His uniform is the same every day; blue gloves that look more suited to snow than a California spring, a bucket hat that seems snatched from a fisherman's head, sunglasses, a flourescent vest and his red STOP! sign. Sure, the shirt and pants may change, and maybe even the shoes (not that I notice shoes much, mind you), but he looks the same every day, wearing the same glowering expression on his ancient face. He grudgingly assists anyone with children in crossing, but if you are a lone adult, he will not only not help you across the street, but turn around and face away from you, even deliberately ignoring you if you smile and wish him Good Morning.
When I walk past him, I just want to shake him and tell him that the world can't be as bad as he seems to think it is and dammit, it wouldn't kill him to return a greeting or at least smile once in a while. Instead, I just keep walking and think to myself about how much I dislike him. Maybe I'm afraid of turning out like he has, old, untrusting and filled to the brim with a sort of tired hatred.
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