Island

This message is for you, the man at the head of the express lane, arguing with the cashier that the four individually packaged pieces of cake are on sale. You who leave the line to saunter to the bakery to bring back the display sign proving that cake is 50 cents cheaper. You who stare imperiously at your surroundings as the cashier calls for a price check, without even a gesture of apology to the people waiting behind you with one item each.

This message is for you, the woman in the parking lot, wedging her cart next to the driver’s side door of the car next to her. You who continue loading your trunk calmly while the other driver is unable to get into his own car. You who seem to feel there is nowhere else on earth to park that cart but right in the way of someone else, and that there is no way it will be physically possible to move the cart once you have placed it.

This message is for you, the woman at the front of the line in Wawa. You who complete a purchase and, with a smile indicating either extreme inner peace or dimwitted unawareness, slowly and methodically put each dollar bill in change back into your wallet so each bill is facing the same way. You who cannot conceive of the idea of moving slightly, just slightly, to the side while rearranging your money so people behind you can complete their purchases.

This message is for you, the man walking behind a coworker into the office. You who remain silent, without even a mutter of thanks, when the person ahead holds the door for you. You who breeze through magically held-open doors as if you are Louis XIV and it is your divine right to be served.

This message is for all of you: Never forget that you are an island unto yourself and that nothing outside your skin, certainly not the needs of those vaguely human shadow blobs standing near you, matter even the tiniest bit.