The Illuminated Donkey

Dear Giant Travel Agency Billboard Overlooking the Southbound Pulaski Skyway:

Okay. You win. I give.

I admit that the first few dozen times I drove by you I didn't pay much attention. Sure, your reclining, bikini-clad model was vaguely attractive, but certainly nothing remarkable. And while the prices listed for the Caribbean vacations seemed reasonable enough, I just used up all of my vacation time, and probably wouldn't be jetting off to a tropical island in my present single state anyway. So on I drove, morning after morning after occasional evening.

And then...something changed. I began to notice you a little further up the road and kept my glance lingering a little later. I began to fantasize about calling your 800-number on my cell, stopping off at Newark Airport, and hopping on a flight to Aruba in a desperate search to find that model and maybe buy her a drink or a new bikini. My Ford Escort continued onward down Route 1/9 to my soul-deadening job, but my heart was still back on the Skyway, climbing up the ladder and diving into your cool, crystal-clear waters. Under cloud-covered skies, I pine.

So, as I said, I give up. I've written down your phone number and web address and promise that the moment I get some more days off I'll fly to wherever you want me to go, for however long you want me to stay.

But for now, please leave me in untropical peace.

Ken