become one of these people

L.I.E

The woman walks towards the man. The man sits on a freeway overpass. He sits on an empty paint bucket. There is an umbrella, a water bottle and a pair of crutches beside him. The man faces the rush hour traffic. He sits so that he is just in the middle of the 5-lane highway. He wears an orange traffic vest. The traffic moves at 25 mph or so. It seems the perfect speed.

The woman walks toward the man. He talks but she can't make out what he is saying. He gesticulates wildly. He looks like he has been there a long time. He looks like he is prepared to be there even longer. The man throws peace signs. Rapidly. With both hands. The man makes eye contact with the drivers in the cars below him. The people below him respond. The people flash peace signs up at him. The people look up and honk their horns. The man keeps pumping out peace signs in rapid bursts. Peace brother peace brother peace sister. He never stops. He never stops talking.

The woman walks toward the man and stops. She wants a lane or two of that oncoming traffic. The woman has a different system. The woman grabs hold of the mesh gate, the gate that protects pedestrians from throwing themselves off. The woman holds onto the fencing and faces the cars. The cars pass beneath her. The overpass shakes. She can still hear the man. She still can't make out what he is saying. The woman makes eye contact with the cars passing beneath her and cries. The woman is soon wailing.

The woman likes being near the man. She is relatively young and he is relatively old. She feels him reaching out to everyone who passes below. She feels his insatiable need to communicate with each and every one of them. She knows she could turn around and have the other side to herself. Park herself in the middle. Get everyone's undivided attention. But that's not the point. She knows no one can tell that she is crying. Her gesture is so small.

The joggers pass behind them. The cars beneath them. Many in the cars are alone. Many are commuters, but there are also families, picking up the kids from school, dropping them off at practice, coming home with the groceries. The woman tries to remember a detail from each of them: red hair, short bob, glasses, beard, cigarette, singing, car seat, tapping her fingers, looking up, throwing a peace sign.

The woman leaves the man. The woman gets into her car and drives away. The woman still cries. The woman sits in a different rush hour traffic. The woman listens to loud music with the windows rolled up tight. The woman's face is splotchy. The woman tries to make eye contact with the other drivers at the red lights. Some of them don't notice. Some of them turn away. Some of them point her out to other passengers. The other drivers can't always tell she is crying. The other drivers think she might be talking on the phone. Or that she is laughing. Or perhaps that something sexual is going on.

The woman looks at as many people as possible. She is no different from the man. She is waiting. Waiting for someone to not laugh. To not turn up the music. To not push their elbows out the window. The woman is waiting for someone who will stop their engine. Unbuckle their seatbelt. Get out of the car and come to her window. The woman is waiting for someone who will stop in the middle of rush hour traffic and knock on her window and open the door and climb in.