Little Boxes
“Sir, could you please step to the side?”
Jacobson looked up and straighten to a stand. He noticed the line of people behind him. To him, they looked like every other schmuck on the train, on the street, in line at the coffee shop, the grocery store, Blockbuster, the bodies that put the rush in rush hour. They could fuckin’ wait, he thought.
“You asked me for my ID,” he said assertively. “I’m trying to get it for you.” The goal was not to spar with this testosterone- and authority-fueled youth, but to protect himself. It was meant to be slight head butt, a look directly in the eye, a self-defensive reflex. He had the god given right to reach the FedEx box without so many damn hurdles. He simply needed to complete one final task.
“Yes, sir. But these people need to get to work. If you could just stand aside.”
Jacobson needed to follow the instruction. He needed to get to the FedEx box. But he was no pushover, no doormat. He moved slightly to the side, about six-inches. It was more a turn than a true relocation.
The once patient office workers now approached him, shimmied between him and the scanner, crowded into his personal space, and swiped their office passes. Jacobson was annoyed, but this would be over soon. His wallet was at the tip of his fingertips, and he reached it before the delayed office workers made it to their own metal box, the elevator.
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