The Three Chronicles of Song Lee

1.

I have a stowaway on my ride. A spider of incredible resourcefulness lives behind the drivers' side rear view of Song Lee. I suspect since around October. I don't use my car very often, but when I do, there's usually a fresh batch o' web haphazardly stretched across the mirror. I appraise this spider as more dedicated than talented; its creations no geometric masterpieces, but how consistently it redresses its deadly bed. I'm almost empathetic when highway speeds tear its work down. I presume, glumly, that by now the poor arachnid has grown accustomed to this life. Most I can do for it at this point is not to rock its boat. More, I try to have the diligence to park nearby a streetlight. Be there kismet unto unseen friends.

2.

In New Haven, my car parked under a massive maple tree. Over a year and tens of thousands of miles later, I'm still finding maple helicopter seeds diligently tucked into every crevice of the front half of Song Lee. Song Lee is without air conditioning, and in the direst of situations, when even 2-60 cooling isn't cutting it anymore, I'll try the vents. More often than not, a few maple seeds fly out the front vents, spill out with a twirl onto the floor and passenger seat. On one recent occasion, I turn on the vent, refocus to the road. Four seconds later, a single seed sneaks through the panel grid with a raucous, and upon bursting the gate, floats down improbably, ever so precisely, upon the top of my right hand, itself resting on stickshift in a calm (contingency of auxiliary braking) state. I felt the leaf for a few minutes, snuck a glance to confirm its accomplishment, and returned focus, let it lie while we passed through Santa Cruz.

3.

I completely forgot to re-register Song Lee.