dirty from handling the dollar bills, the fingers black, as if dipped in ink. I wish I'd been a little nicer . . . now that they're gone.
No one is going to miss the collection bins at the exits. Some of us hated them more than most. Every now and then, someone would drive up to one of the bins and fire bullets into the red light.
And the things we dropped in there . . . my, my. A hog's head was the worst thing reported, I discovered when riffling through old newspaper clippings. But you name it and it made its way into the collection bins:
Wads of paper, chewing gum, old socks, washers and bolts, old streetcar tokens, paint poured in from a bucket, paper clips, poker chips, marbles, rotten meat, marshmallows, carpet tacks. .
Be honest now, did you ever cheat at one of the collection bins? Not even once?
I know I did. Be tooling down the expressway listening to the radio and - Oh, my stars - here comes an exit where you pay! Frantic search through pockets for a dime. No luck. No change. Swift probe with the free hand of the space between the seat and seat back for loose change.
Nothing. Panic. Look on floorboard now for something that might resemble dime. Ah, a metal tab from a soft drink can. Perfect. Hit the brake and press that sucker into something resembling a coin.
Now . . . drop her in. Next, a look of shocked indignation when the light fails to turn green. Then a hand extended through the window jabbing at the offending, malfunctioner repeatedly with an accusing finger. Drive away.
From time to time, troopers hid in the yellow cubicles behind the collection bins, looking out from peepholes. Really. But I was never stopped by one. Most of the offenders they caught didn't bother to throw in paper clips or old campaign buttons. They just waved a hand at the bin as they rolled past, as though drying their nails.
Not me. I gave some performances at those toll bins over the years that were in a league with Barrymore's Hamlet, if I say so myself.
And I have absolutely no respect for any of you who merely waved a hand at the basket while driving through.
I always offered something. Even if it was a rolled up wad of foil from a stick of gum. Or a beer cap. And I feel a helluva lot nobler for it, too. by CNB