There he sat, chin cupped in his hand, while looking dejectly at the ground. From a few houses away, he looked like a clothed version of Rodin’s “The Thinker”. He was sitting there the entire time I walked down the block and then suddenly someone started the car from the house and he remained sitting there motionless, wearing a rather sullen scowl – that is, on the part of his face which was not embedded in the knuckles of his right hand. I heard a voice holler out “Kevin, get in here and eat and grab your backpack and wait for me in the car NOW” (emphasis on the NOW) – still no movement. Blue-jeaned butt glued to the cement. My butt, blue-jeaned or otherwise, would have received a swift kick to it and that would have gotten me movin’, but that was another era; besides, I would’ve been too scared to tempt fate to begin with. As an only child, I had no older siblings to set the standard of what I could get away with, so conforming to the rules and regs was the best choice. I’ve said before that I’ve gotten a few paddlings in my day, and in the long run, was never any the worse for it. I restrained myself from telling this young man that his pose greatly resembled the famous sculpture because I figured my comment would have been rewarded with a grimace and a response of “whatever”. Most likely the observation would have sailed right over his head anyway, so I tucked this vignette away to share with you in this forum and I just kept on walkin’ … whatever.