Dear Little Children Who Play in the Alley and Like to Throw Stuff At My Car,
We see each other every day, sometimes twice a day. You know me, you know my car. You know that I live about fifty feet from your own house. You know my husband, and sometimes you even say funny little childlike things to him as he takes out the garbage at night. Funny things like “We must kill the white man” or not so funny things like “Hi Mister! Ok bye.” I must tell you that he is also saddened to see our relationship eroding.
You also must sense that although I drive a very old car that is missing a lot of parts, I harbor a lot of pride for one of my most expensive possessions. No, it certainly does not rival your big brother’s 1970 green Cadillac with its stunning sound system and embroidery on the headrests that says “R.I.P. Freddy.” Maybe sometime we could chat about who Freddy is, and who did that fabulous handiwork. That’s what friends do.
I can see your little legs poking out from behind (or under?) those trash cans, and I always slow down because you most certainly will want to run out at the last moment. Depending on my mood, I grin or frown menacingly. Remember that I have only shouted at you once. But now, children, this game has gone too far.
My husband was nearly blinded by the handfuls of dirt you threw last week, but the glass and gravel you have now carefully proportioned to the dirt is downright distasteful. I don’t want to hash out all of the other recent troubles you have caused; I believe we might still be able to work this out. One last request: could you stop throwing AA batteries at my girlfriends when they come to visit?