I always got a kick out of watching television shows about how a person’s pet starts to look like its owner. Or maybe it is the other way around. Chipping the ice out of my driveway, I watch a short, stocky man walking a short stocky bulldog and a frizzy-haired older woman holding onto her Pekinese.
Last Friday I was stuck in some slow-moving traffic. As usual I would put on some soothing music, or sport’s radio station, in order to simply wait it out. Moving through traffic I noticed a large black Chrysler truck pull up beside me.
I believe a truck of that size would have to be black. I don’t remember ever seeing a light-blue Chrysler truck. Even though I was driving a pick-up that was supposed to be high off the ground, I still felt as though I was in a sub-compact next to the monster truck beside me.
Inside was a man who also made me feel very small. He had his forearm leaning outside the window. Or at least I think it was his forearm. His arm looked as though it was twice the size of my thigh. Peeking into the cab of his truck, I also noticed his head was twice the size of mine.

He had a long, black beard and was smoking what looked like a small tree. He was obviously annoyed with being held up and looked as though he was trying to find a poor unfortunate to torture in order to pass the time away. I looked straight ahead and hunched over hoping not to be his unfortunate of the day.
I then turned off my CD player and started to observe other cars that surrounded their drivers and thus me. To my surprise I had discovered another way of passing the time when time was being stolen by a mid-winter traffic jam.
Slowly driving besides me was a bright, silver Cadillac with the appearance of being some sort of military vehicle. It was square in shape with its distinctive Cadillac emblem in the center of both the hood and trunk of the car.
Since I’ve been totally indoctrinated by Cadillac commercials, all I could hear in my head was their distinctive song that had me imagining all the cars on the road pulling off to the side of the road in order to allow the king Cadillac to pass.
Looking down at the clock on my dashboard I realized I had been stuck in traffic for over one-half an hour. On a normal day this would have driven me nuts but, because of my newly-found game, I was actually enjoying this time.
The next vehicle that passed by me was a silver Ford F-150 truck. It had all the extras on it and had a black, plastic bed-liner covering all of the back of the truck.  His truck looked clean but it was obvious that it had become so, only after the heavy rains we have suffered, through over the past few weeks.
Inside was a middle-aged balding man who held onto the steering wheel with what looked like one finger. His windows were open and I think he was listening to some sort of jazz or blues. He wore a baseball cap that had some sort of an emblem on it which I have never seen before.
The man inside did not seem aggravated over the traffic that surrounded him. In fact, I noticed him looking to his right and into his rear view mirror seemingly studying the cars and the people who now surrounded him. For a second I was mesmerized by what he was doing until he quickly jerked his head to the right.
Hell! He was now staring at me! I quickly shook my head and closed my eyes, hoping that I had not finally gone mad. When I opened them the truck and its passenger was no longer there. After that, I decided to concentrate on something else, like what psychologist I should call when I got home!
I always got a kick out of watching television shows about how a person’s pet starts to look like its owner. For the past half-hour or so I was enjoying how a person’s car resembled what the person was supposed to be, or at least wanted to be.
It was a fun game until my mind’s eye decided to play a game with me.
The End.
Jim Fabiano is a teacher and writer living in York, Maine
Maine Publisher’s Association Best weekly column award for 2004
Email Jim: james.fabiano60@gmail.com