Walking to work

The weathermen, that cabal of planetary atmospheric priests, were predicting a cold, cloudy morning to be followed by cold, wet slush. So it was with some minor delight that when I walked to work, I actually saw vestiges of the sun trying to squeeze out some peach color through the grey veiled sky. And it wasn't as cold as expected. It was the refreshing sort, the one that softened the smell of diesel fuel from delivery trucks on the go and the breath of morning smokers rushing off to work. It was not a great morning to paint, by all means, but it was good enough to wake up to.

I like walking to work. It beats having to jostle for position on the train. I don't miss experiencing someone else's poor oral hygiene nor the rehearsed chants of beggars and mendicants. The wait for the train is often the worse part of the day. It's a lottery to actually get on once it does arrive. By the time one gets to work, one needs a coffee or two just to cut the edge off, the edge of that imaginary dagger stabbing into all the fellow commuters pushing all aside to get on and off. So walking to work helps me to avoid acting out on my homicidal impulses (of which we all have, I must add...).

I like the random thoughts that come into my head. For example, when I passed by the sanitation truck and saw the green uniformed men feeding the machine with other people's trash, I wondered what they must think of the habits of those whom they serve. They must have appalling judgments of the trash owners. The crossing guards are another folk I encounter. They smile, wave, and say a few words to the brave grade schoolers marching or being dragged to class. When cars slow before raised, authoritative arms, these guardswomen (and they are always women) must feel some sort of power and sadistic glee in forcing an entire street length of them to come to a complete halt. They are the metaphorical superman, able to stop several personal mini-locomotives in their tracks. All drivers, taxi drivers, the BMW or Saab owner, the mom trying to turn the corner and actually drop off her kids before the school bell rings, are subject to the sharp, cautious eye and quick judgments of the school crossing guard.

When I reached the last corner to cross before arriving at the office, a gas station attendant was putting up the new cost of gas on a tall sign. He was using a long metal pole with a suction cup at one end where the numbers would be attached. He noticed me and said with a smile: "No, sir, it is not ninety-nine cents." Too bad.