The air is New England brisk. Chilling even the most seasoned native in May. Still we're out for our walk. Whether in the morning to school, or in the afternoon for exercise. The pace can be that of a snail, or racing the bus to the stop. All the while, my eyes are looking, feeling the ground like a blind man's cane.
I perfected the art of the downcast eyes in grad school. As a lab group we would walk four blocks to the noon seminars. Twelve of us, hands behind our backs, eyes cast down, brains working overtime churning on our latest results, or lack there of. Today, with no data to be discussed, I watch for tire hazards. Screws, nail, bits of thick wire that could lead to anything from a slow leak to blowout.
It all started when I would selectively pick up change, ignoring everything else. Then it moved on to change and cans for the church can drive. After all I wouldn't step over a nickel. Then one day I saw eight screws littering a parking space. The vision of a mom with a minivan full of children flashed into my head. I couldn't let her get a flat tire. She doesn't have time to call AAA. And despite her mechanics assurances that her spare is fine, she hasn't seen or put her hands on her fifth tire tucked between the two rear wheels since forever.
This morning I found the screw and wire I found on the ground yesterday still in my pocket. It's a perfectly good screw; silver, shiny. I'm torn, and can't seem to discard it in the bin. After all, it might come in handy, and be the perfect simple machine to fix a future household problem.
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