Parking Lot 3 Snaps
Recently
asked if I would write something for her new zine using the prompt “parking lots”. I didn’t think I’d have time to write something new, but I said yes right away anyway. Sandalore is a visual artist and writer who lives in France and even though she’s only been on Substack for a little while, she’s already started a few projects. I was honored to be included. I did a search for the word parking lot in my writing, and it turns out I had quite a few snaps over the years that took place in one. Strange. What is it about a parking lot? Coming and going? It’s not a place you stay very long. There can be something scary or secret, dark or impending. What is it? Maybe it is just having been a woman alone in one, the strange lighting, the sound of your footsteps on the concrete, I don’t know exactly. It’s a good setting for a snap anyway, where nothing is permanent, where things pass quickly, where there are often moments that contain so many things at once. I picked three that I wrote a few years ago, one is now part of a longer story, but I kept it short here for the purpose of the prompt.Check out Sum Flux and all the other contributions here.
Hysterical Birds
I could tell something was off by the way the lady was talking into her phone. She was walking in circles while screaming into the receiver, which she held daintily like a hot hors d'oeuvre. I figured she was on meth, but it was hard to tell for sure. She wore the low-hanging poopy-pants that middle-aged yoga teachers wear, and a short-waisted pleather jacket popular in 1983. I steered clear. Whatever it was, she was giving lunatic. “Don’t go in there,” she called out as I passed her on the way in. “Do not go in there!”
Freak, can’t I just get some toilet paper in peace?
But when I got to the door I noticed 4 or 5 people looking in through the glass and not going in. What’s going on?
“There’s a guy in there–”
“He’s got a knife and he’s holding it to someone’s–”
“It’s not a knife. It’s–”
I turned around to head back to my car, that was all I needed to hear. Then BAM, someone burst through the doors and ran through the lot.
“Get in your car, get in your car,” people yelled, a few women were screaming. “He’s got a gun.” I ran the worst kind of where-am-I/who-am-I-dream-running where you can’t open the door fast enough or lock the door once inside. I got in and sat and watched. The guy ran right into traffic on Sunset with 3 men chasing. Who are these guys risking their lives? I watched them, all nicely dressed, groomsmen from a wedding or some formal gathering, running at top speed, their coats flying in the back like capes. I waited for the sound of a shot or of screeching brakes, a car hitting flesh, but it didn’t happen, just a crowd of people bent sideways watching them run down Sunset, the culprit fleeing, people screaming, all hysterical birds. I drove through the lot, shaking as I turned, and headed towards the next store, shaking as I parked, shaking still as I entered through the automated doors and down the grocery aisles. I got in line, now teeth chattering. If you saw me from afar, I was just a person in a store, cold maybe, bright lights overhead, the sky outside black through the big front window. You might have noticed my hand trembling when I tried to pluck my card from the slot in my wallet, but probably not.
Have a good night, the checkout girl said, handing me a receipt. Thanks, you too, I responded.
How It Was
I met him in the parking lot at some Armenian grocery store. He didn’t know it was my birthday. He never kept track of details like that, but he had called and said meet me and so I did. We hadn’t seen each other in a few months. He was always involved with other women, sometimes more than one. It’s just the way he was. It wasn't fair to either of us to wish things were different, but I did. Sometimes I tried to pretend I didn’t care, but I was never any good at it.
The place was on Santa Monica Blvd, just a small empty cafe with a dirty parking lot on the side of the highway. I got there and waited until I saw him pull in. I watched him park and then walk towards the place. He had a good walk. There was an ease to it. And kindness. I kept watching and then he stopped mid-stride and turned to look at me like he knew I was there all along. We laughed. That was my favorite part with him, a reaction that wasn't forced or edited or shaped to fit a particular circumstance. It was always that way. He had on a dirty hat and my pants were missing a button and we were in a parking lot with rancid trash water, but we walked towards each other and we were beaming. That’s how it was.
Orzo
We called it Prison-Von’s because it had a chain-link fence with barbed wire around the parking lot. Often there were people meandering through asking for change, or camped out by the trees along the side, but we went anyway because it was the closest market and sometimes you just needed some Honey Nuts. Usually it was crowded and felt safe. One night I saw a man floating like a ghost through the aisles of cars. His face was very skinny and he had wrapped a torn sheet around himself. There was a hump on his back because he was wearing a small backpack. It was impossible to tell how old he was. As I approached, he asked me for a dollar and at the same time I said “No, sorry, I don’t have cash.” It was what I always said, the words out of my mouth as thoughtlessly as fine, how are you? Still, I looked right at him when I said it. I wanted him to know that what I was saying was true. I really didn’t have cash. He said “Oh, that’s okay,” and as I passed him he said, quietly, “I like …your outfit.” It was a strange thing to say, said with such dejection that what I really heard was, “I’m hungry.” What I really heard was, “Please?” Walking backwards towards the door, I said, “I’ll get you something while I’m in there.” He put his hands over his heart and smiled. He looked young then, like a rave kid who had lost his way, and was now in his 50s with smeared eye makeup and oversized pants. I was thinking I could get him some roasted chicken or something warm and good, and I was almost through the door when he said, louder this time, “Can you get me some orzo?”
“Orzo?” It made me laugh.
“Yeah with the feta cheese and tomatoes,” he said, not the least bit self-conscious. I walked in, chuckling. How did he even know they served such a thing at Vons? Maybe he used to buy it for himself back before he lost everything, and it was his favorite. It wasn’t a warm meal but it’s what he wanted so that’s what I got, and I walked back outside happy to give it to him. But he wasn’t there. I looked around, nothing. I almost wondered if I had imagined the whole thing. I figured I would find someone else to give it to. But then as I pulled out of the lot, I saw him. I think it was him, floating down Alvarado, the torn sheet sailing out behind like wings.
Orzo is just so specific!
I love what you did with “I like your outfit.” Such a turn of thought, then events, all because you were open enough to hear the subtext you created and then respond. This is just one example of what you do all the time in your snaps and what makes them both shine and ache with humanity.
And congrats of the Zine piece! I can’t wait to read!