Parking Space

Thwack thwack.
Thwack thwack.
It was snowing— hard. Peter didn’t mind the snow; in fact Peter usually thought it was peaceful—just not today.
Thwack thwack.
Thwack thwack.
The windshield wipers kept a steady rhythm; blithely ignorant of the trails of ice they were leaving blocking Peter’s view. All Peter wanted was a parking space, well, and to pee, but Peter would gladly forfeit any right to urinate for a parking space—he had been circling the parking lot for more than an hour now. The frozen trails on the window had cost Peter two spots already, one to a herd of mothers in a minivan, and the other to a blue-haired troop of seniors in a towncar.
Thwack thwack.
Peter had no idea why he was even out today of all days, Black Friday. Okay, yes he did. After four years he had finally gone with Kristen to her family’s Thanksgiving dinner. Peter hated crowds. Kristen’s family of nine brothers and sisters was terrifying. Peter broke Granmama’s gravy boat before dinner even started…an “heirloom gravy boat”—who ever heard of such a thing? As reparation he offered to drive Kristen and her three sisters to Target’s spectacular sale.
So here he was, endlessly circling the strip mall parking lot, lost in another crowd in a snowstorm in a car with bad windshield wipers and no heat. Well, yes, there was heat, but there was some type of problem with the fan that sounded like a tornado swirling through a herd of cattle. It’s not that the car was old, it was new enough, but Peter didn’t have much interest in his car. He preferred the bus…or his bike…or better yet just being home in his partially restored cottage.
Thwack thwack.
Thwack thwack.
A parking space! Peter stomped on the gas, the tires spun futilely in the slush. “Come on! GO!” he shouted. The tires grabbed and Peter “wooted” in excitement. His breath was coming quickly now—he was nearly there.
Fifteen yards.
Thwack thwack.
Ten yards—tires spinning a bit, but the car was still moving.
Thwack thwack.
“VICTORY!” Peter yelled as his breath gathered on the windshield, “Victory is mi—!” A horn blasted as an SUV muscled its way into the spot. Peter hit the brakes and slide to a slushy stop. He sat and watched through the misty windshield as three people emerged from the vehicle, high-fived one another and, laughing, hurried toward the store. Peter boiled for a moment and then mashed his hand at the dash fumbling for the defrost controls. As the tornado of sound whirled to life Peter blurted a prayer, “God? This is Peter. If you’re listening I could really use a parking space.”
Thwack thwack.
“Yes Peter, I’m listening.”
Thwack thwack.
Thwack thwack.
Peter turned off the defroster. “What?”
“I said I was listening, Peter. You’re looking for a parking space. Sounds like you’ve got a loose fan blade in your defroster as well. 2001 Subaru’s are known for that.”
Thwack thwack.
Thwack thwack.
“You know what kind of car I’m driving?” Peter asked as his foot wandered absentmindedly to the gas.
“Of course I do. I wouldn’t be much help if I didn’t have that type of information, would I?”
Dazed, Peter resumed his circling of the parking lot, no longer interested in finding a parking space. “Can you see me?”
“Well, see isn’t exactly the way I would describe it, but I know where you are and that you’re looking for a parking space—try by the Pottery Barn, it’s West of where you are now.”
Peter turned down the aisle and headed toward the Pottery Barn. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”
“Absolutely Peter, I can stay with you until you find a parking space. What’s on your mind?”
“What’s it like where you are?” Peter asked as a bevy of woman carting their wares passed in front of him.
“Oh, it’s a little slice of heaven; not like where you are at the moment. By the way, the temperature is going to drop even more and you’ll have continued snow showers as the day goes on—is that all you want to know?”
Thwack thwack.
Thwack thwack.
Peter thought for a moment. A rush of thoughts and then, “What should I do about Kristen—I mean, it has been four years, you’d think we’d be married by now, but I’m just…well, I’m…I’m just Peter.”
“Ah marriage. Look Peter, it’s Winter. It’s a difficult time to be thinking about these types of things. The days are shorter and short days and afternoons spent pottering around in a dark house with the windows painted shut isn’t good for anyone. As wonderful a time of year this is there are too many emotions that can be falsely heightened by all of the extraneous activity. You were obviously frustrated when you contacted me—it’s just a parking space, don’t sweat it. Finding a parking space becomes a big deal when it really shouldn’t. Enjoy the season for being what it is. Ignore the things that ultimately don’t matter. As far as Kristen is concerned—enjoy the holidays with her. Get the fan fixed in your car and don’t worry about marriage, it’ll happen when it is supposed to.”
Thwack thwack.
Thwack thwack.
Peter thought about it, and it made sense. He smiled and almost missed the fact that there was a parking space opening up to his right—and right in front of the Pottery Barn. “A parking space! HA HA! How can I ever thank you?”
“No thanks necessary Peter, just think about what I said and enjoy your holidays. This is Todd, thank you for calling OnStar.”

Dress Rehersal

I didn’t know that this game we were playing even had a set of rules – Issac Brock (from Black Cadilacs by Modest Mouse)

The air fills with the buzzing of the alarm clock on the nightstand, a hand reaches between lepored print sheets and hits the small back button on top, the buzzing stops and the room is still. Somewhere in another part of the old house the floor lets out a squeak, the squeak travels down the hall, glides under the crack of the oak bedroom door, and slips between the sheets, fumbling its way into the ears and bouncing across the eardrumb inside. A long slow sleepy sigh echoes its reply as the dovet cover begins to move, two feet tumble out and fall onto the carpeted floor below. Two hands brush across wrinkled skin and smile lines to tossle the gray wire hair on the top of the head, before moving to the legs where two arthritic knees are bent over the side, throbbing with the morning. The room adjusts as the body stands, the feet find their ways into a set of black slippers and the hands push through the silk fabric of a black robe, they tie a hasty knot around a solid middle.

The body is guided out the oak door, through the narrow hallway filled with mismatched picture frames holding pictures of grandchildren with peanut-butter faces and sundy best, and into the kitchen. The refridgerater hums a greeting as the two hands grope for the familiar round glass caraffe, they craddel it as the slippered feet shuffle across the yellow tile and wait patiently while the hands fill the glass with water before shuffeling back to the old coffee maker. The feet turn and walk back down the hall, through the oak door, and to the chair in front of the vanity. The body sits, while the feet are tucked carefully under the little chair. The two hands reach for a bright green head band and pull it over the hair. The hands then work with the hastened memory that comes from habit as it applies thick liquid foundation, to hide the wrinkles and age spots. Next comes the powder and blush, the thick gold eyeshaddow is smeered across the eyelid, followed in rappid succession with chunky blue eyeliner. The hands slow down as two sets of long eyelashes are attached to each eye and covered with layers of deep black mascarra. The eyes blink with approval, the hands push the body from the chair, and the feet slip across the carpet to the walk in closet. 

Hands grasp at the flesh colored support hose and body shapers; they are carefully put into place before the hands reach for the thickly padded bra, slipping the straps over shoulders and doing the small mettle hooks on the first row. The hands reach for the hanger that holds the fabric filled with blue sequens and pulls it over the head. The feet slip out of the black slippers and into black flats, while the hands tie a blue scarf over the wisps of hair. The body turns, goes out of the closet and to the bedside, it bends and purses the lips to softly kiss the head of the sleeping woman it finds there. The woman stirs and squeezes one of the hands, she whispers to remind her husband him of the dinner reservations, and to remember the highth of the slit in his new dress as he climbs onto the stool to introduce his parading queens. 

I Bet It Stung

It was 7:16. She sat silently on the suede sofa, staring at the ceiling. She startled as she heard his footsteps creak in the hall, his struggle with keys at the door. As he entered the apartment he noticed the smell of spaghetti. He dropped his keys into the wicker basket on the table. He hung his fleece sweater on the wooden hook in the entryway. “Smells good, honey.”
She sighed as she simultaneously mouthed his words. Emphasis on smells. She knew that he couldn’t stand her cooking. So taste would be a different story. As he came into the living room, he noticed her perched there on the couch, looking up. He glanced quickly to the ceiling as well and saw a dull bulb where a light fixture should be. “Oh, that’s what I forgot.” She knew that he hadn’t actually forgotten the fixture, but conveniently taken the 405 home as to not pass the hardware store. When she smiled and looked at him, he said he would pick it up tomorrow. She smiled, seemingly pacified, at least for the time being. “How was your day?” he asked.
“You’re twenty minutes late,” she replied. “The spaghetti is probably getting cold.” She nodded in the direction of the dining room, and stood up. Her bare feet slid smoothly across the hardwood floor as she led him to the table. He sat down and she served him, then scooped some noodles out for herself. She gave him very little sauce. He wouldn’t like it anyway.
She set his plate on the table and went to turn on some music. She pulled out her ancient copy of Up You Alley and pushed it into the CD player. She sat down beside him and started on her spaghetti.
“I love the rock and roll,” he said.
“That’s not on this album, babe.”
“I know; I just meant in general. Ya know?” She could hear a stiffness in his voice. “Sorry, I never really listen to this kind of stuff.”
“Don’t get so uptight,” she said. “It’s just Joan Jett.”
Not wanting to bring it up again, she waited a few minutes before she finally had the nerve to tell him. “I picked up the light fixture this afternoon.”
“You did? That’s great.” He swallowed. “I’ll hang it after dinner.”
He stood on the couch as he took the glass fixture from its cardboard box. She watched expectantly. He touched the bulb and quickly pulled away.
“You’ll have to take it out to install the fixture.” She handed him a rag, so he wouldn’t burn his hands. As he thanked her, she looked into his dark brown eyes. She knew he was thinking about it, so now was the perfect time to ask. But she knew he could tell what she was thinking to, and before she had a chance to ask, he told her the one thing she hadn’t predicted, “I know you plan out everything that you want to say.”
She stared at him shocked, in disbelief. He went to screw in the fixture, and she thought for a second that she should stop him. But instead she looked at the floor, and mumbled the only words of the evening she hadn’t rehearsed. “I wish that we didn’t have to go about things this way.”
As he fell, the lights flickered, and she glanced quickly at the dimming red numbers of the digital clock hanging on the wall.
It was 7:17. She sat silently on the suede sofa, staring at the ceiling. She startled as she heard his footsteps creak in the hall, his struggle with keys at the door.

The Mixed Tape

You're playing that cassette tape
That you took from me to take to Iowa
And that was near three years ago
Now I'm back up in that moment
Playing that yardsale Casio
From 24C – The Matches


It was only April, but Kevin had his windows down. His stereo blasted Jack’s Mannequin loud enough to be heard three cars away.
In between tracks he heard a snatch of a familiar song from the car next to him. Surprised he wasn’t the only one who felt this April afternoon deserved its own soundtrack; he mashed the volume down so he could catch the chorus of “What it is to Burn” by Finch. He looked over at the car stopped at the light next to him and perhaps to give the guy a congratulatory honk and wave for being awesome. His fingers froze on the vinyl skin of the horn. It was Jenny. She was yelling something to someone, her neck arched toward the back seat like a thin white coat hanger. A not so friendly honk from behind him reminded him that the light had turned green.
In his embarrassment he stomped on the gas more forceful than was necessary and jerked his car forward. He stole a glace at Jenny in her dirty white Honda as she caught up to him. The huge dent she’d received the night of the Weezer concert was still there and looked worse than ever. She had passed out in the front row that night. He remembered how her hair smelled like sweat and weed as they arrived stumbling to the parking lot only to find the car dented, and the antenna ball from the local radio station missing.
Kevin missed the turn off on to his street. He switched lanes to stay behind the white car instead. He could just see the outline of a child’s car seat sticking out over the threadbare gray upholstery. So that’s who she was yelling at. He remembered how she used to turn up the first 30 seconds of that song and close her eyes as the cello faltered into an all consuming scream. She would always cross her legs when she listened to it. It was from the cassette tape she’d taken from him to take to Iowa three years ago. As he tailed her through the streets, questions and scenarios played in his mind like disjointed film clips. Most importantly, how old was the kid in the back seat?
Jenny had turned down a residential street lined with poplars and white fences. She stopped in front of an intimidating building, but did not pull in to the driveway.
Kevin parked a few houses down. He couldn’t help but watch her. The sound of that yard sale Casio lingered as he tapped the beat out with his fingers. He watched her lean into the car to unbuckle the child. It was a little girl with blond pigtails tied with blue ribbons. She was hardly a baby. Kevin’s palms grew warm as they gripped the steering wheel of the idling car. Jenny held the girl’s hand as she retrieved a large white pail filled with cleaning supplies from the car. The girl bounced impatiently, while swinging what looked like his old He-man toy in her other hand.
He was late for work, but he sat there in view of the house for two hours. Waiting. Thinking of how to ask the questions that had plagued him the last 3 years.
Jenny and the girl finally emerged. Kevin’s hands gripped the steering wheel tighter. With little success he tried convincing his hands to move to the car door.
Watching the tail lights of Jenny’s car vanish around the corner gave him an odd sense of déjà vu. He looked at the clock. He sighed. Two and a half hours late for work. He pulled his car out of the driveway, and drove back home.