If I was President, every American would have a parking space.
One. A single space would be as much as I could promise thanks to the derisive catcalls from Beltway veterans who would attempt to mitigate my charity if only because it kept them newsworthy. Of course, the logistical cataclysms experienced in densely populated areas from New York to Los Angeles would guarantee impeachment proceedings, which is okay with me. Impeached Presidents are always the most fun.
Parking spaces are like public restrooms: You never think about them until the need arises, after which you would donate important parts of your body just to find one.
The idea of going all Herbert Hoover with a Presidential parking space promise occurred to me whilst looking for a -you guessed it- parking space. I thought to myself “Hey self! This might be a post . . .” as I was snuggling between the bumpers of a Nissan Altima whose street cred was no doubt more impressive than its owner’s bank account and a Cadillac SUV whose family tree was bumper stickered to its huge ass.
My city parking talents were placed in dry dock when I moved to the country and parallel parking became something I used to do- like skiing, two toned leather jackets and long distance relationships with female assassins. City driving ain’t the same thing. That’s all adrenaline and muscle memory, so it’s easy for me to slip back into that. Parallel parking? Not so much.
It took Mt Rushmore less time to get facial reconstruction than it took for me to figure out the math of that parking space. During which I stopped sipping my slushie . . turned the radio down so I could concentrate . . opened the windows so I could hear an unwitting victim’s screams for help as I crushed them . . and ignored my chiming cell phone.
The parallel park job holds the same funky math as a trapezoid; difficult to perfect and damned proud of the fact. In two shakes of a lamb’s big, fat clumsy tail, I was in. And then I checked my look in the side mirror and discovered I was still an appreciable distance from the curb. By appreciable, I mean you could have constructed a Buffalo Wild Wings in the space between my tires and the curb.
In lieu of a zoning permit, I jigsawed my way a little closer. I stood curbside and examined the job with the same expression Vito Corleone possessed when he was introducing the funeral director to dead Sonny. To think, it took me longer to park a car (badly) than it used to take me to have sex inside of it.
The phone chimed again. It was my boy. He refuses to leave voice-mails when I don’t answer, so he’ll just call incessantly until something happens. He is gonna come in handy when I’m dead.
“What’s this about Ted Cruz?” He asks.
My son was looking to pick a fight and this wasn’t the best time since I wasn’t feeling much like fighting. Murder? Sure, I was up for that, but no fighting. I summoned my last remaining bit of civility for a response.
“Fuck Ted Cruz.” I replied. My civility was out of order.
“Oh, nice. Seriously, what’s your problem with him?” My son asked.
“You were talking to the old man . . .”
“What don’t you like about Cruz?”
“I don’t have time to list ’em all. Okay . . . the way he reads Dr. Seuss for one thing. That book is ALL about enunciation and he ain’t bringing it. Says something about him. Not sure what. But it says something.” I reasoned.
“Hey Chachi, I gotta go. I’ll call you later and we can pick up on this. Do me one favor?” I asked.
“Read Dr. Seuss again and tell me I’m wrong.”
I hung up with the boy and contemplated going back for another round with my trapezoidal nemesis before thinking better of it. Going back in the ring one too many times didn’t work out so well for Ali, and I ain’t Ali . . so there’s that.
Later that afternoon on my ride home, my phone chimed. I just knew the boy was calling for a rematch. He couldn’t have digested the Zen of Dr. Seuss in that short a time, I thought to myself. The pugnacious little bastard.
“What the hell. Get the Gestapo on me for trashing Ted Cruz, why don’t you?” I shouted as I reached for my phone.
Turns out, it was my daughter. Just what I needed. She is a lovely little reminder of the one thing I dig even more than talking about politics. Not talking about politics.
“Would you like meringue this weekend?” She asked.
Fuck Ted Cruz.