The teens in our small New England town consider themselves to be particularly eco-friendly. But apparently they grew weary of the limited impact bake sales, and Earth days, and environmental rallies were having upon global warming.
It seems that somehow, someway, they stumbled upon an idea to drastically reduce our town’s carbon footprint. It’s called the Traffic Signal Game, and I’m writing this as a warning to all hardworking adults, that it could be coming to your hometown next. At least this way you will be prepared, which is more than I can see for the citizens of _________________________.
Perhaps this violent insanity is limited to our town, but I fear not. We all know how things can turn viral, especially among the youth. Imagine the most vile, violent type of flash mob, and that gives you a small idea about the traffic signal game. Be on the lookout for the signs I will outline below, as you will not have much time to prepare. Do not go about in your usual quotidian manner, but rather be prepared to act fast. Hydrate well and keep your mind sharp. I’m telling you.
Over this particularly hot summer, I have noticed a simmering resentment from our town’s youth. I don’t mean the typical “Ok Boomer” attitude I’ve gotten while waiting in line for ice cream, mind you, or the slam-the-door histrionics of my own twin daughters. I mean something totally freaking cuckoo! Why, two weeks back, the Thompson boy stared me down at a traffic signal, and just as it was about to turn green, he shouted: “Why the truck, you fucking planet killer!”
Now I’m the first to admit that I’m an accountant by profession. Strictly speaking, a Ford F-150 isn’t necessary in my world. But when you’re also a hobbyist restorer of antique furniture, as I am, it certainly comes in handy. I’m not sure what these youth want! My wife even drives a Prius for Christ’s sakes, and we’ve been considering solar panels to save money!
Two or three days ago, I noticed a long yellow paint stripe on my front curb. Spray-painted, I would guess. Was it from one of the utility companies? Some of the neighborhood teens playing a prank? I couldn’t say, but I figured it an isolated incident. (Without the warnings contained in this letter, you would probably do the same.) And even as I drove through the neighborhood that day, and observed that there were red, yellow, and green marks on the curbs of all the homes in our development, I didn’t give it a second thought.
I can tell you that our daughters were positively bristling with…nervous energy. I even asked them if they knew anything about the spray-painted curbs, and they just looked at each other and laughed. When I pressed them, one of them even said, between giggles, “maybe it means that like, you and mom are marked for death or something.”
Now mind you, these were the same two young ladies who were more than happy to plop in my “wasteful” truck when it escorted them to the Taylor Swift concert a few weeks back. The same two teens who’ve been begging to fly to Paris on vacation. I’m not sure how it came to be that my generation is to blame for every stinking environmental mishap, but at least we’re not a bunch of hypocrites.
But what I’m trying to get across here is, there was a palpable tension in our town. A feeling or sense that something was…off. That something terrible was being hid in plain view. But none of that tension prepared me for what happened last night.
I awoke with a start, and realized my wife was already sitting up in bed. The alarm clock showed 2AM. From downstairs, I could hear an undefined chattering. Then creaking on our steps. And finally the twist of our door. I figured it was the twins, but when the light turned on it was a pack of four or five teens.
“Mr. and Mrs,” the ringleader said. “I see you inhabit a ‘yellow’ house.”
I stood up, pulling my pj’s together to not flash the flash mob that now commandeered my bedroom.
“A ‘yellow’ house?” My wife said. “What’s going on here?” She squinted and took on the disciplinarian role she had honed so well as a middle school teacher. “Bobby _________________?” she said. “Is that you? What are you mixed up in?”
That’s when the ringleader explained about the traffic signal game. He said that a bunch of the teens who were particularly eco-conscious had been brainstorming environmentally friendly ideas in the high school eco club when somebody joked killing off all the old people who “fucked the environment in the first place” might be one way to reduce the carbon footprint. It started as a joke, the ringleader continued, but in time the idea “took on a life of its own.” Culminating in further recruitment and then voting to assign a ‘carbon score’ to each of their neighbors. Green homes could be murdered freely, red should be left alone, and yellow meant caution, which came with its own set of rules.
“And what rules would those be,” I said, cutting off the raving lunatic and his cronies.
“Don’t interrupt me again, you cow fart,” the little bastard replied.
I tried to charge at them but they had the agility and strength of youth. “Sit back down,” the one my wife had identified as Bobby said. I was stymied and whipped.
My wife called our daughters’ names. We were so afraid that the twins might be harmed in all this commotion. I suppose we should have seen it coming, because when our daughters entered our bedroom they both carried large butcher knives and killer grins.
“Yes, mother dearest,” ______________ said. Then they both giggled and looped in with the other reprobates.
“Oooh, let the twins tell them about the yellow rules,” Bobby said. The ringleader glanced over at our daughters with a mischievous glare and then nodded his head. “Yeah,” he said. “Tell them.”
Our daughters explained that yellow meant we were not worthy of saving or straight away disposing of. “You’re lucky,” the ringleader interjected. “You were like, one fucking jet ski away from…” he made the sliced throat symbol.
“But, I’m sad to report,” our daughter ________________ said, that you are also the type of people who throw away aluminum cans in the trash and who are considering purchasing an RV.
“Yikes,” said Bobby. “Too lazy to even recycle consistently. What a couple of fucking engorged parasites.”
“So,” said our other daughter,__________________________. “We’re going to go outside now. And then you’re each going to get twenty seconds head-start, because you’re old as fuck, and if you can escape before we get to you then you can live. And will live in a much more environmentally friendly way, won’t we? But if we catch you first, well then, um, well then…”
So it came to be that my wife and I stood outside in the misty pre-morning, wearing our pj’s and slippers. They attached large rubber udders around us and kept calling us a pair of methane cows. “Mooo, you methane cows,” Bobby said. “Mooo!”
“Mooo,” I said.
“Hear that?” asked one of the other followers. I could hear screaming and violence all across our once quiet cul-de-sac. “That’s the sound of progress.”
“You’re all sick,” I said.
“Not as sick as poor Mother Earth,” said the ringleader. “Remember, we didn’t start this. But it’s up to our generation to finish it.”
Then they counted down to zero and we were off, my wife and I running toward the Thompson farm where they surely stored weapons. “Twenty, nineteen, eighteen,” came the countdown behind us. As the countdown reached ten my wife tripped in a groundhog hole. I wanted to help her up but for some reason, I just kept running. I’m still unsure what exactly happened to her. Whenever I call her phone, it’s disconnected.
I eventually made my way to the Thompson farm, and once there I found an old truck with its keys still in the ignition. I drove off as the horde of teens were descending upon me, my daughters at the front of the line, and I kept driving and never turned back until I was in New York.
Our town was so small, we had state police. I’m not sure if anyone even knows what happened there yet. But I have a horrible feeling this wasn’t something isolated. That wherever I go now, I am marked.
‘Yellow’ is how they rated me. Caution.
But I caution you, mature readers, as you go about your business the next few days, to keep your eyes open about the youth. They think that our climate is more important than human life. The teens in our town have lost their ever-loving minds! And I warn you with all sincerity and fear, that your town could very well be next.
Mind your teens. Fear the night. Beware the traffic signal game!