Tales from the Flat Space

There are three security guards down at the Flat Space. Each makes a unique contribution to the menagerie of people and animals gathered there on any given morning.

One (Territorial Guy) assumes a soldierly stance, arms folded, one foot planted on the running-around-path that I jog along. The second (Scented Man) ducks into his car to splash on the strongest cologne I have ever experienced. I mean, we're outdoors on a blustery day, and I'm still overwhelmed when I reach the space downwind of him. It's actually easier to breathe when he stands on the path smoking.

The third (Big Smiling Man) is the happiest cheerleader ever. He greets me every morning, watches the progress of the first few laps. When I pass him by he jogs on the spot, smiling encouragingly. And when I finish he raises his fists with two thumbs up.

A bizarre coterie.

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