The job was easy. No cutting line, no wading swamp
water with moccasins and alligators. Suburban work.
Boca Raton, mouth of the rat, more rich people than
most places, though how many more was, was
something I didn’t know. This neighborhood was not all
millionaires, but well off, complicated pension plans. We
had no assets. Long haired county surveyors. We were
tanned, in decent shape, young. We wore yellow safety
vests, jeans, no shirts. These suburban folks were wary
of us, but the logo on the truck gave us license to be
there and made us seem a bit less dangerous. We liked
to fuck with people now and then, so as we painted
targets, a grid for aerial photos, and they’d ask what we
were doing, I said the county decided this neighborhood
was getting overcrowded, so they’re going to eliminate
one household adjoining each of these circles. Most of
them went home worried, not wholly believing my tale,
but not sure.  By late afternoon word had made it back
to the office and supervisors were on the streets. We
were not allowed to talk anymore. We had to put our
shirts on.

– Rick Campbell