Seven Red

So, after one year in Chicago, I am just a boss parallel parker. I mean, I’m fantastic. I squeeze into impossible spots at the perfect angle, and end up arrow-straight three inches from the curb. Let me reinforce this point: I’m friggin awesome at it. It took some work, since I didn’t do a whole lot of parallel parking in Massive State University College Town, where we had a giant parking lot at our apartment complex. And what really did it here was this past Hell-Winter, a trial by fire (some say by ice), which involved inhuman parking maneuvers through snow-plow walls and over hard-pack – a nightmare. Ah, but it honed my skills, Grasshopper. Sometimes adversity is the best teacher.

So, like, anyway, a few weeks ago, I asked she if I could consider myself a parallel parking guru. Y’know, since I’m so goddamn good at it? she informed me – rather unceremoniously, to my mind – that in order to be a guru, I would need actual followers and, since it didn’t appear likely that I would gain any actual followers for my fucking incredible parallel parking abilities, that I could not be a parallel parking guru, and would have to settle for being a delusional self-congratulator RE: my pizzarking skillz. I thought her assessment ungenerous.  Today I determined that it was also false.

I was coming back from The Target (as babygirl calls it) because yesterday I promised her that she could watch Diego on the computer if only she would cease whatever unbearable tantrum that she was then conducting. Yes, it was a bribe, and one that would require procurement of an actual Diego DVD at some point, but it made sense at the time, largely because it didn’t commit me to any immediate activity. Damned if she didn’t remember it in its exact phrasing this morning, so off I went to The Target, looking for Diego. When I arrive back at The Block, I notice a spot right in front of our place. It’s tight, people. Maybe two feet bigger than the car, maybe less. In other words, it’s perfect. The question is not whether I’ll get into it. That’s obvious. I’m awesome. The question is how many moves will it take? Can I shave some off? I survey the space, check the distance of the two bordering cars from the curb, and pull into place. I check my angle one more time, cut the wheel, reverse. Perfect. Cut the wheel, pull up. Perfect. One last reverse for fine-tuning, and I’m in.  The whole operation takes less than ten seconds. I brush the dust off my shoulders Obama-style, knowing that the small space directly in front of my door couldn’t defeat me, and I exit the car.

Standing there next to the door is Some Guy Hanging Around on the Street, a typical sight. What’s he doing? I don’t know, and I don’t care. But I notice that he’s looking down at the wheels of my car. He looks up at me, and back down at the wheels. He checks my distance from the car behind, and the car in front. Ten inches on either side, maybe. And he says:

“Hey man. That was great parking.”

No lie, G.I.

I nod knowingly, like I know it was great parking, son. You ain’t gah tell me. And I head inside.

But the conclusion here is simple. I appear to have a follower, so that would make me a parallel parking guru, after all. Score: topspun 1, she 0 (if scoring begins today; otherwise: topspun 3, she 2,791).

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