A Letter To The Next Lyn St. James....

To the young woman in the Pontiac next to me on Milton Avenue:

I noticed your car as it passed by while I was turning on to Milton Avenue today. I noticed its crumpled creases from dents in the passenger side front quarter-panel, and its passenger side-view mirror tethered from one cable, draped and clanging against the silver paint on the passenger door. I noticed its weathered smile from the front end, with its missing (rather, half-missing) grille in the front like a toothless, jack-o-lantern grin. I noticed the missing hub cap from your rear passenger tire, the rim exposing itself to unsuspecting and accedental voyeurs such as me. And I noticed the jagged hole in the plastic rear bumper, gaping as if a land shark such as a Lincoln or a Cadillac had taken a bite, just to see what your car tasted like. It clearly missed your "Recall Walker" sticker on your back bumper...thank goodness. Apparently whatever land shark decided to taste your car was a Republican.

Yes, I noticed. But who am I to judge? Perhaps you just didn't have the resources financially to make the necessary repairs to your car the time the accident occurred. Times are tough, certainly. Truth be told, however, I'm certain that you would have a hard time convincing others that all these maladies occurred simultaneously in the same shark attack. But then again, perhaps it was a feeding frenzy when it all occurred. It certainly looked like it.

Perhaps this normal "wear and tear" occurred in a series of bad luck. Furthermore, I am thinking that for whatever reason, it most likely wasn't your fault. No, certainly these maladies wouldn't have been because of your constant attention to the communication device I saw you using in your right hand, eagerly awaiting the next text message that I'm sure was from your mechanic, letting you know when you would be able to bring your car in for much needed convelescence. I'm pretty sure as well that these maladies didn't occur from your inability to properly see over the dashboard of your full-sized vehicle, even though I was only able to see the top half of your head through the side door window. You certainly looked comfortable with your front seat reclined at a 45 degree angle from your base seat cushion, laying in repose like the Queen of Sheba on her royal chaise. I'm surprised there weren't others in the car with you, their long peacock plumed fans fanning you to cirulate the air in your car to keep you cool. I've never tried driving while looking THROUGH the steering wheel, but from the looks of it, you have the technique mastered. I'm sure that on any normal day, feeding frenzies aside, you're an excellent driver.

Or perhaps, given your sticker of protest, it's the governor's fault, since you don't probably have a job to pay for the gas in your Pontiac, the insurance i'm confident you have, the cell phone charges for your infinitessimal texting, or the Marlboro Ultra Light 100 cigarette dangling from your pursed lip, or the small child in your care in the back seat. Just observations I make as I drive by. No, freshening up your unfortunate-looking jalopy doesn't look as if it is at the same level of priority as your need to be linked in to the world around you.

Whatever it is (even though you look barely 18 and are vertically challenged), I cannot help but be relieved both in the choices made, and the priorities you have set for yourself. It brings so much levity and credibility to your story of your maladies.

Just one thing, though. Next time you may wish to look up more often to make sure you're still between the painted lines of your lane. As much as I admire what you have done to keep your vehicle in tip-top condition, I simply wouldn't appreciate it as much as I should if you were to side-swipe my car while you were having such an important conversation.

Regards,

The Guy In the Truck Now Behind You