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A Trade-Off

After years of walking around Lake Nokomis, here
in the Twin Cities, after beginning my walks before dawn,
and after another Coffee Shop Regular was mugged
in the early-morning-darkness, I decided to walk indoors
at the Mall of America, which is a huge place. 
Three of the stories at the rectangular Mall are complete,
and are about a kilometer (about six-tenths of a mile) long.
Five times around, on three floors, is about three miles.

Early in the morning, there are only a few walkers,
and about as many overnight workers, changing light bulbs,
remodeling shops for the next tenants, cleaning floors,
and two or three somewhat socially deprived dozers,
seemingly dependent on overnight laborers, because
the Security People let them sleep on benches, which they
would not do if there were not some special reasons.

Especially early on, at about six-thirty, it is not uncommon
to walk almost a full lap without really meeting anyone.
But the climate is controlled, which it is not, at the Lake.
And there are Security People, if just being there is security.
They do not look as if they have ever had to deal with
anything more serious than bubble gun under the seats.

I have to be delicate, now, and I am nothing if not delicate!

What I really needed to do was to delicately scratch myself
in a place where I do not scratch myself in public.
It occurred to me that there were undoubtedly hidden cameras
all over the Mall, and it became a contest between my need
to scratch, and my calculations about where the cameras
might miss what might be misunderstood as . . . oh, you know!

Then I passed one of those small kiosks that litter the first floor.




















It is a trade-off.

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