The Almost Jaywalker

She stood at the corner of West Genesee and Avery, by the Rite-Aid. She had gray hair and was in her late fifties or early sixties. She was in a hurry, or impatient. And confused, as if she was unfamiliar with how to cross a street, when to do it, with the light red, or the light green. She pressed the button on the pole, the button to change the light. She slammed it repeatedly, the way we do that while waiting for an elevator, with no speed-up of results. She was angry at the delay. Slam slam slam. She frowned. She seemed to be taking the whole challenge personally, an affront to her freedom of movement, impeding her progress, hindering her day. The light changed. I crossed the road. I saw her crossing in my rear-view mirror. I traveled south, now looking forward through my windshield, lessening the chance of a collision.

This is America today.