Midwest Memo
Reversal
by Alan Shultz

The sign over the ramp to the parking garage entrance flashed a hostile yellow "full." Like usual, I ignored the sign and gave my Corolla a little gas proceeding up and onward regardless. Monthly parkers like me can override the entry gate system to this poorly designed parking structure in hopes of finding a parking spot. That was my intent.

At first blush it looked like there wasn't a single spot to even consider. Each and every row was full of cars squeezed into the stingy spots we parkers have to negotiate daily. In one case a car parked on a messy diagonal took two spaces. A large hand-lettered sign of complaint was stuck under the wiper blade. It blared the message "learn how to park."

I took my time on my second go around hoping that a reverse commuter might be leaving and that I might take a newly freed up space. But that wasn't happening. Then I spotted it, the spot I had missed on the first go around. It had started out the morning as a spot, it's only flaw being the huge concrete pillar wedged against its one yellow line marker. But then, the huge battered gray Ford van had backed into the spot next door. The large van missed its mark and the driver's side wheels were parked squarely over the yellow line defining this empty orphan spot ending at the concrete pillar.

I was late, so I was game. I maneuvered, I turned, I backed up a dozen times. And then I just inched, snuck, tucked, and crept into the little "non-space" space. Remarkably, the Corolla and I fit.

I'd like to say we, the car and I, had room to spare, but we didn't. In fact, there was no chance whatsoever of me opening my driver side door. Me and trench coat and briefcase negotiated the gearshift counsel between the two-bucket seats. Now seated in the front passenger spot, I pushed the passenger door open against the concrete support pillar. It opened about eight inches or so. Next there was a claustrophobia dance and struggle. A few moments later I broke free of car, concrete and confine and emerged ruffled, full of cement dust, but parked.

Before leaving I did two things. First, I admired my incredible job of doing the impossible, parking in a spot so small everyone else had rejected it. Second, I checked the van out that I had wedged up against. My point in checking out the van was to determine whether its driver could get in via his front passenger side door. There was no way he was getting into his driver's side door. My car was about three inches away. But his solution was on the other side where there was lots of room due to the fact he had missed his mark backing up. As I surveyed the van I noticed that it was a real working man's van. It was an old vehicle with lots of mileage and age and rust. On the dashboard there were coffee cups and food wrappers. "This guy won't mind," I said to myself.

At the end of the day I learned otherwise.

At the end of the day, van gone, Corolla easily accessed, I found my car "keyed" on the driver side back panel, the spot the van driver would have encountered when he saw I was too close for him to get in on the driver's side.

The van driver was the one who had parked improperly. It was his error that put my car too close to his. And I get keyed.

An entire essay devoted to being keyed - how petty and self absorbed is that? Well, maybe. Except that the keying is symbolic to me. Those scratches on my car remind me of all the mean little swipes that get taken at folks who do their best to make a flawed situation work. The situation is reversed back onto them.

Oh well, winter is on its way. My car is gray. The slush will cover it all quite well.