A television commercial once told me that the Christmas Season is all about spreading comfort and joy. Having an infinite amount of trust for that sweet passive medium, I made it my life’s mission to attempt to spread the aforementioned emotions (though comfort is really more of a state, no?) to each and every sorry soul I met (except for the hideously ugly), not only during the winter season, but also during the other seasons, the names of which appear to have temporarily escaped me for the moment. Save your underground rants about the suffocating presence of advertising and your “I told you sos” for someone who still has a naive bright-eyed trust in the world: I learned it the hard way. There’s no turning back for me, oh no.
Leaving my job today, not two hours ago, on an already darkened Friday afternoon, I come across my snow covered car. Written in the snow on the side in large, unmistakeable letters was an excessively lewd and overused dictum, apparently directed toward yours truly. I’ll spare you the specifics; suffice it to say it rhymed with…uh…something wholly unoffensive like….uh….I don’t know…..”Huck Jew”. You figured it out yet? That’s right. Horrible, huh? It’s alright. Save your cringing for an episode of “Corner Gas”; I’m in no need of your sympathies, having since then already come to terms with the state of the world.
What did shock me was how uncomfortable it made me feel. I admit, I had never been on the business end of an automotive snow-message before, not even a good-natured “WASH ME” in the summertime, but I had certainly written one or two, even drawn a comically exaggerated phallus on more than one occasion. So why the shock? Perhaps it has something to do with what I like to call my “infinite likeability.” I’m a nice guy, I smile a lot, look into people’s eyes when I shake their hands: an all around class act. The idea that someone could feel such strong, however unispired, sentiments toward my car, or worse yet, me is disturbing in and of itself. But let’s be realistic. It was probably some neighbourhood tough who had no idea that such a great guy was even driving that ’98 Malibu.
The confusing bit is, I work in an office building in a decent neighbourhood. Also, the message was written on the side of my car facing the office door. It seems highly unlikely that a passing hoodlum, however motivated, would have crossed to the passenger side of my car when the driver’s side, the side I was guaranteed to see, was the one facing the road. This whittles down the options to someone in my building. Consider this disturbing option. This is a building made up of offices employing primarily middle-aged workers–the majority of which are women. The person who wrote that could have been your mother. Your mommy. Out for kicks, maybe showing off to a handsome male coworker you didn’t even know existed…. I imagine confident businesspeople saying goodbye to their coworkers and then scrambling to write obscenities on my car before going home to their meatloaf and evening Pimm’s. People with randomly-generated middle age faces, like this man:
I don’t really think there’s anything left to say.
Thank the almost reborn Lord that your weekend won’t be tainted with mental images of your mother giggling while scrawing the F-word on a stranger’s sandstone-coloured family sedan.