Safety

Twelve baby boomers fondle this construction site every morning. Three of them pound housing framework into the ground while the rest either supervise or direct traffic. They turn on their glowsticks in the oppressive sunshine, and usher me across the sleepy residential street with an eager concern for safety (the sign posted at their workspace confirms that, to them, being safe is priority number one--more important, even, than the house those other three are erecting). I know that they go home and dream of all the human lives they will protect tomorrow. No one else on this street would ever conceive of it, but I feel like benevolently stealing their little boots so I can write my name by holding a pencil between my toes while wearing shoes. I won't, though. That's no way to treat the guardians of my mortal life.