vantage point

From the balcony could be seen a truck. Not of the usual kind found receiving a home car wash in the driveway at the end of a suburban cul-de-sac, but a utility truck of sort. All white, save for the details of decal and numbers indicating in a coded language to which service it belonged—and, by some chain of information, the driver’s name, license number, and humble wage.

Three men stood outside the vehicle, which itself had been repurposed as a temporary work station. Actually, two men both in middle age stood, while the third (appearing quite a bit younger) moved actively in a way that could not be confused for anything other than work. Exactly what he was doing I couldn’t grasp from this vantage point. All three wore black rubber boots and transparent plastic outer layers, thick and matte and trimmed in black at the seams. They also wore hard hats, apparently as much for the rain as for some convention of safety which seemed to be irrelevant to whatever work was being done. The younger one periodically ducked beneath a tented tarp in the left corner of the coned-off area around the truck. The nearest cone was also being used as a make-shift spool for a substantial length of black coil.

Between the sound of the heavy rain and the insulated double-glass door, I could barely hear the man farthest uphill call out. After which a deep thud, more felt than heard, threw the scene into disarray.