VANITY PLATES by Dorothy-Jean (Dody) Christian Chapman You know what its like driving down the interstate,

and you see a vanity license plate you just cant figure out because its so cryptic. Or are you so tired or tapped out that you cannot, for the life of it all, make a connection. The four numbers and three letters look vaguely familiar, yet so foreign. You begin adding schwa sounds to the letters to suggest a word or two, or you add up the numbers, or you say the numbers as if they function as a syllable in a word (e.g., cogit8). You fret; you draw upon all your brainstorming powers as you fire up every cell in your white matter and your gray matter. You feel as if Mensa has just flunked you on the license-plate-passing-at-seventy mph-test. How will you make it through the day realizing this enormous shortcoming? You are so inept that you did not notice the idiot light on the dash display indicating the need to feed your steeds, all two hundred and forty-seven of them. Your attention, now diverted to fuel station hunting, continues to be lured by the vanity plate encryption. You choose the next exit, repeating the four numbers and the three letters from the long-gone license plate. Why are these symbols so familiar? Why cant you tease the familiarity out of the frazzled, free-shooting electrons leaving your brain space? You pull into a fuel station next to a pump. You reign in your vehicles two hundred and forty-seven equines. And your brow is knitted with the consternation of a wool spinner in a room full of cats. What is the secret message? So you whip out your debit card to swipe it in the fuel pump computer. The screen requests your pin number Yep! That was it, and your sons initials!