We were visiting. As the gigantic operations of the world were being discussed, a lot of people had a pause.
"Well, as part of the Apprenticeship program stuff."
"But didn't they separate you Community College people from," the boyman looked up. A large black man took one step forward. "The rest of us son?"
A Disaster Zone trainer turned at the hip from photographing frayed tire. No fighting. "Frankly, no one should be talking. We need to concentrate. There's a plane wreck over there somewhere," the trainee told.
"No matter the side we're on." A lady sitting beside a mom said.
"Of the pond mother?"
"Don't call me that in public."
"Cha, don't call her at all. She's done with us."
"It makes me feel old."
"What's wrong with feeling old?" A neighborly elder asked and grinned, then bit into a salami sandwich.
"I need my knees to work since I can't seem to get off of them."
The folder of critical action needed was passed along with an envelope of War Zone photographs. "Pick people, pick. Limited amount of flights out of here."
No comments:
Post a Comment