"Gen X" was "coming of age".
There was sort of a bedsheet shaking.
"I'm sick," a guy opened a front door a bit and proved himself to have a thermometer in his mouth. We'd come through the climax of a forced PC--foreign operatives having actual place in politics and other professions of our nation. A confusing mess of (i)who can be trusted(i) and (i)with what(i).
Wave after wave of youthful vigor had to be met with the pegs for guardrails all over the Country. In the excitement for a future that would include us there were standstill moments and herd rushes. There was also a comradery to just being American with the freedom to join (or not) various groups and lifestyles. That freedom alone presented a need for levels of security around "sensitive" information.
Yes, the wall had come down in our own Germany. But chaos is not such a great idea, better to (i)do the right thing(i). "And what is the right thing to do?" A girl asked the Gen X white guys at a table outside of a cafè. One asked, "Why you asking us?" And another asked, "What are you trying to do?"
"It's been a dreadfully slow morning," the barristá came out and told her boyfriend/promise partner/husband-to-be. "Let's see if we can borrow a truck and get some day work," one of the guys said to the other guys. And they got up, walked down the street, asked to use an old truck, got permission, told: (i)we'll put gas in it(i), and drove it to the gas station. That day, after some phone calls to family with a good understanding of what was up locally, they hauled wood, ran errands, fixed a woodsplitter, wrangled a scared sheep, glued broken flowerpots, shared beef jerky, scraped layers of mud leftover from old storms, and found stuff like a radio thrown out because the batteries were dead. And some crates for a sibling that (i)never gets to do much because...(i) autism or cancer. "Likes records," the guy dug into his brain to find the space where he'd spent time with the sibling, gotten to know the person inside "the box".
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