“Traffic terrifies me.”

– Moby

The days grow short. The leaves fall. The air chills, and darkness approaches inexorably. For me, it’s the season of existential crisis: I must conceive my avatar while time remains.

My wife, Malevica, and I are summoned to a Halloween sabbat, and while she can slither thither au naturel, I am hobbled by doubt. Shall I be a vampire? (Cliché.) A hobgoblin? How about a pirate? A skeleton? Old Nick himself?

Nothing appeals: Nothing says evil and original, unique. Besides, there’s a complication. I have no costume remnants – not even a moth-eaten cape – and I don’t want to buy a costume or spend the time to make one to partake in just one sabbat.

So I rack my brain as I paw through the dusty racks of my overflow closet. My costume must be cheap, quick-to-fashion and eeevil! Exasperated, I invoke the aid of the Dark Powers. They rise, and the sound of dead, rustling leaves beneath unseen feet builds to a deafening roar followed by an eerie silence.

Then it comes to me in a whisper: I’ll go as a traffic engineer.

A sudden flash in the gloom reveals my entire persona. I’ll wear my old black-framed, thick glasses. I’ll sport my long-retired white dress shirt with its tight fit that betrays the hours its owner spends in an office chair. (So much for going as a skeleton!) I’ll dig out a nondescript tie, some slightly wrinkled slacks and scuffed black shoes.

Of course, I’ll need props. How about a slide rule? (No! No! I’m really showing my age here.) OK, a hand-held GPS. Then I’ll hang an ID tag around my neck that reads “Dept. of Transport.” And to cap it all off, I’ll don my old construction hard hat.

Voila: instant Denizen of Progress!

“But wait a minute,” you say. “What could be evil about traffic engineers? Aren’t they just dedicated civil servants who look out for public safety?”

So you might think, my friend – if you looked only at the surface. But inside that stereotypical costume is a restless, avaricious soul. While your children play in the schoolyard, the engineer, cloistered in his or her remote cubicle, scrutinizes maps – and lusts for more roads.

Maps, as seen through the squinting eyes of the engineer, haven’t nearly enough lines denoting roads – and morphing the landscape is their mission from perdition. Farmland or meadow? Impose a grid. Wetland? Pile gravel high. Mountain? Drill a tunnel. Forest? Cut a swath.

Widen roads; link roads; expand suburbs; connect suburbs; invoke eminent domain; build boulevards, byways, beltways and bridges! Think of it this way: If a road is pushed into an open area, development will soon follow. And development necessitates building new roads, perpetuating the cycle.

Decades ago traffic engineers in Washington, D.C., and suburban Virginia wanted to extend U.S. Highway 66 across the Potomac River. Their dream of increasing the flow of traffic encountered but one obstacle: They planned to build a bridge across the Theodore Roosevelt Island National Memorial bird sanctuary. Citizens’ groups objected to the project and pointed out there were several alternative locations for the bridge.

Undeterred, the Denizens of Progress schemed at a covert coven. Soon they built major arteries that terminated on the shores of the river on each side of the island. Traffic pouring from these outlets had to make its way along back streets to the nearest bridge, and soon the public demanded that the arteries be connected – by what is now the Theodore Roosevelt Bridge.

Ah, the will to power – delicious. And who knows what’s a-brewin’ in their cauldron this season. I say, “Don’t build it, and they won’t come.”

“But aren’t new roads necessary for progress, prosperity and jobs?” you ask. “Aren’t the engineers just abetting progress?”

Perhaps. Although it also could be true that our relentless expansion has spread us too thin, so we cannot sustain the capital requirements and energy demands of our road system.

However, it would be unfair to burden the Denizens of Progress with such considerations. Theirs is but to do – or join the ranks of the unemployed. But we can invite them to a Halloween roast, and baste them with a little satire at our ecological house.

Philip S. Wenz, who grew up in Durango and Boulder, now lives in Corvallis, Ore., where he teaches and writes about environmental issues. Reach him via e-mail through his website, www.your-ecological-house.com.