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.
For What it's Worth 