I tend to feel sorry for many of my coworkers. A large percentage are what you would think of as the poor and downtrodden. Many are young and seem to barely get enough to eat. A handful of them wear home confinement ankle bracelets.
A couple nights ago, I was sitting in my truck after work, watching about a dozen of them head off into the dark and the pouring rain to wherever they called home. I wished that I could give them all a lift, but my five-passenger truck is effectually made a three-passenger truck by the dog crate and a few other things kept within the confines of the cab. Which two souls would I have saved from a soaking and which ones would I condemn to the storm?
Then I realized something. Most had cigarettes, cell phones and newish tattoos. Many also had body piercings and stylish tennis shoes. Strangely enough, though, not a one had an umbrella, or even a garbage-bag poncho. You can’t save people from themselves. © 2014