"Human Being"

Spaced out during lunch, walking the dead-end section of 24th Avenue South that runs in front of the Federal Detention Center, listening to Cat Power's Sun, I was hailed by a voice:

"Can I help you find something?"

I looked up toward what must be the detention center's employee parking lot and saw a young black man looking back at me. His demeanor was professional and polite, but none too pleased.

I pulled out one of my ear buds and said, "No. I'm just listening to music. I work down the road."

I put my ear bud back in and turned my back and slowly made my way out of the scrub on the other side of the concrete barriers that mark the dead end.

I generally don't go on this street because I assume that it's all monitored by close-circuit television and that my languorous lunch-time strolling probably elicits concern on the part of whoever is watching.

I wasn't doing anything illegal. I wasn't loitering. I was moving. I was dressed for the office. The scrub beyond the dead end is not marked by "No Trespassing" signs. The only sign read "Road Closed." Meaning, or so I interpreted, closed to vehicular traffic.

But I would rather not bother anyone.