I became conscious of it when I was in grad school. I was sitting in a bar, having a drink with a professor, when one of my own students, one of my underaged students, stumbled in.

“Hey Ann! This is so cool—I can’t believe I’ve run into you!”

“Oh yes, imagine that--a life beyond Monday, Wednesday, Friday, from 8:00 to 8:50. Me. Living. Just like regular folk. Crazy, huh?”

“Yeah, it’s so wild! I just can’t believe this! Wow! Can I buy you a drink?”

“Gee, thanks, but no. I’m good.” And I held up a fresh glass of something-or-other as proof.

“Aw, man. Well, if you change your mind, I’ll be sitting right over there—if you two want to join me, that would be even better.”

I looked at my bare wrist, directly where I typically wore my watch, and said, “Sounds good, but it’s getting late and I have to get home.”

“Ok, but since I offered to buy you a drink, tell me something: are we going to have a quiz on that Donne guy? Am I going to have to read all of that crap on the syllabus or should I take a chance and just read one or two?”

“Hmm. Perhaps you should take a chance and read it all--be a risk taker, y’know?!”

He wandered off to the corner, his tongue exploring the rim of the bottle, and she and I looked at each other, she shaking her head, me rolling my eyes.

“He doesn’t get it,” she offered.

“Obviously.”

“No, Ann, I mean, I see that kid driving around campus all the time and I can assure you—he simply doesn’t get it.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s got a BMW with a Grateful Dead bumper sticker—think about it—if you have a BMW, you don’t listen to The Grateful Dead—and if you do, you really, seriously, just don’t get it.”

I laughed, partially because she cracked me up and partially because I knew she was right. “So you do that—check out bumper stickers and then check out the drivers?”

“Hell yes! It’s my right, by God!” She leaned in closer, either to make sure I heard her over the corner jukebox or to make sure her theories remained confidential (in which case, I'm about to really fuck up). “The way I see it, you’re advertising yourself, your beliefs, your predilections with those things on your car. Thus, you’re inviting me to look at you, to gawk at you, and, right in your face, to laugh at you. No matter how I respond, buddy, you’ve asked for it.”

And you know she was right.

“What about you? You’ve got a Peugeot with no bumper stickers on it—not even a BAMA one—what does that say about you?”

She scratched her arm pit and squinted at me with one overeducated, mocking eye and said, “Well, I reckon it means I ain’t from 'round here!”

She was right again.

I thought of her today on my drive home from work, specifically when I came up on a dark-colored, small sedan, maybe a Camry. It was scooting along in the right lane, its cruise control set precisely at the speed limit, its “Choose Life” license plate right there in my line of vision. Oooh I just had to speed up to get a really good look at that guy.

You see, sometimes when you see a bumper sticker, you know what’s sitting behind the wheel but you've still got to look. Like if you see an Earnhardt sticker, maybe one of those #3’s with angel wings, you know there’s a mustard stain on a wife-beater behind the wheel, maybe a few empties on the floorboard thrown in for good measure. Oh and of course, a true paucity of teeth among all of the passengers. But you look, just to make sure.

And if you see my favorite, the one that reads “In case of rapture, this car will be empty!,” you look even though you know you’ll see someone with evangelical hair behind the wheel, hair self-righteously shellacked straight up from the scalp towards the heavens, dyed unnaturally dark. And they’ll smile like they know you when you drive by. Even if, just for fun, you give ‘em the finger.

But sometimes, it isn’t nearly as predictable and thus you’re required to look, not just out of curiosity, but because you’re obligated to…to…to investigate. Like when I see an Auburn sticker, I just have to look, just to see if there really is any livestock in the car. Or if I see one of those with the kid’s name alongside some icon of some sport, I just have to look to see what kind of moron is driving. I mean, yeah, I know, they want me to think they love their kids, blah, blah, blah, but me, I think they're trolling for freakshows. “Kelsea,” you see, “she’s a cheerleader!” Rah rah! But come on, that’s a made to order, pedophile special—he gets the kid’s name AND how they spend their afternoons—right there on the bumper—rah rah, indeed!

My favorite ones, however, are the ones that just make me scratch my head. My son pointed out one not long ago, the “God is Pro-Life” sticker right next to the “Tsunami Relief” one. We honked our horns, smiled and gave ‘em the big thumbs-up because, really, when you see a combination like that, doesn’t it deserve a reaction of some sort? (We’ve also noted the “God is Pro-Life” sticker right next to the NRA decal. Yeppers, those "God is Pro-Life" stickers are classics--they go with anything!)

And then, recently, when I was driving around Birmingham, I saw a combination that made me laugh so hard that I was truly relieved to be so very close to Bard’s office. When I spilled through his door laughing, I knew I had to sober up quickly, especially when he gave me that stop-laughing-now-dammit-or-tell-me-why-you’re-pissing-yourself look. “I just passed this car,” I started, pausing to catch my breath between muffled chuckles, “and it had a handicapped license plate.” I couldn’t help it—I started laughing again.

“You’re a sick bitch, Ann. You’re trash through and through.”

“No, no, Bard, there’s more. Underneath the handicapped license plate was a bumper sticker—it read ‘Skydive Alabama!’”

He quickly slapped his hand over his mouth in an effort to mute his delight. When he’d almost gained his moral superiority over me, he started laughing again. “I just keep picturing a parachute tied to a wheelchair, floating through the sky!”

“Oh geez, Bard, you’re way ahead of me. I’m still stuck with the notion of someone being handicapped AND a skydiver, wondering which came first—it’s a classic chicken-or-the-egg dilemma!” We’re both doomed for a long trip south, I suspect.

But tonight, it wasn’t nearly as promising; this guy, I told myself, he was bound to be just you’re typical moralist, saying his piece through his license plate, just like any other idiot with an extra fifty bucks can do. So when I pulled up beside him, I looked over, not because I was expecting something, anything; I looked over just because.

And when I did, I saw the driver’s window lower just a few inches, just enough for the middle-aged guy behind the wheel to edge out his cigarette butt.

That’s right: Mr. Choose Life? He’s a smoker.

And yeah, I laughed. All the way home.