Mercy Is The Red Bird At The Back Door

It was cold on Wednesday, and dark, when I made it home. I had been walking, but grabbed my car after work to meet up with some friends for a bit. When I came back, it was even darker and colder. And someone had taken my parking space. Some might say that I have a hard-on for towing people away from my parking space. I may have said that. But I’ve been trying to soften my image of late, and I took the opportunity to not surprise that visitor to the neighborhood with a funny auto-viction from my (paid for) parking spot. Instead, I went to Borders and decided that if the car should happen to be in my spot upon my return (11:00-ish) that I would make the owner my bitch.

No such thing happened. I came home late, at the darkest-if-not-coldest part of the evening and found the Buick LeSabre still in my space, mocking me. I couldn’t do it, though. I couldn’t drop the hammer. Instead I left a note that said “Do NOT park here again or you will be towed. Thanks!” The car was gone in the morning.

How nice.

Last night I came home from coffee and studying to find not one, but two house parties on my street. Right across the street from my apartment, in fact. So of course someone had taken the spot since it was so close and, obviously, available. I went to see what kind of car it was: red Pontiac Firebird. Okay, I’ll just find the owner. I looked at the first party and saw that the entire backyard was standing room only. Seriously, it was like an old-school Bluefish party at Quentin’s place. Well hell. I walked up to the front porch and was greeted by the young hipster version of myself. He wore a Franz Ferdinand shirt and was hanging out by himself. He must have been some sort of lookout, because he spotted me immediately. It was almost as if he could smell the books and Starbucks on me. He knew as well as I did that I didn’t belong.

“Hey man, can I help you?”

“This your house?”

“No, man,” he replied.

“Is the owner inside?” I looked at the packed living room. A couple of partiers were peering at me through the window. I guess they were making sure I wasn’t Johnny Law or some other kind of buzzkill.

“No, I’m not sure where he is.”

Hmm. Let’s try something different. “Do you drive a red Firebird?”

“No.”

“Well, it’s parked in my space, and I’m about to have it towed.”

“I’ll make an announcement!” Which he did. He popped inside and yelled that someone’s red Firebird was about to be towed. I looked next door and saw a few kids hanging out in the front yard. I can’t even pinpoint when that stopped being me and started being them. It must have happened after I got back from Paris the first time. Undergrad was over, people moved away, and I stopped going to parties. Weird.

Before I could finish my thought, Franz Ferdinand came back out and said that it wasn’t anyone’s car at that party, and that I should try the other party. I thanked him and walked next door.

I repeated my question to a few of the guys outside, always making eye contact and communicating as thoroughly and effectively as I could. No joy.

So I go on inside and see another living room packed with very well-dressed girls and boys (like a damn episode of the O.C.). A couple of girls were rolling around on the couch, laughing as one of their friends took pictures. Another girl eyed me with suspicion and with what I think was a heaping spoonful of paranoia. She whispered something to a guy sitting on the couch, but he refused to help her, so she looked at me, perhaps waiting for me to bust her for underage drinking or possession, or whatever. I asked her “Is this your house?”

“No.” She wobbled just a little bit, but that could have been from the heels she wore.

“Okay.” I looked around the room for anyone who might live there. Exasperated, I asked her “Do you drive a red Firebird?”

“No, I don’t. I wish I did drive a red Firebird, though, ‘cause that’s a really nice car...” She kind of trailed off.

I realized my problem. We were speaking different languages. I took a breath and shouted “RED FIREBIRD ABOUT TO GET TOWED!”

Another girl took off toward the back. “Brandon, they’re gonna tow your car!”

Brandon came running out. He went past me, out the door and past the guys on the porch. “They’re gonna tow my car!”

“Man, there’s not even a tow truck around here,” one of the porch guys said as I walked past, but Brandon was almost back to his car by that time.

I was about halfway, taking my time and enjoying the moment. Just then, I heard the same girl who warned Brandon shouting in the street behind me “BRANDON! DON’T MOVE YOUR CAR! YOU’RE IN A SPOT!”

I spun around, angry for the first time since this started. I shouted back to her “IT’S MY SPOT!” She went back inside.

“So don’t move it?” Brandon waited, driver side door open and one foot inside.

“Move it, Brandon,” I replied.

[park it at biblebeltbabylon.blogspot.com, xanga.com/moontos and blog.myspace.com/moontos]