Mr. Silver Bentley

Dear Sir,

This morning, as I sat at the turn signal waiting to get onto Summerlin Parkway, I saw you coming up in my rearview mirror. I had a moment of sheer admiration for the size and obvious power of your massive and massively expensive vehicle. My admiration turned quickly to unease, however, as I noticed that you were not slowing down so much.

You, Mr. Bentley, must have an amazing braking system on that thing, because I was sure you were going to hit me. It was at that point that my unease turned to mild terror. My mild terror was mitigated, however, by my annoyance as I focused on your flaccid-lipped, puffy, middle-aged face, flapping excitedly as you talked on your cellphone.

The thought came instantly: I actually wanted you to hit me. I craved it. I wanted your car, a car that cost easily five times my annual salary, to be embedded in the back of my cheap-ass econo-model Honda. And to have it be all your arrogant, jabbering fault. A silly thought, I know. No good would have come from it, and I'm ashamed the idea crossed my mind.

But you saved me from my own weakness. Or at least your car did. Your brakes were pitch-perfect and slid you to a sweet, razor-edged stop just two feet from the rear of my car. And then you did it, Mr. Bentley. You dispelled all my negative emotions. Better than that, you put icing on the cake. And it wasn't just any cake. It was better than birthday cake and Christmas cake combined.

You, still blathering on the phone, took your right index finger and jammed it, decisively and almost triumphantly, up your right nostril.

And then the light turned green.

I wish, Mr. Bentley, I had hung back to get your license plate number so I could have posted that, too, with my letter of gratitude. But I had to get to work, and you were too busy still talking on the phone and blocking every car behind you with your Sunday-speed progress up the on-ramp.

Maybe someday we'll meet again. I hope so. You are quite amusing. But even if we don't, I'll have the memories of your astounding douchebaggery to sustain me. You see, Mr. Bentley, you may not think you share the same planet as people like me –- how else to explain your actions? -- but rest assured, the people like me cannot help but notice you.

But then again . . . isn't that what you, Sir, crave the most?