Black Humor Man: This particular type of ‘black ice cream’ is punitively paranoid.
I was in grade 5 or 6, a crossing guard in the icy unravellings they call Winnipeg,
Manitoba. Standing at the Lighted Crosswalk, pavement painted with rectangles.
I snapped out my flag sharply, to halt the traffic. A car applies breaks in a stopping
tactic. It, however, is the Hyborean Underworld of Winnipeg, and the vehicle simply
turns sideways and continues towards me and whoever I was trying to help across.
Helping them into a cross, more like it. Thankfully my next recollection is of
the car spooning the cross walk pole right where I coulda been a snow angel.