Parking Break

Traffic is thick and torpid tonight, more so than usual, even for a Friday. Like clogged sewer pipes, the streets are jammed with greasy foul-smelling people, rotten meat driving their fancy new cars and trucks. Where do they all come from, where are they going? I wish they would all go away. Behind me, a black Beamer belches on my bumper, insisting I go faster. And the cars in the next lane drift over the lines, inching ever closer, crowding me, squeezing me, trying to run me off the road so they can take over my position. They think it's my fault that they can't go faster. Can't they see? Don't they understand I can't go faster? I would if I could. I'm in a rush myself. They are all so stupid. Don't they know I must get home soon to park my car in its own space? Only then can I relax and rest, when I'm sure my car is safe, before I bake my cake tonight, a birthday cake for my thirtieth birthday tomorrow and a party all to myself.

In the mirror I watch the driver behind me, see his smirking face and thin black mustache. I know his kind. He wants to go right through me, take my position away and keep right on going to the next car and the next, and run them all off the road. Why do they let these arrogant rich people, with their shiny new cars, push poor people like me off the road?

I keep a gun on the seat next to me while I drive. I reach over, touch it, caress it. Its black hardness relaxes me. The 9mm bullets loaded inside emanate power which flows into me, giving me confidence, allowing me to slow down, take my foot off the gas for just a moment, to mess with the driver on my rear bumper, to teach him a lesson. But not too long, not too slow. I don't want to get hit tonight. I must get car safely home. People in the next lane are staring at me. They have plenty of room in their own lane, yet they keep drifting over. I am tempted to roll down the window and point my gun at them. But they are mostly children--ugly, dirty children--playing in the back seat, laughing and pointing at me and my car. They feel superior because they are riding in a nice new car. I can see the hate in their eyes, the urge to harm my car and the thrill it would give them. But what do they know, spoiled little rich kids. My car is a good car. True, the paint has faded from dark, rich red to a color similar to rust, but it has very few dents. I will buy a new car someday, when I have the money. Then I can laugh at them.

I must get home before someone hits me. After working all week at the grocery store, and with this miserable traffic, I am tired and nervous. Only a mile to go, a few minutes to my space at home where my car will be safe. But the car in front of me stops for a yellow traffic light. Nobody does that. Not any more. Not here, on this crowded street where everyone races through red lights, where no one wants to lose their hard-earned position, where no one worries about the police. A woman driver of course, wearing a fur hat and playing with her face in the mirror. She stopped just to annoy me. She knows I need to get home and off this road. Now I have to sit here an extra two minutes with the car behind me inches away, almost inside, pushing me aside.

The light turns green. The woman in front pulls away. To teach the turd behind me a lesson, I wait. But just a second or two. If I wait too long he will blow his horn, and I would have to shoot him. I don't want that. Not tonight with all these people around.

Traffic is a slow-moving liquid mass, like pus oozing from a boil. No one has hit me yet, but they keep trying. Up ahead on the right I can see the entrance to my parking lot. Like a soldier returning from battle, I feel triumphant and confident the way I used to feel when I was young, before the illness came, the one my father caused. The apartment complex is a cramped collection of three hundred cardboard boxes designed to house nine hundred people and not its current population of two thousand and growing. The parking lot will be full by now, as always on a Friday night. It seems that no one besides me works on Friday, or they all get off early, or the tenants all have visitors, mean and loud people, staying the weekend. But that won't be a problem. My reserved space, my little island paradise will be waiting.

Compared to a few weeks ago, the parking lot looks clean and neat now with its fresh coating of asphalt, like it's been dressed up in a new tuxedo after wearing the same pair of denim overalls for years. All the lines are freshly painted too, bright white stripes that almost glow in the dark. The spaces are wide here, much wider than the ones at my grocery store. I hate parking there, but I must while I work. Even though I park far out from the store, the clumsy people still find me, pushing their shopping carts and swinging car doors wide open.

As I pull in off the crowded street, I release the gun and take a deep breath. I relax and wave to the people still stuck in traffic. As expected, the lot is full of shiny new cars. Even all the handicapped spots are taken. I drive around the covered area in the center where the corrupt rich people get to park, and pull up to my space, which sits right below my second-story apartment.

But in my space, instead of a smooth black surface bordered by wide white stripes ready to welcome me home, there sits an unoccupied imported vehicle, a silver Lexus with an arrogant shine and belligerent attitude.

I sit stunned, hands frozen to the steering wheel, unable to breath or think for how long I don't know. After some time, the panic subsides and my head clears. I expect someone to come at any minute, rushing out from somewhere--an apartment or the rental office--and get in and drive away, which I will gladly let them do, but not before accepting their profound apologies.

By my watch, I wait twenty minutes, but no one comes. I put the gun in the glove box and take out a notepad. I write down the license number of the offending car, and a simple note to the owner of this car, this pompous vehicle in violation of so many codes of conduct, so many laws and local ordinances too numerous to list. A simple note that says: 'This space is reserved for Apartment 27. You do not live in Apartment 27. Do not park here.'

With my phone, I take pictures of the car from all angles, making sure to include a shot of the ground with #27 in full view behind the car. I attach the note to the windshield and head to the rental office. I must hurry. It's getting late and they will be closing soon. For now, I leave my car parked in the middle of the driveway.

On my way I pass the main laundry room and look in. I should do some laundry this weekend, but not here. The tables are packed with piles of clothes waiting to be dried, or washed, or retrieved by their owners. Some will sit there for days, taking up space. Discarded dryer sheets and overlooked socks litter the floor, along with leaking detergent bottles which leave a slippery surface like ice on a rink. Not here. It is not safe. The children would play, the dirty and noisy children, crawling under my feet, fighting for space, pushing me aside.

The rental office is quiet when I arrive. All the pretty young girls, any one of which I would be happy to see, have apparently gone home. Only the manager, Gretchen Bundt, is still on duty. Gretchen is a middle-aged beast, a hefty, boisterous woman whose ancestors were surely German generals or prison guards, and a person I prefer to avoid. But in my emergency situation, I have no choice but to speak with the commandant.

"Hello Gretchen. Sorry to bother you," I say. She does not appear busy. Her desk is pristine as always, devoid of any file folders or documents of any kind. The pretty young girls do all the work while she sits here, wielding her power over me, over everyone who lives here. So I make a point of pointing out that I hate to bother her in hopes she will not take offense and invade my home. "There's a car parked in my space."

She twists in her chair, which groans in protest of her shifting weight. "Do you know who it belongs to?" she asks.

"No, I don't." If I did, I wouldn't be here talking to you. I would be talking to the owner. "I was hoping you could look up the license number in your tenet files on your computer and see if it belongs to someone who lives here."

"Yeah, I can do that. It'll take a while. Go sit down," she says, pointing to a couch on the far side of the office. She wants me out of her orbit, and I want out of hers. I sit and try to stay calm, but it's no good. I need to get back to my car and my parking space to see if it is vacant.

"I'll be back in a minute. I'm going to move my car," I tell Gretchen. She grunts as I leave the office and walk past the pool next door. Even at this hour it is full of children, filthy little brats--some in diapers--screaming and splashing like they are at home in their bathtub. I can never use the pool when it gets really hot. There is no room for me.

My parking space is still occupied and my car sits alone in the driveway. I get in and start it and wait. But not long. I must find a parking place and return to the office before Gretchen leaves. In vain I drive around the parking lot twice hoping that someone will pull out of a visitor spot, then finally pull out, back into the clogged artery, the main thoroughfare in front of my home.

Two blocks away I turn down a side street. Parking on the main avenue with all its traffic would be suicide, even if there was a space. At least the side street has no traffic except for the occasional driver who has lost control on the avenue and needs to feel some speed beneath him and the power of his car's engine. I must watch out for his kind. I find an open spot half a block off the avenue, a space next to driveway, which means no one can block me in. But I can't leave it here all night. It isn't safe. People will walk by here, mean men with knives, and look in, try to break in and steal my radio, or break a window just for something to do.

I grab my gun from the glove box walk back. On my way to the office I pass my parking space. The car is still there with my note on the windshield. In the rental office, a young Asian man and his wife are talking with Gretchen. New tenets, more people, more cars to squeeze in.

Gretchen sees me and says, "The license number didn't come up in my files. I can't help you."

"Well then, can you have it towed?"

"No. Not for 72 hours. That's our policy. It's in your lease. Read it."

"I have no place to park. The lot is full," I say, and no more. I worry that I have already annoyed Gretchen.

"That's your problem. Now get out. I have to go show these people around the property." She pushes me out of the office, onto the sidewalk that leads to the stairway to apartment 27.

A second-story apartment has one advantage. No one above to assault your peace, though those on two sides do enough damage. Sometimes, late at night, I go down to the parking lot and sit in my car just to enjoy the quiet of my special space. At my front door I glance down to my space. It is still occupied by a silver Lexus. Once inside, I pace around my forlorn apartment and try to develope a plan. Whatever I decide to do, Gretchen must not suspect me. It will be dark soon. Very dark. They do not like to spend money on lighting for the parking lot which, for once, I am grateful. My plan will most surely require darkness.

I hold my gun in my right hand and admire the shape, the smell, the feel of power. Do I shoot the car? I could blow it up. It is, after all, full of gasoline. Or maybe not. It could be one of those hybrids with very little gas in its tank, or none at all. Perhaps that is why it's parked there, in my space. It's out of gas? But then, it could be an electric vehicle with never an ounce of gas.

What else can I do? Deflate the tires? While that might teach them a lesson it will do nothing to remove the car tonight.

I must have my space. I cannot walk three blocks every time I need my car. The sidewalks in this neighborhood are not safe. I can carry my gun, but I would have to shoot somebody before long. Perhaps the car has an alarm. This I must find out.

I go down and pull on the doors, jump on the hood, shake it sideways. No alarm goes off. I try pulling on the doors again. People walking by stop to look.

"I locked my keys inside," I say. "Just seeing if it would pop open."

They slink away, glancing back at me from time to time with guilty looks, as if they are involved in something illegal but have come to regret it. I wait until they round the corner, then head back to safety inside my apartment where news ideas start to form.

The car has no alarm, but I could still bust a window. Someone will hear the glass break and call the police. They would come and trace the license number, and maybe contact the owner. But what if nobody heard the glass break, or even cared enough to call the police? Well, I can call the police myself. But they would want my name. They would know my phone number. They would suspect me and find me. That won't do. They must not know I'm involved.

I cannot wait any longer. They must pay for taking my space. The idea of busting a window comes back and sparks my imagination. From inside the car I can do so much more and no one will see me.

I gather up anything that will burn: a gallon can of white gas for my camp stove, half full; lighter fluid and lamp oil; birthday candles I bought for my cake; paper towels and newspaper. They all go into a paper grocery bag. Now I need something to break the window. I pace the apartment searching for just the right tool. A hammer would work, but I would have to carry it back home when I'm done so as not to leave any evidence that could be traced back to me. Then I remember the softball-sized rocks lining the walkways.

I put on a pair of old brown work gloves. I don't want to leave any fingerprints on the car, though there are surely already some there on the outside. But so what? When it burns so will my fingerprints. I head out with my bag of supplies, my fiery surprise. Along the way, I choose my glass buster from the ground, a solid sphere that fits comfortably in my hand.

There is no one around in this corner of the parking lot. My space is covered in thick darkness. Even if someone hears the breaking glass and looks out, they won't see much. And it won't be their car I'm breaking into, which should end any interest in my activity. No one will care. No one cares about anything around here except themselves, their own property, their own life. Selfish, stupid people. I should burn down the whole place.

The rock opens the window on the first heave. Much easier than expected, and still no alarm of any kind. The broken glass lands mostly inside the car, sounding more like a ripple than a crashing wave. I reach in and unlock the doors before going around to the driver's side. I sit for a moment with my hands on the steering wheel, acting like I belong, checking the mirrors for any stirring in the parking lot behind me. All clear so far. I brush broken glass off the seats, which are cloth and not leather. Good. They will burn faster, and hotter I would think. I spray lighter fluid everywhere until the can is empty. Lamp oil goes on the dash and the doors, white gas on the floor mats front and rear. I mount the birthday candles on two strips of thin cardboard that I place on the passenger seat and surround them with balls of newspaper. The interior is now soaked with flammable liquids except where I'm sitting. I light the candles and get out to pour the last of the gas onto the driver's seat.

I can hear splashing and squealing coming from the dirty kids in the pool, and the clacking of billiard balls and laughing in the rec room. But they can't see me. Out here in the parking lot, all is dark and hushed. I walk to the street, which, even at this hour, is still loaded with slow-moving commuter traffic. I hesitate for a moment, trying to decide whether to go back home and grab my gun, but decide to go, walk around the block--twice is the plan-- without it, in case someone is watching from a window. I take it slow, crossing the street three times, then backtracking a bit like the private eyes on TV to make sure I'm not being followed. After ten minutes I feel safe and relaxed enough to return home.

I come back through the rear entrance to the complex. From that direction I don't have to walk directly past my space. I reach my front door and look down. Small flames are visible inside the car, and smoke is starting to float out the broken window. It reminds me of my first campfire, the one I got to build all by myself, alone in the forest with my father. I am pleased for the first time today, though I am too tired to bake my cake tonight. It will have to wait until morning, after the Lexus is gone and my space is back to normal.

I go in and flop on the bed. I am hungry, but I have nothing here to eat. I was planning to go out for a burger later, but with my car three blocks away I will have to go hungry tonight. I am tempted to check out the fire through the window but my phone rings while I'm still lying in bed. Who could it be? No one calls me on my home phone except my father, who doesn't believe in cell phones. Could it be the police? No. They would come to my door and arrest me in person. I go to the front door and open it a crack while the phone continues to ring. A fire truck has arrived, but no police. Thick black smoke, toxic fumes from burning plastics and carpet, bellows from the car down below. Gawkers crowd the parking lot, dreary people searching for entertainment. And the phone continues to ring.

"Hello."

"Happy birthday," my father says, through the phone. Whenever, and wherever, my father speaks I listen, without interruption, without movement. I curl up in a tight ball like a wad of used tissue on the sofa. "I'm glad you're finally home. Where have you been? I've been calling. Anyway, your mother and I are going out of town tonight, and I wanted to catch you before we left. You know how traffic is on a Friday night. Just wanted to tell you about your birthday present. I bought a new Mercedes and gave you my old Lexus. Well, it's not that old. Only 40 thousand miles on it and in a lot better shape than your old clunker, hey? I parked it in your stall in the parking lot and left the keys with one of the girls in the rental office. So, happy birthday. Good bye."