Parking Cars

For three hours on Saturday afternoon, my job was to help park cars at the Town Line Art Fair at Fine Line Designs in Ephraim, which donates money to the Gibraltar Booster Club in exchange for a few hours of waving a flag at cars in the back 40.

My role was to point drivers to open parking spaces and direct others to the exits – a pretty simple job outline – but I would soon learn why it was so hard to get people to sign up for the gig.

I made an effort to be overly friendly, to smile, chat, and give directions. I had in the back of my head the face of some of these guys who, when armed with a bright fluorescent vest, an orange flag, and lordship over the parking lot, go on a power trip like a high school outcast who becomes a cop. I would not be that dork.

Three hours later, I sympathized with those jerks. I repeat, my sole purpose was to direct people to the best parking space available. Still, driver after driver would throw their hands up at me when I directed them to the more distant stalls, insisting that they could find a better spot if I’d only let them turn in the other direction. They gave me their scowl, jabbed their finger toward where they wanted to go while lifting their eyebrows to the top of their foreheads, and jabbed their head forward like a chicken to emphasize their unspoken point.

Finally, when it would become clear that the orange flag held no sway over these guys, I would approach the window.

“There’s open spots down there,” the guy (I would call him a gentleman, but the term doesn’t apply) said insistently.

“No, sorry, it’s full, but there’s one right over there,” I replied, pointing to a spot just a few feet away.

“I’ll just take a pass through, I know I saw one,” he said, his tires already rolling, his shoulders leaning into his turn like some sort of grass-lot Richard Petty in a Buick. I stand as he bursts (if a Buick can burst) by, shaking my head at this man that doesn’t understand that I’ve dedicated three hours of my day to staring down this aisle and locating open spots. But you, you go right ahead.

When I see him stuck halfway down the lane facing the cars driving in the other direction, I feel redeemed. His break lights flash, he backs up, then tries to go forward and squeeze around, but pedestrians stall him. He’s backed up the whole system, and I’m thinking that if there is any justice, his wife is a real bear of a woman, rattling in his ear about how he should have just taken the spot back here by me, tearing at his soul. “What do you think he’s doing, hoarding parking spaces?!” I picture her scolding.

Then I smile, turn to the next car, and go back to waving my little orange flag.