Spring-Loaded Wake-Up

Crawling out from under that dented steel bowl, I locked eyes on a pair of long stainless steel kitchen tongs wedged against the milk crate, locked shut with a sliding pull-tab. Leaving spring-loaded metal unprovoked is strictly for chumps. Clamping my green cup tight against my ribs, I kicked the locking ring with the heel of my dress shoe. The arms sprang wide open with a violent snap, slapping the concrete and kicking up a cloud of alley grit. I jumped both boots squarely onto the scalloped tips, clacking them shut with an ear-splitting clatter that ricocheted straight down the brick corridor. That loud wake-up call was worth every speck of dust on my cuffs.