The Parking Saga Continues
At around 10:30 last night Justin and I came home from wrapping gifts at my family’s house in Bellevue. As usual, there was some Ass parked in his spot. Strangely, it wasn’t a car we recognized, but a van with New Mexico plates. I could feel Justin steaming.
“Why not deflate his tires?” I joked.
We drove once more around the block, beeping as if to imitate the frat boys upstairs, even though it probably wouldn’t work. The one time I stood outside the complex and screamed for the RED YUKON WITH LISCENCE PLATE 352-LPR to MOVE THEIR FUCKING CAR it didn’t have any effect.
He left his car in the next spot while we unloaded and at first when he bent over I thought he’d tripped on the oil slick some other Ass’s BMW has been smearing all down the hill. I heard the hiss of air come from the tire just as someone came around the corner… and walked right up to the back bumper of the van. I’m not sure if I didn’t say anything because I didn’t have time, because I was too mortified, or because I didn’t want to deal with the situation.
Thank god it wasn’t some Abercrombie and Fitch frat-freak (do they even have those in New Mexico?) but an average-looking college preppy who didn’t show any sign of rage upon discovering Justin vandalizing his tires.
“Dude, are you… um… deflating my tires?”
Justin stopped and stood up. I put my hand over my eyes.
“Well, yeah,” he said lamely, “it’s kind of my way of coping when someone parks in my spot, as there’s not much to do about it otherwise.”
Yeah, management at this complex is great. They leave at five and supply no after-hours maintenance to provide the required authorization for tow-truck calls. So, basically, anyone can use another person’s spot to their heart’s content with no repercussions except angry notes. And while Justin does angry, he doesn’t do notes very well.
“I only let out about 5p.s.i.,” said Justin, “You should be fine.” And then he helped signal the van out of his spot so the guy could park somewhere else.
Mortified seems an adequate adjective.
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