The parking lot. A wasteland where civility has lost its meaning. Spatial awareness seems a brand new concept to these chimps. A symphony of chaos burning me like the 9 rings of hell where the performers are truly demonic.
I see you as I wait. There you sit, the enlightened one, gathering the secrets of the universe in your Honda Haven, Ford Fortress, or Subaru Sanctuary. Are you meditating? Writing a New York Times bestseller? Savoring the smell of artery clogging fast-food? If it weren’t for a commanding line of cars behind me, I might even respect your meticulousness. These drivers behind me have morphed into a roaring dragon. The parking lot canonical? law is clear: Thou shall not transform thy vehicle into a zen garden while we rot in idle. Your five-minute “me time” is an eternity for us. Don’t you dare pretend you didn’t see me, I saw you looking in that rear view mirror and not to mention your back wipers have already waved “hello.”
Then come the scavengers. The moment I pause out of politeness for the nice one who left their spot hastily, they descend from the sky and steal the spot. They swoop in as fast as they can hoping to be cast for the next Fast and Furious film. They are worse than vultures; at least vultures wait until the hunter gets a bit of the meat. Jennifer, you didn’t “win” the spot, you sacrificed all of your dignity and for what? Your super green kale smoothie. If I weren’t such a good person, I would be waiting for you at the crosswalk and good luck fighting past my 2 ton machine.
Then there is the artist who manages to take up three spots in the Toyota Sienna; what a bold expression on asphalt. A rebellion against the tyranny of lines! Your minivan is a manifesto and it says “Why fit one car in one spot when I can block three others?” You declare this while we circle around the parking spaces as planets to the sun. Keep the color on the canvas next time, you learn to color in the lines at elementary. I would critique your art, but it is subjective, and my rage is muffled by a windshield. Clearly the windshield is not made of the same glass as wine glasses that shatter when screamed at.
Then there are the arrow rebels. Have you ever seen the giant painted arrows on the ground? Of course you have, and even a kindergartener can understand them. These colossal white guides show us the way, they part the Red Sea of parked cars. Of course the rebels don’t appreciate the prophecy of the arrows. Going against the grain I see. You have just turned a beautiful loop into a mess of knotted spaghetti.
The parking lot is a test. It pits humanity against barbarianess: greed, selfishness, and a baffling lack of sympathy. To the car-sitters, vultures, Picassos, and rebels, I loathe you. Yet, sometimes I am you. In this asphalt purgatory, we are all villains and victims, praying for the same spots.
Maybe we should install a confessional, we all need penance for what we have done in these lots. Assign therapists to those rebels. Or even better, replace all cars with bumper carts and make people earn a full DMV approved motor vehicle.