A Little Note Goes A Long Way
By ARYN CORLEY
Recently someone, or something, left a note on the windshield of my truck. Because I’m not sure if the creature that left the note for me is either human, or inhuman, or vertebrate, or invertebrate, I’ll refer to it simply as “It.”
My choice of pronoun is inclusive out of the utmost respect for all living creatures. Anyway, It left a note chiding me for my parking skills. A little known fact about humor columnists is that we’re notoriously bad at parking.
Nevertheless, I took due diligence in making sure that I hadn’t parked behind a sign, which instructed the whole world not to. The whole purpose is to keep a rather small boat launch from being blocked. There was enough space behind the sign for an impromptu meeting of the Clay Aiken fan club.
At first I was confused as to why the note was left for me. Perhaps the note was meant for someone else? The note was also unsigned, which prevented me from going straight to the source and getting clarification on the matter. It also used appallingly bad grammar and sub-standard sentence structure. Maybe, It hadn’t done well in school.
I showed the note to two other objective people who were just as perplexed as I about the nature of the correspondence. They both read the note, chuckled, and both shook their heads disapprovingly.
“Is this for real?,” they asked.
The only scenario I could fathom was that as It was either slithering along, or riding by in a golf cart, It cast a googly, bloodshot eye on what it thought was a violation of the holy canon of Its existence: the sub-division by laws.
Just as the Holy Bible, The Koran, The Talmud, and the Book of Mormon were delivered to humanity for its own salvation, so are the covenants and deed restrictions delivered to those poor souls who want to live with pink flamingos in their yards.
Strict adherence to the mantra of manicured grass, pet containment, and report-thy-neighbor is the pathway to peace and prosperity.
As I pondered the note further, my perspective began to shift. The note wasn’t left for me. It was left for It. Rather than being a testament to boorish and vapid penmanship, the note itself was a cry for help.
It is not happy.
On a weekend when families were spending time together in joyous fellowship with kids running around in the yard, spitting watermelon seeds, and celebrating the independence of our great country, It was preoccupied with my parking job.
It probably had a family that wished that It would pay more attention to them. Perhaps It is at a point in its life where it feels inadequate or maybe even unneeded. It probably feels that it has nothing left to contribute to this world other than carbon dioxide and vitriol.
While that may be the case, the catty little note It left me offered no solutions to the problem. Regardless, I’d still like to bake It a cake and tell It how helpful it was to me.
After all, the note did help me get past my writer’s block.
My choice of pronoun is inclusive out of the utmost respect for all living creatures. Anyway, It left a note chiding me for my parking skills. A little known fact about humor columnists is that we’re notoriously bad at parking.
Nevertheless, I took due diligence in making sure that I hadn’t parked behind a sign, which instructed the whole world not to. The whole purpose is to keep a rather small boat launch from being blocked. There was enough space behind the sign for an impromptu meeting of the Clay Aiken fan club.
At first I was confused as to why the note was left for me. Perhaps the note was meant for someone else? The note was also unsigned, which prevented me from going straight to the source and getting clarification on the matter. It also used appallingly bad grammar and sub-standard sentence structure. Maybe, It hadn’t done well in school.
I showed the note to two other objective people who were just as perplexed as I about the nature of the correspondence. They both read the note, chuckled, and both shook their heads disapprovingly.
“Is this for real?,” they asked.
The only scenario I could fathom was that as It was either slithering along, or riding by in a golf cart, It cast a googly, bloodshot eye on what it thought was a violation of the holy canon of Its existence: the sub-division by laws.
Just as the Holy Bible, The Koran, The Talmud, and the Book of Mormon were delivered to humanity for its own salvation, so are the covenants and deed restrictions delivered to those poor souls who want to live with pink flamingos in their yards.
Strict adherence to the mantra of manicured grass, pet containment, and report-thy-neighbor is the pathway to peace and prosperity.
As I pondered the note further, my perspective began to shift. The note wasn’t left for me. It was left for It. Rather than being a testament to boorish and vapid penmanship, the note itself was a cry for help.
It is not happy.
On a weekend when families were spending time together in joyous fellowship with kids running around in the yard, spitting watermelon seeds, and celebrating the independence of our great country, It was preoccupied with my parking job.
It probably had a family that wished that It would pay more attention to them. Perhaps It is at a point in its life where it feels inadequate or maybe even unneeded. It probably feels that it has nothing left to contribute to this world other than carbon dioxide and vitriol.
While that may be the case, the catty little note It left me offered no solutions to the problem. Regardless, I’d still like to bake It a cake and tell It how helpful it was to me.
After all, the note did help me get past my writer’s block.
2 comments:
nICE ARTICLE ARYN - Damn caps lock. Okay so now it's obvious I still can't type and look at the screen at the same time.
I tried to look you up on facebook, and ended up here.
"Airman Corley reports as ordered!"
Hatch
N0NKA!
Hatch! Damn it's great to hear from you. I hope things are well.
Drop me a line at aryncorley@gmail.com to let me know how you are doing.
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