Check out my story, "Potholes/Pot Shots," about burritos and brawls at Roadside Fiction
All he wanted was a burrito. It looked like a road crew had managed to squeeze in just before him. And everyone knew what that meant. Each one came bearing a grubby list for every Joe who was carving up the road for some mysterious and arcane reason no one could ever seem to figure out. It clearly had nothing to do with potholes because those seemed impervious to all attempts at eradication. There was a kind of fatalism surrounding the pothole.
A glazed dead look would steal into their eyes if you tried to complain to a road worker about the condition of your street, how much you’ve spent on tires, the costly realignments. Of course, to be fair, they had nothing to do with what jobs got done. They were merely following orders like the rest of us. But what if there was, somewhere, a rogue road crew, who for the greater good of humanity, ignored their orders and went around filling in every pothole in sight?