The Other People

I look at all the Other People. The Other People are the People we rarely notice, the People who were designed to go unnoticed. The People that actually make sure things work, but invisibly. The People you aren't supposed to meet face-to-face, but you sometimes do anyway. That small old man with the push broom at the fancy hotel, for example. I look at him, and I want to say hello. Do not mistake, I don't want to say thanks -- not a cursory, socially-obligated thanks, anyway. I want to say hello. I want to ask him his name. You see, he doesn't get a name-tag like the lady at the front desk. I want to let him know that he shouldn't act like he's supposed to be invisible. I want to tell him to go trip patrons with his broom. Go sweep right next to the front door, not when the lobby's empty, but when it's full. Go under tables that are being occupied. Take the gold-gilded elevator like everyone else, not the cold concrete stairs. Say hello to people as they pass, don't hang your hand and grip your broom. Why? Because I look at all the Other People. And they don't belong in the woods. They belong in town, like everybody else. All the People. Laughing.