In those early days, he felt he was helping to save lives. A chunk of grit could hit a windshield or flatten a tire. With each ball of tar, sand, and gravel removed, he imagined one more safe driver, another trip gone well. Maybe he was naive, but he stuck to this belief, which carried him through all the years of service to the small town.

During the last 12 years, he was superintendent over the whole shooting match. It was good, honest work. Some may look down on street maintenance or find the job an easy butt of jokes. But he was proud of what he had accomplished. He had only one regret.

He was sitting in a rickety chair at the scarred old desk in the corner of the truck barn. He preferred this to his fancy office over in the town hall. His duty was to be with the men and ensure they were listened to. There was another reason. And it was something he would never admit to anyone. From the corner, he saw the old lamppost out behind the VFW. It was an ordinary aluminum post, like all the others in town, sitting next to the old bridge road.

The road had been replaced years ago, taking traffic out to the west side of the VFW hall and to the new bridge. The old road was nearly completely grown over now. You could find bits of old asphalt between the tree roots if you looked carefully. The old road would soon be forgotten by everyone but a few old-timers.

Dusk was coming; it was getting towards winter, and the light faded earlier each day. He felt it was his duty to wait until the old lamp came on; in one small way, he felt he was protecting the good people of the town. His thoughts drifted back to the first time they tried to remove the lamp. It was a simple process; they ran a chain around the pole and took up the slack using the small crane by lifting the hook. You had to get the chain more than halfway up the pole. Otherwise, it would flip when you pulled the bolts, which never ended well. He was assigned to disconnect the base. He popped the nuts off the embedded bolts and signaled the crane operator to lift just a bit. The pole cleared the bolts and held steady. He disconnected the power and was done. He would like to say he had some sense of foreboding, but no matter how hard he tried to recall, he came up with nothing.

The next day, when the crew returned to the worksite, the pole was back in place. Except it wasn't. The pole they had removed was still on the truck. They may have missed it somehow and miscounted the total. Poles don't just re-grow. The crew set to work to remove the pole. James approached the base to run through his part of the job. It was at this moment he felt the first misgivings. His wrench slipped and gouged the pole while pulling the first nut the day before. He could see the same gouge in the pole even though he hadn't yet put a wrench to the nut. He dismissed his feelings as if they were part of some imagined plot of a silly movie and got to work. He wouldn't know until some weeks later the horrid consequences of this simple act.

The next day, the pole was back.

They all figured one of the crew was pulling a prank on them. The crew brought the pole down again. James ignored the pile of identical poles building up. The implication was just too much to fathom. That evening, after everyone had gone, James secretly set up a camera on the same desk he was sitting at. He was going to catch whoever was doing this. The joke had gone too far.

James woke up early, heading to the barn before anyone else. As expected, the pole was back in place. He silently cheered. He caught the bastard. Rushing into the barn, he grabbed the camera. Quickly rewinding the recording, he saw the pole in the early light. He rewound to the point of no pole. He could see the time stamp on the recording. It was a bit before 2 am. He was getting excited; this is the evidence! The recording rolled forward. Suddenly, the pole appeared in the frame. He rolled it back and forth again. It wasn't there, and then it was. He checked the time; over an hour was missing from the recording. Damn! Whoever was playing this prank knew about the camera. At least he knew it was one of his guys. No one else could enter the barn.

He waited until the entire crew arrived for work. It was time to end this game. He brought them together and confronted the group with the facts. Nobody fessed up. Alright, he said, come to me in private. But this game ends now.

James decided to leave the pole up for now. They all got busy with other work. Several weeks went by until they had another lull. No one came forth as the culprit. James told the crew to go out and pull the pole down one last time.

The next day, the pole was back.

James has never been prone to anger, but this tested his limits. He decided he would make it hard on whoever was pulling this off. He instructed his crew to take done the damn pole and pile cement highway barriers on the mounting plate, lots of them. They worked through the afternoon. When they were done, 150 tons of cement and steel were piled up where the pole had been.

The next day, they stared in amazement. The pile of highway barriers lay untouched—no pole, nothing. They all expected some magic to move the pile and put the pole up again. James was satisfied. The problem was solved until they needed the barriers, but he would leave that problem for later.

Every morning, each member of the crew checked the pile. Each day, there was no change.

It wasn't until a week later that James learned of the true nature of what they had done. James' wife Brenda worked at the town's only old folks home, sorry, retirement home. He noticed she was coming home more stressed each night than the night before. He would ask, and she replied with 'Trouble at work.' After a week, he sat her down and asked what was happening. She burst out in tears. She told him they were losing people. It was terrible when someone died. They all felt it dearly—but this last week had been especially bad. Every single day, they lost someone. James had a sinking feeling. He went online to look at the local obituaries. They lived in a small town, and people did not die often. Every day that had taken down the pole, someone had died.

It was nearly 11 pm when he finished his research. He ran out and jumped into his truck, racing to the barn. Working like a maniac, he pulled the traffic barriers aside, scattering them all over the roadway. It was nearly 2 am when he pulled the last barrier and was moving it off to the side. His back was to the mounting plate. Suddenly, the roadway was bathed in light. He turned to see the pole in its usual place, light shining brightly.

In the morning, James spoke with the crew. A few of them had been having strange dreams and were relieved to see the pole back in its rightful place. He instructed them to clean up all the barriers. He had them place those yellow steel crash poles around the light pole and weld the bolts solid. He didn't want it going anywhere. The retirement home settled down to regular operation.

Over the years, James noticed from time to time that the light would not come on at dusk. He learned to check the papers the next day; someone in town had passed. April 24th, two years ago, James remembers well that night the light did not come on. He had a bad feeling that time—enough not to want to go home, but he forced himself anyway. The image was still too vivid: finding Brenda on the kitchen floor. His light went out that night.

Returning to the present, he watched out the window as night fell. The light did not go on tonight.

He finished his work and stepped outside. He felt the light calling to him.

Another cheer for a competitor complete, and yet another. He had no chance of placing now. His bad luck, hitting a knot on the fifth swing, blunting his bronze axe. This was his last chance to make a name for himself and go pro. That dream was now fading. Five years had passed, five chances to win the Olympics lumbering games with no success. He carried through a final swing, and the log fell to the ground. Fifth place, he had done better before. He decided it was time to hang up his axe. He would never achieve his dream of rivaling the legends of old, the amateur lumberjacks of the ancient world.

Dejected, he walked from the competition ground. Across the tournament field, he spied his friend Diogenes sitting outside the animal compound. He slowly walked over; Diogenes looked up and gave a half-hearted wave. Socrates sat down next to his friend. “How did your goat do?”

Diogenes frowned, “He lost the jumping competition. He couldn’t even clear the low bar at three feet. Then, the judge said his fur was rather flat and dull. Alexios had entered a goat from distant Angora. The fur was so soft, it was unnatural. No one could win against that. I wish I had not seen such a goat. It has put me off goat breeding altogether. This emphasis on fluffy farm animals in competition defies logic.”

“Did you take my advice?” Socrates asked, “Mix a bit of pitch into turpentine and rub that on his fur. That always works to give the full body the judges seek.”

“No, it did not seem right, presenting what they wanted to see rather than what was true.” Diogenes replied, “It’s all rigged anyway. Society is corrupt, and there is no reason to think the judges do not already have their favorites selected.”

Socrates grabbed his friend by the shoulder. “You should meet them halfway. Life cannot be lived entirely one way or another. A blending is required. Establish a middle ground. Take the two opposing views and build a compromise.”

Diogenes stood, waving his arms about excitedly, “I disagree! It is possible to live a righteous life free from the expectations of others. One can be true to oneself and still partake in the activities of society. Look about. These people do not know they are lying to themselves. They follow and adopt societal demands as if they were their own.”

Socrates stood, “There is some semblance of truth in what you say. But my truth is I am hungry, so let’s get something to eat. Come with me to the marketplace. Maybe we can find something to cool your head.”

The two friends walked towards the center of Athens. They entered the marketplace, browsing at several stalls. Diogenes picked up an ancient stone carved with runes. He passed it over to Socrates, “What do you think this says?”

Socrates studied the carving, “This first character looks like ‘Epsilon’; it could be the start of a word or represent the number 5. It’s hard to distinguish the rest, and I couldn’t say which one it is. The symbol exists in that peculiar state, neither letter nor number, yet both at the same time. It is an odd aspect of our language. I hear the Hindus use a distinct set of characters for their numbering system. That seems much more sensical to me.” He put the stone back down in front of the merchant. He looked about and saw Diogenes had wandered over to a potions stall.

Socrates caught up with his friend. Diogenes turned and handed Socrates a flask. “Taste this.”

Socrates took a swig of the bitter liquid. “What am I drinking?” he asked.

Diogenes replied, laughing, “It’s a sleeping draught. It has just a bit of hemlock in it to quiet the mind. Finish it to find your middle ground between day and night, wake and sleep. Recline on that pile of soft sheepskins and dream of compromise.”

Socrates put down the unfinished potion. He pointed to an excited crowd gathered in front of the temple of Zeus, where the lumbering awards were being presented. They moved toward the temple but were lost behind the crowd. Diogenes complained, “I can’t see. All these tall people in the way!”

Socrates took him by the arm and guided him up the five steps leading to the temple of Hera. The additional three feet of elevation allowed them to see over the crowd. Pericles was front and center, olive branch upon his head, winner of the lumbering pentathlon. He waved to the gathered citizens, increasing the intensity of their cheering fivefold.

Diogenes pointed out, “Now there is an example of a man basing his actions solely upon the standards imposed by the crowd. He does not have an original thought, thinking only of what will bring him more accolades. He is drinking the nectar of social approval and scarcely knows it.”

Socrates retorted, “He is only doing what his natural talents have guided him to. A combination of brawn and intelligence in equal portions has allowed him to be elevated amongst his peers. There is nothing unnatural or worthy of disdain in what he has accomplished.”

Once the ceremony was over, the crowd began to drift away. Socrates nudged his friend, “Let’s go back to the shade of the market and out of this hot sun.”

As they walked from the temple, Diogenes lifted his tunic and squatted in the dirt, leaving his mark on the walkway. Socrates recoiled in horror, “By the gods, I did not need to see that! I understand the whole ‘anti-culture’ idea you are pushing, but sometimes I think you take it too far. Please do not take me for a prude. In general, I do not recoil from what is natural, but there are occasional scenes I wish I could un-see.”

They found a comfortable corner in the market, continuing their argument into the evening. They met again the next day in the same spot. They came back and debated each day, eventually gathering a few acolytes. After the passage of several years, the citizens of Athens, tiring of their constant inane bickering, uncouth habits, and confrontational attitudes, put them both to death. It wasn’t until centuries later that they were remembered not for lumberjacking or goat breeding but for the conversations held in the marketplace.