Look Ma! No Numbers!
As I mentioned before in Grass, the apartment complex has taken it upon themselves to repave the parking lot. It took about two weeks, and how I looked forward to having my numbered parking spot back. I coveted a little place to call my own, even though others occasionally felt the need to inconvenience their neighbor to be a little closer to home. There have been several memos from the management, as of late, in regards to people parking erroneously. In an empty parking lot, it would be only mine singled out for this special honor, and it really pissed me off, leaving me plotting my revenge with tacks, or maybe an ice pick to their tires. Of course, I would never do that, because, after all, it’s only a parking space. My parking space; the one I pay for in my rent. The place I’ve had for six years now. Well, not the entire six years, several years ago a re-pavement had my numbered space moved two spots up the hill. The trauma of that still etched in my memory. With bated breath, as I watched them pave, I waited and hoped that my number wouldn’t wind up in another township by the time they renumbered.
Numbering parking spaces gives you a sense of community. I knew my neighbors cars. I knew their routines. I knew that if there was a foul smell coming from their apartment, and their car hadn’t moved in months that perhaps someone should look into it. No one had a spot right in front of their apartment. That was just a given. Everyone was inconvenienced a little, and that’s what made it fair. It sucked for friends coming over, because they had to park out in left field, wishing a tram would come pick them up. If my parents arrived, I would give up my spot for them, so they would have to walk up or down that hill. It was a comfort knowing that there was a little piece of macadam my own. Asphalt. Road. Pavement. Surrounded on two sides by white lines, when the neighbors didn’t get too greedy and territorial. Oh, the joy of having to sandwich between two parallelogramed cars running askew to the rest of the world.
The paving was done and the parking lot was still closed. The lines down, the words (no parking and fire zone) brightly reflected from the dark surface. The smell of new parking lot filled my nostrils with happy thoughts of having my spot back. The lot remained empty for two days, like an empty sea in search for its boats. The neighbors walked on, and children laughed and played in this fast emptiness. All wondered when the numbers would be painted as the days ticked by. I was at work, when it opened. As I drove home, I could see that cars were parked there. There was light at the end of the tunnel. No more wet feet from trudging across the field. My own little spot back. I felt a tear well in the corner of my eye, as I pulled in. My tires road on the new pavement, and I thought I heard, “Ahhh.” I looked around, but there were no numbers? But I knew my place. I knew where I had parked for the last six years, and I pulled in. The lamp post, located at the front of my parking spot, was always my guide. I stepped out of the car triumphantly. New pavement! No more potholes left from the bitch of a winter we had past. I didn’t have to keep my head down now, fearing stepping into an abyss. Chin up! It’s all good. The pavers will come back. They’ll mark my spot again. And that is when I found the note on my door. No more numbers. Park anywhere. The management takes away one more perk.
