Saturday, August 27, 2011
“I suppose that is one way to put it,” I said.
“I mean, after all, you poor folks have so little opportunity to feel powerful.”
I ignored him. I knew he was only trying to wind me up. It is a frequent tactic of his.
At any rate, our attention shifted as we topped a hill and observed a long line of vehicles inching along the lanes opposite ours. They were heading into Little Rock but at a snail’s pace on this weekday morning.
I looked at him to see if he was putting me on. No, he looked serious.
“The traffic is that way every morning, C.W.” I said.
“What’s causing it?”
“People commuting to work from other cities.”
“They live somewhere else and endure this every morning to get to work?”
“Every morning of the week.”
“Why don’t they work where they live?”
“Not enough jobs.”
”Then why don’t they live where they work?” he said as the freeway curved, providing a view of a line of creeping vehicles as far as the eye could see.
“They have their reasons, I suppose.”
I could sense his databank whirring through a complex statistical analysis.
“I see only one strong correlative factor,” he said.
I didn’t say anything.
“Don’t tell me …,” he said, stopping short to think.
“I’m afraid so,” I said.
“What is it with your species and skin pigment?” he said.