Same Time, Same Place . . .

Just the other day, walking the street and about to cross, a small car of what appeared to be a father and two sons stopped to wave me through while delaying traffic. Familiar with situations such as these, I've learned to promote a seamless traffic pattern not dependent or catered to the travels I take on foot. Although much appreciative of the gesture itself, I frantically waved them through with a sturdy belief in the greater perspective I've envisioned for both participating parties and the general well-being of the community at large. We are all strangers in pursuit of a particular creed and this, by all means, is weekday traffic. An act of excessive, or even common generosity will only thorn this track and is better left for a Sunday's stroll. Regardless of my intent, which is indeed irrelevant to the governing of momentary action, I continued to wave them through yet again in response to their extended hesitation.

They laid on the horn. It appeared the gift upon return had gotten the best of their intentions. By the time I vocally motioned them forward with a fairly aggressive urgency, I was sure the public image of my own self had been drastically misinterpreted. Perhaps I had been deemed unappreciative of their intended good will, or speculative of the personal and/or cultural insecurities they may or may not have had, something I would have been unfit to perceive by this time. Perhaps the sight of my potential crossing was never taken graciously in the first place. Perhaps a pre-maturely bigoted assessment had already spoiled the lucrative communicative process I'd naturally tend to expect.

Sure enough, not a moment shy, they stepped on the gas to avoid any more self-inflicted embarrassment. I could see the prospected father in the driver's seat heatedly mumble something vulgar, violently directed my way. On the passenger's side, and closest to me, sat the boy who appeared to be the man's son. By the time of my direct passing, he looked at me in the eye and sturdily flicked me off. Clinched beneath his two front teeth was his bottom lip, pulsating with pent youth and undisclosed anger. I could see a child under pressure, frustrated with an emotion he may or may not have felt obligated to pursue. I could see that he knew of Guilt and feared the extent of it's pride. He was in tune with the tension of exercise and the dislocation of adolescence. He was not proud of his Cheap Shot, nor of the fence he had been forced to walk. To his left was a man he knew very well. To his right was one he did not. — Jack Straight, 2008