Jackson is security: his grey-blue uniform is almost a cop's; the silverplated stub of his service revolver juts from the leather holster. And he has that military walk: shoulders thrown back, gut thrust forward stalking with intense purpose past empty academic offices going nowhere in particular.
He looks bigger than he is, might have played middle-linebacker at some small division school where speed and hustle made up for size- and he is always stalking with intense purpose rounding a corner, crossing the foyer, descending the stairs, his mind calculating the shortest route between point A and point B.
His face is fixed in moral outrage at crimes yet uncommitted, untold violations only of the mind; Like the tulpa of some all-too-scrutable karmic will, he is action furious with inaction.
I always say hello and try to stop him. He acknowledges with a nod, his eyes staying for a moment as his body stalks on, sizing me up instinctively for the criminal I have always been.
copyright 2001 Phoebe Claire Publishing, LLC All rights reserved