Kross Walking By Golden

Shela is one of nature’s meanest creatures. She’s more aggressive than an African buffalo, known to charge a tree headlong just for looking at it sideways. She’s more ferocious than a badger, which when once it sinks its teeth into your flesh it won’t let go until you’re dead. And with twice the memory of elephant, she won’t forget a trespass on her territory, not tomorrow, not the next day, not forever. Yes, Shela might kill you in your sleep on Christmas, but she’s one hell of a crossing guard.

Cornered by an abandoned KFC, a liquor store, a bus stop that moonlights as a crackhouse, and a level-seven armored gas station, you might not think that such a derelict intersection as New York Avenue and North Capitol Streets would warrant the services of a crossing guard who was once in the employ of Mordor. However, location means nothing to Shela, she has a job to do, to protect the lives of pedestrians, all two of us, by disciplining sixteen city lanes of complete and utter chaos – chaos that often exceeds 50 mph. And quite the job she does. Shela could bring order to an asteroid field if the District asked her to.

Wearing enough neon to light a small city, Shela steps into oncoming traffic emboldened by the insanity of a rabid alley cat protecting her kittens. Except she probably hasn’t had young lings for thirty years. And she probably ate them. One thick arm lifts as if to part the Red Sea, the other raises a cold, metal whistle to vibrant lips. And then it happens. A deafening, disorienting alarm shrieks from the hollow belly of the whistle, rupturing the membranes of your inner ear. I’m never quite sure if the ground actually vibrates underfoot, or if it’s just the lobes rattling in my skull. It’s enough to stop a cement truck at full bore dead in its track.

I once made the mistake of stepping off the curb two seconds too early.

“You get back on that sidewalk,” was the command. If only God spoke in a voice like that. I looked down and averted eye contact, scared by the authority it possessed.

Just then a rusty Saturn attempted to dart like a deer across the intersection through the tail end of a yellow light in direct violation of Shela’s orders.

I don’t know why the driver thought he could slip by when her back was turned.

Shela exploded.

The whistle rang out like a bank alarm as she jumped in the path of the car, both palms nearly on the hood. It stopped, cornered, there was nowhere to go. The driver fidgeted.

“I. TOLD. YOU. TO. STOP! Did I say you could go? No! And you went on ahead through, didn’t you?”

It was like a public spanking at the mall. I was waiting for the belt to come off for a real whoopin’. So was the rest of the traffic, blocked by the butt of the car still sitting in the intersection. Everyone watching cringed. It was an awkward moment, but the lessoned was learned by all. Don’t ever cross Shela.

She regained composure, added “You do that again blue and I’m taking your license down,” before waving the driver through. Another whistle commenced traffic. Life thawed and began to move again as she waddled back over to the curb.

With surprising affection, she said to me. “You going to get yourself killed. These drivers don’t care about nobody but themselves. Next time you stand on that sidewalk until I say. Okay, baby?”

I nodded silently, stiffly. I’ll do whatever you tell me to, lady.

The countdown for pedestrian crossing was already blinking down, but I waited for her permission.

Shela barked, “If you going to cross you better run before that clock runs out.” All the love had vanished.

I sprinted across the street, tail between my legs.

Yes, Shela truly is the meanest of nature’s creatures. She’s fierce, and raw, and scary enough to straighten the Mansons. But she’s the finest employee of the District of Columbia, and that intersection is the new model for orderly conduct. And I’m glad to have her on my block.