by T. B. Meek
It was a typical bustling day at the Porter Square shopping mall made more so by the beautiful spring day, a gift from Mother Nature after a week of overcast skies and two torrential rain storms that caused drain basins to back up and overflow. Chaz Perkins, his sciatica acting up, gingerly baby stepped his way out of the CVS, skirted his way around one of the many lingering puddles that dotted the parking lot and a his way towards old Betsy, his trusted Honda CRV with more than 15 years of reliable service. He had parked Betsy near the pharmacy with strategic intent to minimize the taxation of his hip. As he had envisioned it, he would first hit up Ace Hardware for his spring planting needs (a new trowel to replace the rusty, ineffective relic that had been in the condo’s basement since before the Boston Tea Party, and nasturtium and magnolias seeds for the planters that abutted the sidewalk in front of the three story walkup) and then the liquor store for a half case of Vino Verde to go with the Portuguese fisherman’s stew he had made for his book club which would be arriving at his Huron Village abode within the next three hours. Everything was going according to plan, the trowel, seeds and wine had been deposited in Betsy’s boot, what Chaz didn’t bargain for was the demanding woman insisting that the pharmacist check and recheck his records as he stood by on achy joint waiting to claim his ‘scipts and pay for the much needed vial of Advil and coveted Reeses Peanut Cups. When it was revealed that the woman’s prescription order had been placed at another CVS some two miles away, the woman, who Chaz felt possessed the melodramatic air of Blanche DuBois, launched into an indignant tirade shaming the pharmacist for her mistake and adding another five minutes of hip grinding discomfort to his day.
Outside in the cloudless blue Chaz examined the space between the blue Tesla and Betsy. It was sideways sliding tight, but every space in the parking lot was ridiculously small. It was as if some over zealous planner decided to take normal sized spots and reduce them all to compact size so they could squeeze in an extra fifteen or twenty cars, but for what gain? Anyone with a minivan or plus size SUV took up two spaces and the rear of the monstrosity often jutted out, adding to the lot’s chaotic traffic flow woes. Chaz imagined that the number of insurance claims filed at Porter Square had to be substantially higher than those at the suburban shopping expanses like Burlington or Natick where you could park an apatosaurus-sized family truckster without fear of losing a sideview and still have ample room to swing your door open without dinging your neighbor.
Gripping the doorframe, Chaz swung his right leg up and into Betsy, but suddenly seized as a bolt of paralyzing pain shot down his thigh. He first thought to back out to rebalance and reassess but pushed forward and pleasantly discovered a modicum of relief in the gentle cupping of his hip bones by the ergonomic form of the well worn bucket seat. Settling in, he pushed back in the seat to retrieve his car keys and cracked screen iPhone from his pant pockets.
Gazing up in the rearview Chaz drank in the scene, cars lulling and going. That was a way of life in the cramped concrete cauldron just minutes from the heart of Harvard Square, drivers passive-aggressively trolling for purchase, issuing toothy smiles and feigned civility. Wearily Chaz inserted the key into the ignition, turned it over and noticed three text messages on his phone. He pulled his reading glasses down from atop his head, gave a habitual tug on his graying beard and used his fingerprint to unlock the phone. Two messages were from book club members, the third was from his publisher. At the age of 68, Chaz was elated to be publishing his first novel. To date he had published three collections of poetry and a memoir, but now the project he had spent nearly fifteen years on, including five years of research before putting pen to paper, was coming to fruition. Staring at that last message he wanted to tap on it but couldn’t. What if it was bad news? After all it was a Sunday, and most professional matters waited til Monday, unless. It could be good news too, he thought. Maybe the publisher had reconsidered the request to up the number of copies for the first printing. The other messages ostensibly had to do with logistics of the upcoming gathering. Chaz decided to start with those and read the publisher’s text when he got home. No matter how the news landed, home was the place to be, not a buzzing hive of distractive hum.
He was about to open the message from Marley Mickelstein, his former co-worker from the Institute of Contemporary Art who was bringing potato rolls and a carrot cake, when two quick taps of a car horn rippled in from behind. The first toot shot through him and made his hand jerk back from the phone’s web etched screen. Chaz looked up into the rearview to see a sleek, navy blue BMW sedan with a young man in aviator sunglasses leering at him like a DEA agent on a bust.
Chaz stared at the ridged incarnation for a second, shrugged and went back to the message. “Running behind, still need to ice the cake.” He had stated to type back, “No worries, take your time,” when a pronounced horn lean halted his focus. Chaz rolled down his window and issued a calm, ‘move along’ hand wave.
The BMW’s tinted window dropped and the deep, thrumping bass of an old school rap song rolled out into the communal air. Chaz thought it might be Tupac’s “California Love,” but wasn’t certain. “Are you going out?” the man shouted over the music.
Chaz leaned out the window, craned his neck and used his right arm to grip the gunnel of the old SUV, the torque of which triggered another pang of pain. He waited for it to subside and then growled, “In a few.”
The volume on the music lowered. “What’s a few?” the man shouted back.
“My friend, I have a feeling that however I define ‘a few,’ it will not be satisfactory to you. I understand and appreciate your frustration. Parking here is a coveted commodity. That said, I have a personal matter to attend to before I depart.”
Chaz pulled his head back in and was about to raise the window when there was another short honk. “Jerk….It’s people like you…” he heard the man mutter shout and then cease. Chaz poked his head back out the window. “People like me? What kind of person am I? An old person, a person who doesn’t look or think like you, or just a person who is in your entitled way? I believe the answer is ‘C,’ all of the above.”
“C’mon man!” the BMW driver shouted and bounced the palms of his hands off the steering wheel. “Are you going out or not?”
Another stab of pain shot down Chaz’s leg. He winced. “Look my friend, here is what I suggest you do, take a lap around the lot and when you come back around, I’ll be rolling out. Easy peasy, right? Besides you have me sealed in and there’s three cars jammed up behind you.”
The driver glanced up into his rearview, it was true, there was a queue of other impatient hopefuls lined up behind him. One driver had their arms up by their ears, mouth agape, while another was pawing the air, hoping the gesture would magically break the stalemate and provide forward progress.
The tinted window rose, Tupac’s synthesized voice ceased and the BMW revved angrily before lurching forward with a guttural squeal. In its wake, the smell of burnt rubber wafted upward and into crystalline day.
Chaz finished his response to Marley and opened the message from Helen Chambers. There was a picture of an Australian shepherd with piecing blue eyes, head cocked to one side and tongue lolled out. “Ok if bring this handsome lad?” Chaz smiled to himself. Bear had been at other bookclub meetings and mostly just curled up at Helen’s feet and slept though the literary excuse to imbibe organic wines and nosh on sinful satiations discouraged by their primary care physicians. Chaz typed back, “Only if he’s read the book” and added a succession of emojis that included a smily face, bear and a dog.
Chaz dropped the iPhone into the console bucket between the two seats, shifted his hips and eased Betsy into reverse, rolling back as slowly as one can. Extricating a vehicle from the Porter Square shopping mall was a no small feat if you did not have one of those fancy newfangled rearview cams or proximity sensors to issue bumper alerts. Betsy had some notable blind spots too that Chaz had to constantly remind himself of. Inch by inch he continued to roll out but hit the breaks when he heard a short inaudible shout and the resonance of a soft thud from the backside of Betsy. He looked up into the rearview mirror, frowned and rolled down the window. “My bad,” he said offering an apologetic wave to the young man and woman with their toddler sitting backwards in a half filled shopping cart. He waited for them to clear and double checked the mirrors before letting off the break. Nearly half way out, he cut the wheel hard left and trained his eye on the left front bumper to make sure it cleared the blue Tesla. It was tight but a well executed maneuver as Betsy came perpendicular to the parking spot. Chaz gathered to put the Honda into drive and noticed in the rearview a dark haired woman in a pristine white SUV with its flasher on looking to take the spot. Further back he saw the blue BMW zip up. Horns sounded, heads craned and arms gestured. Chaz gazed fore. He was out, the two overly caffeinated and impatient could figure it out on their own. He was also fairly certain that the boxy SUV could not fit in the slot. Just as he was about to lay his hand back on the shift, a Toyota Corolla coming from the opposite direction, a vehicle of Betsy’s vintage marred by a multitude of scuff marks and duct tape along the front bumper, paused and put its left blinker on. Chaz marveled at the diminutive white haired woman, her head barely above the the crest of the steering wheel. She returned the eye contact and flashed a friendly smile and expectant head nod. Chaz smiled back, put Betsy in reverse, rolled back the three feet he had between the Honda and the white SUV and flashed his high beams. In three jerky stop and goes, the Toyota pulled snugly into the slip. When all was clear, Betsy rolled on and away from the salvo of blaring horns that erupted in her wake.
For What it's Worth 