"Don't you know anyone with cancer?" I shouted.

The words stumbled out of my mouth - I was angry and hurt and sad and disappointed all at once. I didn't wait for his reply; I only leaned forward to dust off the sign: "Because the Relay For Life means a lot to a lot of different people."

Perhaps I'd posed an unfair question.

"Oh no," he pleaded, shedding some of his drunkenness. "My mom has breast cancer."

Suddenly his eyes were wide open; he wanted to make eye contact, probably to showcase his new-found sincerity. I fought with the feeble wires that had held the American Cancer Society sign upright.

He continued uneasily, like he'd just been caught ripping purple and white signs out of the ground at a cancer research fundraising event, but I didn't quite let him get a word in.

"Then why are you acting like this? If your Mother has breast cancer, why aren't you here walking laps?"

Maybe I asked the latter question in my head.

He apologized as his friends nudged him away. Albeit equally intoxicated, I think they understood.

The night progressed, and I noticed that the students cutting through on their way to Brown Street bars far outnumbered those walking in circles for charity. And those kids cutting through rarely stopped to say "hello" or pay their respects; they only wanted the space, for it afforded them the quickest route to more of a Saturday night.

In all of this I AM NOT trying to say that more should trade in their drinking caps for walking shoes. Please don't misconstrue these words as a call-to-humanitarian-arms.

My message is simple: Don't pull out our signs. Don't kick over the luminaries. I'm so terribly sorry we've come between you and Milano's for the evening, but please show some respect.

The Relay For Life means a lot to a lot of different people.