Monday, November 04, 2002
Mad-Max in the Parking Lot
This morning I parked in a lot I like to call the Sardine Can. To turn in, you must make a 360-degree right turn. Invariably, the first cars in that take the first space overshoot the spaces, but never back up and try again. The result is that the first two cars typically take up three or four parking spaces, or some fraction thereof, thereby making each car after them fit in ever more tightening spaces.
When I arrived today, only two or three spaces were left open. These spaces are generally about as wide as five Gwyneth Paltrow clones standing back to back. I believe at Rock City they call these types of spaces “Fat Man’s Squeeze”. Luckily, I still drive an 89 Honda Accord, the Dom Perignon of the compact car. It can fit in any space, some so tight that I have to leave the car via the trunk (which I have, by occasion. Must be the Mr. Bean in me).
Today this was not the case, and I managed to extricate myself through the two inch gap of my open door by contorting in a way that I only thought Transformers were able to do (Transform from 15 foot-tall-robot to cassette tape). Unfortunately, I believe the gentleman seated in the car to my right is unable to perform such acrobatic feats, based on the icy, hateful glare he gave me as I pulled into the space. Hey, don’t look at me, Buddy. You’re the one who chose to read his paper in his car while drinking coffee while your doom was approaching. Perhaps he’ll get out through his door. Perhaps through the passenger door. Or the sunroof. Or the trunk. You’ll still have dignity – sort of. Then again, maybe he’ll still be sitting there when I come back.
If I am still at the University come next renewal phase, I think I’ll consider getting rid of my parking decal altogether and park exclusively down at the pothole-ridden Trophy Shop back lot. It’s free, only three blocks farther, and no double-jointedness is required.
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