I turned my collar up against the wind. A useless gesture, because the wind contemptuously insinuated itself under my skin regardless, but it made me look hard. And hardness was needed in this job. I walked around the playground, glaring at kids who even just looked like they might be thinking of doing something wrong. Crowds of them parted as I approached. One looked shifty.
Make my day, punk!
“You got a problem, son?” I gritted.
He shrank away.
But there was one who was following me around. A 16 year-old wannabee champion of the local turf, taunting me.
“Boy, you look tough… Sir.” “I like the swagger walk… Sir!”
After 5 minutes of this I wheeled around and faced him.
“OK”, I snarled. “I’m sick and tired of this. You wanna fight?”
He looked incredulous. “Yeah?!” he answered, a mixture of disbelief and defiance.
“OK”, I said. “I’ll hold your coat.”
We both laughed. The bell sounded. Time for Period 3.