Down the block, a hole had been smashed into the sidewalk. The city workmen had left a yellow steel sawhorse over the crumpled cement. Black box letters read WORK IN PROGRESS over the yellow. It looked portable. I hopped off the car and trotted up to the hole. The sign was not heavy, but its narrow legs spread awkwardly and threatened to jab my shins as I walked. I was in front of a pawnshop. Its window was outlined with the silver tape that is supposed to reveal an alarm system. I hiked the sawhorse up to my chest and pushed it toward the window as hard as I could.

The sound was wonderful and the mess complete. Immediately, while the torn accordion and the geisha lamp and the rack of cameras were still falling, a feeble tinkling began at the back of the store. I admired my work. My whole lifetime of impish moments thwarted by the fantasy of consequences reached their long-awaited satisfaction. Delicious. I thought for a moment of taking something, a ring or a watch. But I had nowhere to hide it, and I did not want to confuse my situation. The yellow sawhorse lay on its side amid the glittering glass. I leaned in and pulled it out by one leg. With the sawhorse tucked under my arm, and being careful not to trip over it, I crossed the street again and took mincing steps toward the DoNut Shop.

There were more people. A woman in a white plastic uniform turned a corner, saw me, stopped, and reversed. A young man walking in my direction suddenly crossed the street, looking back over his shoulder at me. The police arrived in one car, then another. A tall young man in uniform hurried toward me, one hand unfastening his holster.

“All right, lady,” he said. He was nervous all around the mouth and eyes. Another policeman strode past me to look at the pawnshop window.

“All right, lady,” the young man said again. My lungs contracted, and I began to chortle. They always say, “All right.” It’s what you say when things are getting out of hand. Sometimes it is pronounced “Awwright.” I put my yellow sawhorse down carefully.