EPTMe? I see man's greatest invention. An awesome creation in which the very earth is transformed by our will and determination alone into a canvas on which we proudly display the cornerstone of our civilization: order. Perfectly outlined grids in which absolute obedience is not only expected, but required for proper function. Any disregard for the law of those yellow lines results in chaos and disorder. Steel grating against steel, small children and domesticated animals unable to open the doors of what began as their economy class vehicles and now turned into metal coffins on wheels as the blazing sun slowly melts the flesh from their bones. Hell on Earth.
I am overcome with pride in all of humanity every single time I pull into a parking lot. The throaty purr of my Pontiac Firebird's engine as I downshift to observe the speed laws like a sound of hushed reverence for this hallowed ground. This is the concrete jungle, and she is the Queen.
Ten and two, my grip firm but not tight, my eyes scan the lot for the ideal space to park the 'Bird. Much to my eternal sorrow, many parking lots these days find themselves in states of decay. The pavement split with cracks and fissures, tires forced to endure abrasions by the various detritus. My teeth grind with every pop and crunch heard or felt underwheel, this land deserves better care.
Several trips around the lot and I finally settle for a spot. The lines are faded, the pavement rough and pitted, but it will have to do. Planting my feet on the warm concrete, I exit my sweet ride, taking note of how incredible the flame decals look under the suns glinting eye, as if the sun itself was admiring my fiery chariot. I imagine it there in the cold reaches of space, willing, begging for some cessation of the earth's orbit so that it could hold into this moment a little bit longer, blessed to be able to cast its rays down onto this vintage Pontiac.
I do my spot check, ensuring each of my wheels are exactly 14 inches from each line. The perfect park, a thing of often overlooked beauty.
While admiring my parking job, I hear an offending noise. A car stalling repeatedly, the tires squeaking with each abrupt halt. I scan my surroundings my eyes squinting beneath my shades for better visual acuity. There, in the middle of the otherwise empty lot, someone has either forgotten how to drive, or never knew how to. Stop and start, again and again, no regard for the lines, no intention to even park by my guess, just constant circling and swerving.
I begin to slowly jog, trying to keep my cool, my vision hazy from the sun blasting down and the burning rage that was growing in me. Despite trying consciously to keep my pace to a jog I begin a sprint towards the sedan. The passenger, having seen me began to get out of the car.
"Is there something the matter?" he asks as I reach the car, a piece of shit Ford Taurus, early 90s model. My mood darkens, being reminded of the 90s and the tragic suicide of the misunderstood genius Kurt Cobain further souring my demeanor. I ignore the man, leaning over to identify the drive. A rather portly, slow looking child. I immediately grasp the situation, my vision becoming impaired by the blinding rage inside me.
I take off my sunglasses and look the man in the eye, "this isn't a class room pops, keep the teaching off the lots" I warn him.
He begins to object to my clear and direct message, what his rebuttal was we will never know. A swift right hook to the gut has him doubling over, grimacing in pain. A look of shock on the chubby kid's face as he remains behind the wheel. Positioning his head between my legs, the taut muscles in my arms tightening as I lift the man clear off the ground, power bombing him down onto the hood of the car. With a groan he lifelessly rolls off the hood, crumpling to the ground in a pool of his own blood.
I walk to the driver's side window, reaching in and grabbing the kid by his flabby jowls. I stare into his eyes, I feel his tears running down my hand. My mood softens then, flashing back to my own childhood. With my other hand I pat him on the head, an attempt to console him, "We don't pick our parents kid, I get it."
I walk back to my Firebird, ease the clutch in and listen as the engine roars with the turn of the key, like a panther in heat, ready to fuck. On my way out onto the road with no destination in mind, I pull up beside Ford Taurus, the hood a mess of bent steel and blood, "respect the lot" I say, pointing at the kid as he struggles to help his father stand. I peel out of the lot, my deed for the day done.
