The Parking Attendant

by Sheila Horne

Wednesday morning I pick up my car from my genius auto mechanic ex-boyfriend now friend. A few years ago he’d been charged with theft, and property damage. And he says he still loves me and would do anything to get me back, so he’ll keep the secret.

“In case you change your mind or need to shut off the engine,” he says starting my car and showing me how to operate the new switch he’d installed. “Flip this first.”

He smiles then asks if I want to get together later for a burger and beer. I don’t but I agree, wave goodbye and drive out of his driveway.

I turn on the radio. Bachman-Turner Overdrive is singing, “Roll on Down the Highway.” It’s a warm sunny spring day. My soul soars and I crank up the radio and sing along to the music. Today is the day. Today might be the best day I’ve had in a long time.

On Garden Street my good mood evaporates when I see the parking attendant standing in the middle of the parking lot directing cars, gesturing at drivers, being annoying. I can’t help but think about the four dollars he’d cheated me out of two weeks ago, him making me park my car in the alley. The potholes filled with water I stepped in because of him. Icy patches I slipped on and snow piles I had to climb over. Times I had to inhale to two sizes smaller to squeeze out of the car door. His rudeness and how he doesn’t want to understand why women don’t want to park in dark alleys. But today, it will be different. Today, he’ll find out.

I stop in front of his booth and open the car window. “Where would you like me to park?” I ask and give him my best smile.

“Where you want to park?” he says and I’m shocked that he’s asking and not directing me to the alley.

“In the open space by the street.” I motion to the two empty spots under a light by the sidewalk.

“Why you want to park there? Everybody want to park there. Maybe I should charge more for those spots.”

“I have a late class and a study date. It’ll be getting dark when I come out of school and I’ll be the only one in the parking lot.”

“What you talking about? It’s full with people, coming to night school.”

“No it isn’t, they’re in class by then,” I say.

He shakes his head at a woman who has pulled into the lot. “I am closed until afternoon,” he says.

It’s not the first time he’s told a woman he’s closed. I watch her drive away then ask, “What do you mean you’re closed? You’re not closed, you’re open until six.”

“I am but I don’t want her to park here. She’s nothing but trouble. Takes up space all day.” He taps the roof of my car and points to a spot in the alley. “Today, you park over there. Back in.” He hands me a parking ticket. “Put it on your dash.”

I laugh. “I’ve been parking here for the past three months and you've never told me your name.”

“You don’t need to know my name. Just leave your ticket on the dash.”

I look over my shoulder at the spot between two vans in the alley. “I can’t back in there. So, you have to do it for me again.”

“Next year you learn to park in small spaces or get on the streetcar.”

He takes my place behind the steering wheel. I watch him shift my car into drive, expertly line the car between the two vans and reverse into the tight spot. I walk towards the street.

“Hey your keys,” he yells after me.

I walk. I hear the explosion. I walk. Someone screams. I walk. People yell hysterically. I walk. Burning flesh mixed with fumes fills the air. Sirens sound in the distance. I open the doors to the building and enter.

Bio
Sheila Horne is the author of three novels: Sunshine Girls, Paper Sun, and Place in the Sun. She is also the co-author of Temple of Light, a book of poems about the Sharon Temple. Her poems and short stories have been published in various magazines and anthologies, most recently in the anthology: Things That Matter. To read more, visit Facebook.com/sheilahorne, author or www.sheilahorne.com.