Abuse of Power

I pulled up to the light today, just like I’ve done every day this week, and there she was again. Three o’clock in the afternoon, through sunshine and showers, and this ogre in her bright orange vest stands on the corner waiting for me to arrive. The second she spots me, she sprints out into the middle of the street waving her bright red shield, her octagon of power, and forces me to wait until she condescends to allow me to pass.

Sure, it’s under the guise of letting kids cross the street. I get it. I’m not inhuman. She’s protecting them from the big bad cars. It makes sense. Just because I’m the only one who thinks the tykes ought to learn a little independence before they leave kindergarten doesn’t mean that everyone agrees with me. Some people insist on holding them back.

It’s not about what she does; it’s about how she does it. Those kids are long gone before she lowers her stop sign and ambles back to the corner. She lingers in the middle of that crosswalk and plants herself there knowing full well I want to get by. When they’re gone, she moseys back to the sidewalk like she has all the time in the world.

The first few times it happened I didn’t think much of it. I let it go. Little by little, it started to irk me. I began to wonder about her. After two or three times I’d had enough. This was clearly an abuse of power. Something had to be done.

“This woman has it out for me,” I told my wife, who was sitting in the passenger seat, watching it all unfold.

“You mean the crossing guard?”

“That’s what she calls herself.”

“That’s what she is.”

The whole opera played out in front of us. The kids walked to the other side while the crossing Führer remained in position long after they had passed. “Did you see that?”

“What’s the problem?”

“She’s messing with me. On purpose.” I put the car in first gear and we moved forward. “She could’ve been in and out of that crosswalk.”

“She’s elderly.”

“Have you seen elderly women speed-walk? They can move when they want to, believe me.”

“She was protecting the kids.”

“Oh? And who protects the drivers?”

What could she say? Deep down, she knew I was right. This crossing guard had gone too far in her abuse of power. I felt helpless. Someone had to knock her down a peg.

Is this an isolated incident or are there other power-mad crossing guards out there, who’ve let that bright orange vest go to their heads? Let me know.