On Securitas and the Dehumanization of Crickets

The most generous way to describe Securitas is low-skilled, probably as low-paid, rent-a-cops that don't actually do much copping. I've seen a parked Securitas car that, in the event of a wreck that occured with a violent punch not ten feet from where they were propping their feet up on the company remained still,without action, while others sped in their vehicles from coming-down crackheads who shouted in unknown mockeries of Chris (sic) Rock. Many times, when smoking in the West Oakland street and on which sits my current abode (if so it can be called, because what in West Oakland can be called a home without friends, a car, and an excuse to get away?), a Securitas pick-up truck (as so is their vehicular choice, so it seems) slowly loop around and stare me down as much as one can from the comfort of a steel-ploymer composite cage without actually looking at me until they weighed the prospect of asking a white boy what they were doing there against their own cowardice and laziness of exiting their vehicle and going to the hassle of having to confront me about my (in their untrainable eyes) questionable whereabouts facing the prospect of me pulling out some for of semi-endoresed identification stating that I, in fact, lived there (If living it can be, despite the luxury price tag, called.)

The only time I have ever actually spoken to a securitas (quote-unquote) officer was in search of one of those few genuine loves I pursue left in life: crickets. Crickets are the most beautiful of insects, and one I identify with intimatelyy. There's a thing called urban crickets: fabulous chirpers that make their homes in the railroad tracks, little cracks where buildings meet pavement, and other unlikely dwellings to makers of the world's eldest symphony, who sing and strum their songs unaged and disaffected by this facade that we, the progeny of machines, have come to believe wholly in. I (amongst others) have a whole mythology around crickets: they seem to be the sweetest of creatures, and the world is richer for them (and for us, the humans? the autopsy will show...). There is a beautiful site -- http://songsofinsects.com/ -- that speaks in terms less loving of these musicians that warms my heart and does not discourage the fostering of a cricker for a single night (given proper food, such as carrots, celery, and oats -- for variety -- and water, of course). Whereby exchange is made for a guest in one's house in chance he may sing... though never, of course, with thought of obligation.

So it was tonight that I ventured alone to the railroad tracks with a cricket cage to rival that in "The Cricket in Times Square" that, after over a year in Oaklana, Securitas sought to not only leave their vehicular sanctuary but confront me.