Culture . 05/02/2008 01:50 AM . Jennifer Carden

Dear “This-Is-My-Private-Property!” Lady,

I was nice to you today, ma’am. I’m not sure why. I actually called you “ma’am” when you certainly did not deserve that courtesy. I guess I couldn’t bring myself to address you by your rightful name, Dragon Lady, and while you certainly showed no aversion to cursing like a sailor – on Good Friday, no less – I couldn’t bring myself to do that, either.

But see, Lady, I have to give you a modicum of respect, because today, you were an utterly unflinching shrew to a nice person in trouble. Not to even show one glimmer of mercy in the face of my puppy dog eyes and apologies when I was really doing nothing a ) wrong or b ) I could help? Maintaining a flat-out yell for such a lengthy period of time? Refusing to offer help, and instead kicking me to the curb in a very literal sense and threatening to call the police?

Not only does that take guts… that takes very, very real selfish egotism, and a complete lack of concern for others. At long last, you scored a new personal best, beyond mere “neighborhood harpy.” We’re talking, like, a hybrid no one’s even SEEN of Howard Stern, The Wicked Witch of the West, and Marilyn Manson needs to star in your biopic, and you’re going to have to COACH him / her / it so we get just the right shade of “grizzled, miserable hag.” Seriously, ma’am. I am not so much angry as I am impressed.

Let’s recap: My car died ( due to lack of gas, since my car was driven a little more than I thought while I was sick ) right in the middle of the main drag of the town we unfortunately share. I know. It’s crazy – why would they let ingrates like me share a zip code with you and your Ellen Tracy sunglasses of elite superiority? It boggles the mind.

Anyway, as you well know, our town does not feature wide streets. My car was dead in the middle of one. People were lining up behind me. I was panicking. Two nice men hopped out of their truck and pushed my car into a side driveway, which, luckily, basically looked like a gravel parking lot. As I sat in my car with my roommate Lancee waiting for our housemate Sue to rescue us with the gas can, you stormed out of your house like a crazed bear in heat, shrieking.

Oh yes, Lady, “shrieking” is the word. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING ON MY PRIVATE PROPERTY,” you trilled.

“Well, ma’am, my car is dead, and I’m waiting for my friend to bring me a gas can,” I responded, flashing my best embarrassed, yet winning smile. “I’m so sorry; we’ll be out of here in just a few moments.”

And see, this is where I began to realize that I was dealing with inhuman rage and rationale. Instead of saying, “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry, is there anything I can do? Would you like some lemonade or a few gallons of gas? You look like you might have been bedridden for the past nine days, and maybe you need to lie down?” your eyes began to bulge, Yzma style, behind your bug glasses.

“WHAT?! THIS IS PRIVATE PROPERTY!!! Why didn’t you park on the street?!” you spat angrily, gesturing towards the one-lane death trap that was the street. With her own pair of newly widened eyes, Lancee offered something about the “two nice men” who pushed us into the driveway so we would be safe. You responded, brightly, to ‘f-’ the nice man.

You then said that I couldn’t block your driveway on your PRIVATE PROPERTY, or you would call the police.

I got out of the car, apologizing profusely, and began to push my car into the far right corner of your 40×40 foot basketball arena of a driveway. You watched, of course ( Why would you help?! That would be be beneath you! ) dominating all nearby sound waves with reiterations of how you were ( and I paraphrase, for the children ), very, very angry at me. After all, how could you possible leave the premises with an unknown college girl waiting for a gas can on your, say it with me, PRIVATE PROPERTY.

You then realized that I’d just pushed my car out of the area your shining mid-life-crisis-mobile would require to exit the premises, not OUT INTO THE STREET. You turned another unattractive shade of fuschia, and recruited random people walking by to “COME PUSH THESE TRESPASSERS’ CAR OUT ONTO THE STREET.” Major props to you for a ) not thanking them for coming to assist you in response to your crazed bellowing, and b ) avoiding the soiled designer jeans that might have resulted in your helping us attempt to move my car uphill in gravel. I stand amazed at your administrative prowess. Oh, and when you ignored that miserable speed-walking proletariat wretch calling you “unneighborly?” That was priceless. And when you questioned whether or not I “even had a driver’s license?” That was cute, too.

When you found out that our combined backs weren’t strong enough to move my three-ton Toyota, you resumed your now familiar routine: yelling at the obviously distraught girl who’s been sick with the flu for nine days to move her gas-less, dead car into the middle of the approximately 4 foot wide street. It boggled the mind, hearing you yell and yell about the injustice we committed. I mean, yes, obviously we WERE planning to leave my car there to draw other drug runners and their wild partying ways together in a year-long drugs, sex, and rock and roll gravel block party finding its wild culmination in the ruination of all things good, holy and well-tailored, but to have known that? Just from our parking there for less than a minute? That takes perception.

As I started down the road, walking towards the gas station, I could still hear you yelling at my roommate. She thanks you for more f-word usage, by the way, and appreciated your threatening her with the police. She had been feeling left out, and you’re right, I’m sure they would have been firmly on your side.

I finally returned with the gas can, thinking of all the things I couldn’t actually say to you but would have liked to gently shove into your self-self-self crowded mind. Unfortunately, this occupation kept me from being able to quickly manipulate the spout into its proper position. That’s when you oh-so-helpfully wrenched it from my hands. Thanks for your eagerness. You poured a few drops into the general area of the wheel well, and said that it wasn’t “penetrating the vapor layer.” I asked you what that meant, and you clarified, grunting, “Start it.”

I questioned you, I’m sad to say, requesting that maybe we could finish pouring it a little more so I could make it to the gas station. You reiterated, to clarify: “START IT.”

It started.

“NOW MOVE IT TO THE STREET,” you yelled, helpfully pointing in the direction of the street to clarify. “But,” – “MOVE IT TO THE STREET!”

Okaaaay.

We moved it to the street, into the hordes known as “angry townies who prefer that the cars in front of them actually move.” People began to swerve, I began to try to fix the godforsaken box of evil that was the gas can. More gas went on my hands than in the tank, I do believe, and if I had ended with mangled fingers and the removal of my piano-teaching livelihood, this would be a very different letter.

But anyway, back to you, which is, of course, what really matters. As we drove off, you just went inside, probably to skin a few puppies, starve some African orphans, eat some of your precious gravel, and plan ways to overthrow the Make-A-Wish foundation.

Or maybe, just maybe, you gave the tiniest amount of thought to the road you’d taken to get to this point in your life – where guarding your gravel turf from a few stranded college girls became paramount, and showing concern for others finally fell off the tail of your lengthy priority list.

Well, probably not. But for your sake, I hope you eventually realize that privacy isn’t all its cracked up to be.

Until then, enjoy your empty gravel lot in life,

-Jennifer

P.S. In case you wondered, we did make it off the street. I almost died, and I couldn’t figure out the gas can, but luckily a nice man at the gas station helpfully fixed the cap. He was just the kind of mindless simpleton you haven’t been able to emotionally destroy. You should get right on that, m’k, pumpkin?

Jennifer Carden is the editor of Kritik.



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