It’s
the end of the work day like the end of any other work day. Turn off the
computer, pack up the briefcase, put on the jacket, turn out the light, and
walk quickly down the hall to the entrance door in the building lobby.
I
glance at my watch. I have, perhaps, just enough time to get ahead of the swath
of traffic that will soon clog the southbound streets. A normal commute home is
15 minutes. Many days, however, it’s 30 and 40 and 45. If you hit the traffic
just right, it will be the normal 15.
I
come out of the entrance of the building and turn toward the parking lot. I
work in a campus-like setting – buildings no more than three stories tall. The
time is approaching dusk.
That’s
when I glance up. And I am struck so dumb that I literally stop in my tracks,
all thoughts of beating the traffic gone.
