Through Car Windows

Paul Bowers

As our van zooms down the Interstate,

I look out through the side window,

Looking into the other cars

Zooming down the Interstate.

Through these pieces of glass I see

A multitude of different people

With different stories to tell,

Stories of their lives,

Stories of friends and family,

Stories galore and so much more.

Through one quick glimpse

As cars pass by,

I can guess at their personalities

And the stories of their lives.

Who knows if I guess correctly?

Even if I’m wrong,

I often speculate,

I wonder,

What’s this person really like?

What stories do they have to tell?

A young woman,

About twenty-five years old,

With a sweater wrapped loosely around her neck,

Glances nervously over her shoulder,

Through the window of her large, white Suburban.

She drives timidly, carefully down the road,

Almost afraid of the motorists passing her by.

She grips the steering wheel tightly,

Worried about something.

She’s all alone in that cavernous automobile,

Nobody riding shotgun,

Nobody in the back seats,

Plenty of room, but no one to fill it.

A heavily tattooed arm

Dangles out the open window of a small, jet black car

With black lights shining beneath the car doors

And a wall of bumper stickers covering the back.

The sunlight reflects off the jewelry in his ears,

His nose, his tongue, and his eyebrow

As his head bobs slightly back and forth,

Back and forth, back and forth

To the beat of the loud rock music

Blasting out of the open window.

He is a rebel,

Rebelling against his parents, his teachers, everyone he knows,

And the whole world in general.

No one can stop him,

He thinks to himself,

There’s no law against being a punk

He is invincible,

He knows this for sure,

He’ll never die;

He’ll be nineteen forever.

Our car approaches a rickety-looking, old Volkswagen Beetle

With a license plate reading simply, “WHUT?”

The olive green paint is giving way to rust,

One of the doors and the front bumper are missing.

A man wearing an Aerosmith T-shirt,

With his uncombed, long, brown hair

Almost blocking his vision completely,

Drums his fingers on the steering wheel

As he gazes absentmindedly

Down the road, at the trees, at other cars,

And at the billboards on the side of the road.

He doesn’t have a care in the world,

At least none that he can remember.

His thoughts are not of the road or him driving on it,

But of deeper questions,

Like “What did I eat for dinner last night?”

And “When was the last time I washed my hair?”

He drifts lazily down the road,

No destination in mind,

Lost in his own little world.

A gigantic, black, Lexus SUV

Towers over the puny cars around it.

It moves swiftly down the road,

Silently warning everyone else to move out of the way.

A businessman sits in the driver’s seat

With one hand on the steering wheel

And the other holding a cell phone to his ear.

He talks quickly to a client,

Setting dates for meetings,

Ordering people around,

Prioritizing, strategizing,

Business as usual.

He is wealthy,

But with no time to enjoy it.

There’s just so much to do,

And so little time to do it,

Working at least twelve hours a day,

No time to go home for dinner,

No time to be with his family.

But he has no time to worry about such things.

He’s a successful man of business;

Why isn’t he happy?

An old, boxy, unattractive, gray car

Struggles down the road,

With black smoke pouring out of the exhaust pipe

And a battered license plate dangling by a single screw.

A tired, worn-down, middle-aged woman sits in the driver’s seat,

Gazing forlornly down the long, long road.

Five children laugh, argue, fight, and complain from the backseat,

As the mother tries in vain to settle them down.

If only her husband could see what a mess he’d left her in,

If only he could be there to support his wife and children,

If only, if only.

An eighteen-wheeler rumbles noisily down the Interstate,

Carrying goods from city to city,

Chugging diesel,

Keeping on rolling.

A pot-bellied man sits comfortably behind the wheel,
A faint smile on his face and a cigarette dangling from his lip.

He’s been all around this great big country,

From New York to LA,

From the Florida Everglades to the forests of Oregon,

Always moving, never complaining,

Just making a living.

He’s perfectly content;

This is the life for him,

Trucking east and west,

North and south,

Early in the morning ‘til late at night.

He keeps on rolling,

Weary but wary,

Having the time of his life.

A red Ford pickup with a Georgia license plate speeds down the road

Sporting a Confederate flag on its antenna,

On bumper stickers, and on the windshield,

Clearly stating the driver’s opinion

Of the north, the south,

Yankees, and Rednecks.

A laid back man hangs his left arm out the open window,

Then pulls it back in

To scratch his stubble-covered chin

And turn up the radio.

Country music pours out the window

For the entire world to hear.

He’s a redneck, a hillbilly,

And proud of it, too.

He doesn’t care what everyone else thinks;

A simple, country life is the life for him.

He’s a man of real pork barbecue,

Hunting deer, and four-wheelers.

The south is his home,

And forever it will be.

All these people are an enigma to me;

Who are they?

What are they like?

I’ll never know;

They’ll never know I wondered.

As their cars roll out of my sight,

I know I’ll probably never see them again,

But I know that they’ll keep on living their lives

And going on their way.

From all of this, I’ve learned one thing:

That each human being is unique,

Each person has their story to tell,

And the path they choose for that story

Is entirely up to them.