Help! I'm a Prisoner in a Moving Vehicle!

by Rose Madeline Mula

I envy intellectuals who ponder weighty questions like "What is the meaning of life?" "Is there life after death?" "Is God dead?" I don't have time to explore these particular mysteries. I'm much too busy searching for answers to what keeps airplanes up, why doesn't this month's money last until next month's Social Security check, and-most important-where can I park the car?

Compared to this last burning issue, even the reflections of the great philosophers seem insignificant. For example, consider "What is the meaning of life?" If you can't find a parking space, life has no meaning. You can't raise a family, become a Broadway star, or discover a cure for cancer unless you can get out of your car. As for life after death, who knows? I'm not even convinced there's life off the Expressway. I do have a theory about God though. I don't think He's dead. He's probably just double- parked somewhere.

I know exactly how He feels because it often seems that my life revolves around available parking. In fact, an astrologer once told me that the sign with which I am most compatible is "Free Parking." I don't sign up for anything or make plans to be anywhere unless I'm assured a parking space. That's why I never went to a presidential inaugural ball, any of Liz's or Zsa Zsa's weddings, or Jennifer's and Brad's housewarming party. Also, I hadn't been invited. But it's just as well because I had nothing appropriate to wear to any of these events—again, because of parking problems. There's a great little consignment shop downtown where a worn-just-once designer original costs a fraction of the price of an unimaginative dress jammed on a rack with dozens of duplicates in the department stores of the shopping mall. But though the consignment shop has cheap chic, it doesn't have the mall's parking. So I've resigned myself to spending triple my clothes budget for the privilege of going to a party and seeing clones if my dress on at least two other women and possibly one man, all of whom look prettier in it than I do.

Shopping for groceries is equally frustrating. I don't go to the supermarket that has the best quality food or the lowest prices. I shop at the one with the largest parking lot. I have similar problems when dining out with friends. Last week it was my turn to drive. I ignored their pleas to go to a favorite restaurant whose chef is a Cordon Bleu graduate and whose owner dropped out of business school the day before the lesson on profit-making. I opted instead for a local eatery where the food is inedible and the prices incredible. "Not the Pit Stop," my friends groaned. "The cook's a part-time mechanic. He uses motor oil in the salad, and his prime ribs taste like Goodyear rejects." "Who cares?" said I. "They have valet parking."

The same insane reasoning prompted me to attend every single Red Sox home game last season. I hate baseball, but a friend who had to be out of town all summer gave me custody of his season's reserved parking space. How could I not take advantage of that?

But all the foregoing is trivial compared to the basic areas of my life that have been shaped solely by available parking. I have no doubt, for instance, that I would have given Neil Simon some stiff competition if it weren't for the fact that there was no parking lot at a city school that offered a great play-writing course. Or, if I found that Broadway wasn't my scene, I could have been president of a major corporation. Unfortunately, whenever I went on job interviews, instead of inquiring about salaries, 401Ks and promotion possibilities, I asked only about reserved employee parking. Consequently, I had some great parking paces but some lousy, dead-end jobs.

Not only did I blow my chances of becoming a wealthy, powerful corporate executive, I also passed up every opportunity to marry one because I refused to wed unless the ceremony included a promise by the groom to park my car, and they all balked at that. I would have even turned down Paul Newman in his prime, unless he swore he wouldn't give Joanne custody of the driveway and garage.

If Prince Charming had ever shown up with a crystal slipper large enough to fit me, I would have turned him down, too. How could I have adjusted to life in a castle? With all those surrounding moats, the closest parking is probably two acres beyond the jousting field.

But I exaggerate. Back in the real world of the common folk, if you really must find a parking space, you can always resort to a garage or commercial lot—if you're independently wealthy. As for me, even if I could afford the exorbitant fees, I would avoid the lots and garages that require you to give your keys to a 16-year-old reject from the Indy 500 who will try to carom your five-foot wide car into a four-foot wide space. Of course some garages don't require you to leave your keys. You can park your car yourself. However, when you come back to retrieve it, it's jammed behind six rows of other vehicles, all belonging to swingers who aren't going home until dawn, so neither are you.

It's all very stressful. I try to relax…to stop and smell the roses. Unfortunately, they're all growing in No Parking zones.

Flash! I just heard a bulletin on my car radio. It has been confirmed that God is not dead. My theory was not far wrong. He's not double parked, but a Roman traffic helicopter just spotted Him circling St. Peter's Square (pretty tricky, even for God) looking for a parking space.

 

Editor's Note: Rose Mula's most recent book, The Beautiful People and Other Aggravations, is now available at your favorite bookstore, through Amazon.com and other online bookstores, and through Pelican Publishing (800-843-1724), as is her previous book, If These Are Laugh Lines, I'm Having Way Too Much Fun.

Share: