evidence

One of the hydrants near the halfway house was knocked off its moorings. It reminded me of two things. One is the utter disregard that drivers use while traveling on Ponce. The second was a curious scenario that happened earlier in the day.

I went for a jog down Charles Allen on my way to the park. On my way back I took the same route and a few blocks down from Ponce I began to hear a piercing whistle. There was a small road crew lumbering around the site and a backhoe standing inanimate near a medium-sized divot in the asphalt. The crew had blocked off the road but the sidewalks were open and I proceeded to try and slip past the construction.

When I got closer I began to inhale powerful fumes and suddenly realized the crew had hit a gas pipe. The whistle was methane blasting through some breach in the underground pipes. I was almost on top of the scene by the time I realized what was happening, but the crew gave me a primarily glance and then ignored me. They were strangely clam, stoic faced despite the toxic, flammable material filing the area and their lungs. I scooted past them and continued several yards past the leak before pausing to look back. Again the workers, mostly twenty-somethings who appeared as apathetic as high school stoners, were still milling about, as if it was no big deal.

I jogged on up the street. In the distance I could hear sirens blaring, their screeching horns gaining ground. I turned off Charles Allen as a slew of fire trucks and APD cars flew down towards the leak. I looked back over the treetops, waiting for an explosion or yelling, but nothing happened. By all accounts, the leak was fixed and no one was hurt. The relaxed look of the road crew still sticks in my mind. I wonder how often that happens in this town to make someone act so indifferent.