Showdown at the Crosswalk Corner

I tell five students to wait at the corner in the afternoon sun. They obey.

“But school is done,” a demanding third-grader says, “and I wanna cross the street now!”

I just look at the kid, and he hangs his head. We go to the same red-brick elementary school, but I am in fifth grade and I am a “safety boy.”

And the white cloth “safety patrol belt” that stretches over one shoulder and down and around my waist commands respect. It is the elementary school symbol of peace, justice, and crosswalk control. And attached to my safety belt is one extra bit of authority—a lieutenant’s badge. Which means I can boss some of my fellow safety boys around.

I cannot help that my position brings out the worst in me. Excessive pride produces the elementary school equivalent of being drunk with power. Not a good look for a lawman, I know, but…

“Hey!” an adult voice snaps me out of a braggadocious daydream.

It’s Mr. Coates, the school janitor/safety boy director, standing in the middle of the street with outstretched arms. I immediately tell the kids on my corner to cross the street.

Soon, Mr. Coates tells me that one of my charges went home sick, and I need to pull another safety boy off this street and put him on the school driveway.

I walk up the street and yell, “Tucker, take the driveway post.”

Tucker shakes his head.

I cannot allow a subordinate to question my absolute authority. I get nose-to-nose with Tucker and shout, “You are gonna go there, NOW!”

“Make me,” he says.

I reassess, the mark of a true leader. And I say, “Never mind, Tucker. I’ll take the driveway post, and tell Mr. Coates that you refused to go.”

Before I can take a step, Tucker stomps off to the driveway.

Later, when the last child has crossed the street, I turn and Tucker is standing in my way. He pushes me. I push back.

The next thing I know, the two of us are throwing punches, rolling around on the sidewalk outside a drug store. Several safety boys surround us, yelling. All of us are still wearing our safety belts.

“Disgraceful!” a woman’s voice quiets the lawboys and stops the fight. “I am reporting all of you to your principal.”

The next day at school I am called to the principal’s office. What did the passerby say? Am I about to be stripped of my lieutenant’s badge? Maybe even lose my safety patrol belt?

At the office, the principal says four words, “Don’t do it, again.”

That is all!

As I walk back to class, my fiendish pride returns and I plot ways to make Tucker feel my wrath.