He’s not there every day, but many days.
It’s a five-second human connection.
But like tree sap, the resin sticks, and it’s impossible to wash off.
I pull up to the security gate.
I swipe my card.
The gate lifts.
I glance to my left.
In winter, the door is shut, the glow of the lamp is a beacon in the pre-dawn hours. He’s there, head down, turning pages of the morning paper or a paperback. He’s approaching the end of his overnight shift.
It’s summer now, the door is open, he’s standing, motionless.
I used to offer a “Good Morning!”
I gave up on him after a number of intermittent attempts.
He failed to reciprocate. I was left empty. I refused to start my day in a ditch.
Now the morning contact is wordless.
One man’s eyes fixed on the other. A recognition. An acknowledgment.
But no more. A Cold War.
But Not. Continue reading “Driving I-95 S. With Small Gestures.”