Dear Young Gun in the Jacked-up Pickup

Dear Young Gun in the Jacked-Up Pickup,

I first saw you in the rearview mirror, high beams glaring, bearing down on me. Within seconds you were inches from my rear bumper, the curled chrome horns of the Dodge logo threatening to ram me. I braced for impact. 

At the last instant you jerked left and veered into the passing lane, came up beside me. I concentrated on holding steady in my lane, but was able to catch a quick glimpse of you: camo cap pulled low, a sinewy forearm, thick hand slung casually over the steering wheel. You accelerated and swerved back in front of me, a blur of mud-slung side panels, lug tires growling on the pavement. Your rear bumper stickers came into view — "Man up!" and "Is there life after death? Touch my truck and find out!" — along with the nude-girl silhouette mud flaps, and the chrome testicles hanging from the rear bumper.

You let off the gas and I braked hard. I saw you look in your rearview mirror, direct a steady stare at me. Then you gunned it. Black smoke poured from the dual exhausts and enveloped me. "Rolling coal," I think you call it, restricted air flow on intake, incomplete combustion. The acrid stench of diesel filled my car. And with a throaty roar you sped away, disappearing quickly over the hill and out of sight. 

I let out my tension in a whoosh of held breath. I thought that was it.

Until I stopped at a rest area twenty minutes later and there you were, standing over a tattered, grime-stained homeless man who sat holding a scrawled cardboard sign that read, "Anything helps." 

Uh-oh, I thought, this doesn't look good. Young Gun is going to let loose with words of hate. Or worse. 

But before I could decide what to do — Jump to the man's defense and most likely get my ass kicked? Call 9-1-1 and hope for a quick police response? — you reached into your pocket, pulled out a granola bar and a couple of bills, and offered them. The man smiled and nodded, gratitude showing clearly on his grizzled face. You patted him on the shoulder and, as if you did this every day, walked to your jacked-up pickup and drove away. 

It took me a moment to process what I'd seen. I thought I knew what you were, Young Gun, until I didn't. My assumptions crumbled, my quick judgement dissolved. You became a  4-wheel drive contradiction. Which, to my surprise, was inspiring. I got out of my car and followed your benevolent lead.

However, let me be clear. This is not a Hollywood ending. I still think you should readjust the carburetor of your jacked-up pickup to its factory settings, cut back on the rolling coal. And while you're at it, please consider getting rid of the sexist mudflaps and chrome testicles. That would take real balls. But thanks for the reminder that compassion and kindness come in a variety of packages. That we humans, despite our many apparent differences, share a deeply wired innate goodness. 

I wish you well, Young Gun. 

Safe travels. With empathy.

Sincerely. 

Yes, sincerely indeed.