By John Klyce
It’s a torrid Tuesday afternoon on the corner of Goodman and Southern. Crossing guard Bob Jones stands on the side of the road as a bead of sweat trickles past his mustache and meets the toothpick dangling from his mouth.
The temperature is 91 degrees, and the bright neon vest covering his buttondown isn’t doing him any favors. But Jones isn’t complaining. A smile spreads on his face as a Toyota quickly approaches.
He steps onto the street, the red stop sign flying up in his hand and the whistle blowing from his mouth, loud and clear. The Camry slows to a halt.
John Klyce 