Here’s something that was tickling me the other day. A fair amount of my leisure time is spent in my car looking for a parking spot. When we lived in Chicago, of course, this was a really involved process, and we would often just walk or take the train or bus instead of using the car. The odds of finding a parking spot within six blocks or so of our apartment were just too close to those of getting attacked by a shark while simultaneously being struck by lightning. I must say, however, that the parallel parking skills I acquired while living in the city are pretty much unrivaled in the suburbs. Few people out here know the rush of pleasure achieved by squeezing your stick-shift vehicle into a parking spot on the left-hand curb exactly four inches longer than the car itself without setting off a car alarm either in front or behind. Most folks here feel nervous if they have to park their minivan parallel to the curb at all, let alone with another vehicle on the same block.
Anyway, when we moved out to the suburbs, it became necessary to drive just about everywhere. First in the little compact car we brought from the city, but of course after awhile we did get the minivan. And we drive to the mall, to the theater, to the grocery store, to the swimming pool, to school, to work, and on and on. In most of these parking lots, it becomes necessary at times to “shark” for a parking spot. This means, to those of you unfamiliar with the process, cruising up and down long lines of parked cars on a city street or in a lot roughly the size of Rhode Island, watching eagle-eyed for a person walking to their car, keys in hand; or the folks loading their stroller into the van; or best of all, the sudden appearance of back-up lights only a quarter of a mile ahead. Reaction time is of the essence. If you don’t immediately swoop up as close as possible to the soon-to-be-vacant slot and snap on your turn-signal, someone will invariably jump past you and snag the prize, leaving you to resume your quest, seething. Of course, in the city, the offended party would almost always exit their vehicle and begin yelling and throwing empty fast-food containers at the interloper, but in the suburbs we usually only honk, glare (occasionally there are hand gestures involved) and move on.
So all this leads to the observation that has me tickled. A close relative to the chore of “sharking” for a spot is the practice of waiting for the spot closest to the door of the grocery store, or Target, or whatever. On those days in the lovely Midwest when it is in fact sleeting sideways, the spot closest to the door could well be a matter of life and death. However, on your average lovely spring day, the additional five or six feet of walking could in fact do a body good. By law, the very closest slots are reserved for those with “Handicap” plates. But the spots on either side of those—boy oh boy. Glory untold. Nirvana.
So people being what they are, there will always be someone (usually in a large vehicle, windows up, climate-controlled, often 4-wheel drive) that insists upon waiting for that primo spot, even if there is another one open ten feet further along. I have seen folks wait for that spot when the very next spot is open.
The aspect that is both humorous and mildly aggravating is that this waiting must be done exactly in the center of the lane. Not slightly to one side or another, so that neighbors can slide past and use that incrementally less convenient spot. I have seen half a dozen cars lined up behind one stubborn individual who was by gosh gonna score that best spot, and to heck with everyone else’s schedule.
But here’s the kicker (so to speak, although I swear I have never actually kicked anyone doing this, or even their car), here’s the epitome of egregious: when you see someone waiting for that closest, most awesome spot…in the parking lot at the health club.
