Security

Security is an illusion. A thousand cops with Kevlar vests and riot helmets won't stop a mob. Only slow it down, give it something to bite into, spit out, and piss on.

When I was in my teens, I felt secure. My parents took care of all the big stuff, like mortgages and taxes, heat and food. My friends, my posse, would hang with me, always ready to diss whatever bored us that day.

But middle age is a far cry from the teens. About as far as Iqaluit is from Toronto, in size, geographical location, and cosmopolitan-ness. The ages in the middle have found me, gripped me, and turned me into a combination of a cynic and a paranoid freak.

Every night, before bed, I check the locks. Sometimes a couple of times. Whenever I park the car, I go through a whole process of putting all the "good stuff" in the trunk, checking windows, the locks, even the parking brake. Worst, though, is when my two almost-adult-kids decide to take the car, or go out with a pack of friends. I practically bind myself to my cell phone, awaiting their text for a ride home. Better that than a trip to the police station to bail them out.

Or worse.

Yeah, I think of worse. I ponder it, stress it, allow it to blossom into mutated versions of the-absolute-most-terrible-thing-that-can-happen-does scenarios.

All the alarm systems, and radio response units, and body guards won't help me. Because it's what I can't see, what they won't anticipate, that's what scares me the most.