Dude, There's My Car

It’s proposal season, or as my kids call it, “Where’s Daddy?” The proposal writing consists of putting my head down, writing about the promise of deliverables, the qualifications of our team and how we can do it for five dollars in just under six months. The hours are long and the nights are late during proposal season. It burns white hot for several weeks. So hot that you forget things, like where you parked your car.

Where is that tat about P4 parking?

 

After tackling the first draft of the proposal, I walk the empty halls amid the hum of vacuums from the cleaning staff. I exit the building, inhale the city air and make my way to Metro. One of the benefits of late hours is hitting the far right side of the commuting bell curve. An opposite experience to Sting’s poetic “packed like lemmings into shiny metal boxes.” There is more room to breathe, an opportunity to decompress from a day’s work. There is also a significant reduction in B.O. This is a blessing any day, but for the summer commute it is a God send.

Don't be stealing my lyrics, bitch.

I am near the heart of the city and heading to a suburb. The metro map resembles a bicycle wheel without a rim. The center is a hub of transit activity in the densely populated portions of the city. The rails diverge outward like spokes on a wheel until they reach the far extension of satellite suburbs. Each stop that moves to the 'burbs thins out the herd of suits. My exit is at the end of a spoke. I hop off Metrorail and move up the steps. Less than eight hours later, this desolate space will be engulfed with very important and busy people. But for right now, it’s just me. Parking garage, car, home…if only it were that easy.

Muscle memory helps me put away my Metro card and security badge and grab the car key. A necessary move that is also symbolic, one that I recognize as the end of my work day. My car is right around the corner on the first floor. Except that it’s not. As a matter of fact, there are not any cars in the entire row. Must be on the opposite side. Except that it’s not there either. Both sides look exactly alike. Actually, every single angle in this parking garage is starting to appear the same in this dimly lit hour. The absence of cars provides no markers for reference. The garage is cosmetically homogeneous. My brain only holds so much. The proposal writing shoved my short-term memory to the side. The piece that remembers where I parked my car and some witty dialogue from Fletch is now gone. No need to panic, yet.

You're pushing me out the door?!

I double click the lock symbol on my key fob waiting for a DEET-DEET reply. It is met with silence. I am not even close to my car. My stomach sinks at the thought of it having been towed. I walk to the front of the garage and call the number. Nope, license plate doesn’t match up with anything in inventory. Awesome! My car is still in the garage…somewhere.

I know it's on one of these levels.

The parking garage is a boxy mass of concrete columns and floors. It is large. Six floors and 5,000 spaces large. Serious ground for my wing tips to cover. I could attack this systematically or try various areas where it might be. I opt for panic and begin an aimless search. My key fob is pressed with each step. It endures the wrath of my frustration through the single digit fury of my thumb. Double-click, silence. Blisters form on my heels. Double-click, silence. My perspiration is equal parts anger and exhaustion. Double-click, silence. The oppressive humidity turns my light blue shirt to dark blue. Double-click, silence. I give up. My desperation turns to a mea culpa of commuter etiquette...

From this day forward, I will not board a rail car while others are trying to step off. I will not sit in the area reserved for the elderly or handicapped. I will not place my laptop bag in an empty seat next to me during rush hour. I will not huff and puff when a tourist asks me to point out their stop.

...double-click, DEET-DEET. A reply! F*ck all those promises. I found my car! Startled at the digital response, I laugh with hysterical glee. I cup my hands over my mouth to suppress the hyena-like sound. Almost home! Don’t get ahead of yourself. Instant karma based on broken promises.

I hear it, but where is it? Double-click, DEET-DEET. Double-click, DEET-DEET. Double-click, DEET-DEET. With each click and response I walk to opposite ends of the garage. I am playing Marco Polo with my car. And my car is not just winning, it is officially kicking my ass. The DEET-DEET response echoes off the concrete of the empty garage. The sound reverberates against multiple walls until I’m convinced it is everywhere. It is the cricket stuck in your room on a summer night. The sound is ubiquitous but the cricket is a ghost. Except all I want to do with this cricket is catch a ride home. I promise I won’t be angry and smash you with a random flip-flop. Pinky promise. To hell with the promises! I just got burned on that. Where are you my beautiful 2006 Altima with bad alignment and limited options? HELP ME!...and that’s when the DEET-DEET was accompanied by a red light bouncing off the wall. My brake lights. Sound and sight. I laughed like a hyena again. Except this time I let it all out.

Dude, found it.

I hobbled to my car with fresh blisters from the junket. My hair was matted with sweat. Beads of perspiration masked my tears of joy. I hugged the car door. I don’t remember parking here. I don’t even remember this level. And I don’t care. This experience has changed me. It has made me a better person. Sometimes things have to be taken away in order to understand how important they are. I can’t wait to tell my family about what I have learned. Merging onto the freeway never felt so good. I just wish this asshole in front of me would move. Time to lay on the horn for this idiot. Some of us have places to be!