Letter To The Lady In the Jeep

To the Lady in the Jeep in Front of Me on the Drive to Work -

First of all, a Jeep isn't a Jeep unless it has dirt on it.

Preferably, stratified layers of dirt that a thousand years later will be excavated by a team of curious archaeologist who will wonder who you were and why you were buried propped up behind the wheel of your beloved vehicle with the keys clasped in your hand. They will speculate that your idea of heaven must have been a rough, rocky, treacherous, mountainous country and they would be right. They will be able to trace your life's journey based on those layers of grime.

Lady, your pristine, white Jeep sparkled in the morning sunshine. Actually SPARKLED.

Your vanity license plate said "Princess".

I thought I was going to be sick.

Secondly, a true Jeep (Wrangler) should not be four-door.That thing is nothing but a glorified Hummer and I'm sorry, but Hummers are stoopud. Jeep doors are supposed to be attached with a single steel bolt and a strap for quick removal and storage in the garage. This prohibits options like power locks and windows. The roof should be completely removable as well. As a result, at least once, the Jeep should have been filled to the windows with water because you forgot to put the top up and there was a freak summer thunderstorm. Or you drove into a river.

Lastly, Jeep manufacturers would weep - weep, I tell you - if they had seen you slow down to creep over those railroad tracks one wheel at a time. I sat behind you in my dirty red Jeep with a few of last years dead leaves still tossing around in the backseat and yelled, "Really?? REALLY??!" The crack in my windshield was catching the glare of the sun so I couldn't get an accurate description of you, or I would have reported you to SAVAJ (Society for Abused Vehicular and All-terrain Jeeps). I waited the ten minutes for you to finally get across and then gunned my own vehicle, flying over the tracks and jouncing so hard at the end of my seatbelt tether that it left a bruise.

Get a Beemer, Lady.

Love,
A Jeep Owner

Letter to the Girl in the Park

Dear Girl in the Park,

I saw you swinging again today. I've seen you twice before, always in the early morning on a Saturday. The park is deserted except for you. From a distance I can't tell how old you are. You look to be at least mid-20s, but it's hard to tell as I zip past on the road to a hot coffee destination. I assume that the battered grey sedan is yours. It's the only car in the parking lot, and you are the park's only inhabitant. I wonder if you chose this time of day because you know you'll be the only person in the park.

Alone with the birds. You're both on the wing.

When I've seen you before the weather was warmer, but today the snow lingers on the ground. As you swing, I think about how cold the wind must be whistling past your ears, bringing tears that stream back across your cheeks into your dark hair. You're catching some serious air. You're wearing a jacket, but you're not really dressed for the cold; no hat, no gloves, wearing brown flannel pajammer bottoms and wool clogs that look like they could be flung from your feet into the sky at any second as your toes stretch for the clouds.

Is this your version of a weekly therapy session? You don't seem angry or upset. You don't yank against the chains. You don't strain violently forward and backward attempting to break the bonds that hold you to the earth. In fact you seem... peaceful. Like the gull that hangs in the sky buoyed by the sea breeze beneath its broad wings. Effortless.

I hope you found what you were seeking, there in the park, swinging.