Something, Anything
By David Holub.
Turning into the main lot, I am hit with the glare of hundreds of windshields, a product of high-powered security lamps exposing even the lot’s darkest corners.
At first glance, the only sign of sure parking potential is to turn immediately to a lot on the left. This lot’s purpose is obvious. These are not the cars of movie-goers, but of ticket-takers and floor-sweepers. There’s a shiny white Jeep that oozes Daddy’s Money; a blue hand-me-down Chrysler; a faded red Cavalier cobbled together from minimum wage.
Spotting clumps of empty spaces, parking here would be the safe choice. I don’t know what it is – something spontaneous – but it tells me to keep going. Something better waits. I keep straight, splitting two rows of cars parallel to the 24-screen multiplex.
One of the first spots I pass is empty, one I usually would have settled with. But glancing at my watch and running a quick calculation through my head, I hope for something closer, catching someone as they leave a 5:15.
Crawling along, I lose myself in the theater’s stunning marquee, its lights like solar bursts from something far from here. Faint images of stardom and old Hollywood flash in my head – zoot suits, Bugattis, fedoras and bombshells. The lights disappear for a moment as behind a sign to my left.
“Speed Limit 5.”
I chuckle, noting that the lowest my speedometer reads while the car is in motion is 8.
I come upon another vacant spot and ready the car for a wide left. At the last moment, I spot an open space two cars down and reflexively jerk the wheel straight. But if two are open here, I wonder, wouldn’t it stand to be one more space closer?
As I coast, the marquee grows larger by the moment, my head darts each way hoping for a promising sliver. My stomach tightens as I pass one car after another, nothing but bumpers, taillights, fenders, license plates. Oh! to be the owners of one of these cars: inside lined up for popcorn, whispering through opening titles, condemning coming attractions, all with the anticipation of a splendid story about to unfold and reveal itself.
Meanwhile, the marquee inches closer, the lights brighter. With every potential, my pulse accelerates a few beats, only to find a car has pulled up farther than its peers, a mirage.
Nearly parallel to the theater’s entrance, anything here would be a long shot but the ultimate payoff, just a jump to the ticket window. My car would sit amongst the other Haves, reflecting the dancing and dazzling lights for a splendid hour and 48 minutes. But without the spot, I’d keep driving, the theater shrinking in my side-view. The farther I drive, the longer the walk, my lateness becoming fully-formed.
And from nothing, something. An opening. A break in the bumpers. I check for the obvious handicapped signs and the subtle shadow of a car farther up than the rest. My eyes are intent and my blood pumps faster; I swing the car out to make a wide right into the promised land, giddy with relief. Then, like taking a bar stool between the shoulder blades, I see it. Something I hadn’t imagined: a motorcycle. As quick as it materialized, the vision crumbles.
Modified significantly since rolling from the factory, its colors are iridescent under the lot’s security lamps. Parked at a 45-degree angle, the bike doesn’t take up a third of the space provided.
“What a waste,” I mumble, as I stare down the bike, lost in its custom-painted flames. I study the mirror of chrome until I find the reflection of my car, small and distorted. A honk from behind interrupts my gaze and I am forced back into the creep.
But I might as well turn off the engine and pull the emergency break. I know I will not find another spot. I could drive the remainder of the lot, my head turning and searching. I realize I’ve had my chance, especially when I come upon another sign. “One way.” An arrow shows me the way out.
From here I could exit the lot, swing around the block and start over. Spots I passed before, I’d die for now. If I had taken one earlier I would be whistling into the theater.
I would have appreciated the walk. I would have noticed the crisp fall air for the first time that season and enjoyed the tips of my ears being cold. I would have watched a man drive by, thought how he looked like a professor I had in college and spent the rest of the evening wondering if it was him.
I would have passed a woman who reminded me of the girl whose invitation to a dance in high school I declined for reasons I can’t remember.
Instead, I continue creeping along, gripping the wheel, my head swinging from side to side, searching for something, anything.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
David Holub’s work has appeared most recently at McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, Johnny America and Monkeybicycle, with an essay forthcoming in Connecticut River Review. He has an MFA in Professional Writing from Western Connecticut State University.
First published in 3:AM Magazine: Monday, June 29th, 2009.
