Dear Promotional Person Wearing the Giant Sun Suit,

I know you must think, in the tundra days of winter, that you have the worst job in the world. I know your bosses must wonder, as traffic flies by you and doesn’t stop, that advertising doesn’t work.

But when I saw you, your yellow arm waving with a wide swath, saying hello to every passerby with a frosty exhale, I waved to you. And when you waved back, then bowed with your spiky ray hat, I smiled the whole rest of my commute.

I didn’t think: “Look there’s an idiot in a sun suit.” I thought, “There is a person who does a difficult job extremely well.”

I wanted to write to your boss and tell him so, but when I doubled back the next day, driving up and down a four-block stretch where I was sure you’d been, expecting to see a business called “Sun Jewelers” or “Sun Dry Cleaners”, I didn’t see any place remotely like that.