Traffic #24

There are always traffic jams on Canal Street. The people, the Americans, seem melancholic and resigned, hunkered down behind the tinted windows of their big sedans. Others, on buses or in taxis, doze off, worn down by the length of the day. Me, I stand on the sidewalk and scrutinize them through my powerful telephoto lens.
I watch them watching me, incredulous, stunned like animals caught in headlights at night. Some freeze. Others try to turn away, shielding themselves with a newspaper or a hand. A few, mostly women, meet my mechanical gaze, surrendering their image to a fate they know nothing about.