Crosswalk

Crosswalk. All the signs are there. Silhouette of hominid, handless, footless with a perfect dark circle floating just a ways from the body. Below that, an arrow points at road's margin. Faded, broad white stripes show us where the hapless pedestrian crosses the road. Between the restaurant and the coffee shop, a logical place to direct foot traffic, a painted bridge over troubled tarmac, the highway department's list complete, a check by our town's name, all is safe, the agreement has been made, rest assured, mere mortals may move with confidence once out of their four-wheel boxes, once they have reverted to their natural state, upright and aware of their surroundings. Lo, the deep-set eyes in that floating head can see all 'round, up and down the streets and byways, surely, surely, all is well, the painted bridge has saved the day. And yet, and yet, I hear you say, they will not stop, not now, next week, nor yesterday. Onward traffic flows, onward the diesel 250s, the cute little hatchbacks, the silent half-breeds, the single cabs, double cabs, canopies, jeeps, no matter how long you wait, how carefully you creep. Fast ones, slow ones, people you know, they've somewhere to be, miles to go. No matter that minutes ago you were a driver too. You're invisible now, with no secrets, you're a sitting duck in the land of the goose, you're vulnerable, you're a target, you're the lowest of the low. What is this? Footism? Our civil rights at the crossroads? Our human dignity in the gutter? How, how, how, we ask ourselves, do they not see the signs? Fair enough, the painted bridge fades. The parked cars obscure our intentions. So how did the chicken cross the road? We sure as hell cannot! Have mercy on them drivers Lord, they know not what they do. Oh heavens, I've heard that one, too. Cell phones, car radios, CD players or MP3s, could be a slight adjustment somewhere in the jeans, could be a to-do list or simply a heavy foot, too much to raise from the the accelerator to the brake and oh, the brakes, mustn't wear them out! Damned if that isn't Uncle Fred that almost ran me down, raising his coffee cup high as he drives by—he's got his. I can't get mine.

Oh wait. Oh wait. Miracle of miracles! I've been standing here at the foot of the painted bridge how long now and who should happen by? A girl! A girl! In shorts that shrunk and everything else moving...but the traffic, the busiest time of the morning, too, it's, it's coming to a standstill. She's got one foot on the painted bridge—and another—oh my God she's going to cross the road—she's half way there, she's—wouldn't you know it! By the time she reaches the other side, all eyes turned her way, the traffic flow uncorks, gates thrown wide, leaving me standing here on the wrong side, the invisible man.