Hitting A Snag

I've been holding off on this entry from shame and embarrassment, but now that I have some distance, I guess it's time.

Last Sunday morning, I went to a bar in my neighborhood to watch the World Cup Final. I had planned to watch it all week, and was sticking to that plan, despite the fact that by the time I left my place, the game had been on for at least forty five minutes. I'm finding strange the things I make priorities now that I have nothing else pressing. A few days later, I would undertake a similar quest to watch the MLB All Star Game, and curse myself when I realized that I missed the homerun contest.

In any event, I was on my way to this English bar called The Red Lion on Sunday morning, feeling a little groggy, and slightly peeved that I had rousted myself out of bed for this game. It was hot out, and the streets were a bit sleepy. Pulling into the Bank of America to get some cash, I noted that the parking lot was empty, and as the bar was about a hundred yards down the road, maybe I should just walk from there. This was not to be, unfortunately. I think the first thing I've assimilated about LA is the maxim of driving absolutely everywhere, whether it makes sense or not. So I set off from the bank, and disobeying my better judgement, pulled into The Red Lion parking lot.

I knew that this was a soccer bar. The previous weekend, while at the coffee shop next door, I had seen disappointed German fans coming back from the semifinal. And I knew that at this late hour, the parking lot would be full. Yet there I was, idling in the lot, sizing up the difficult task before me. The front part of the lot was long and thin, maybe fifteen spaces on either side, all of which were full. At the back end of the lot, there was a steep grade, probably forty degrees, which led to a smaller platform of about ten spaces, all of which was wrapped in a daunting concrete wall, topped by metal bars. The situation was ugly. I didn't want to brave that hill, but there wasn't any room to turn around, and I didn't want to back out onto a busy street. I chose the grade. The Corolla strained up the ramp. There were two spaces left, one in the left back corner, and one in the right front corner, adjacent to the grade of death, and sidling the wall of destruction. Being in this section of the parking lot was like being at a Michael McDonald duets concert, featuring Barbara Streisand, Celine Dion, and Creed as guest stars, hosted by Oprah. I could only clench my teeth and devise ways to get out.

Fatally, I backed into the front right spot, between the Scylla and Charibdis of the wall and ramp. I put the car in drive and inched forward. For a few seconds, it didn't seem that bad.

"Maybe the hill's not that steep," I thought. "Maybe the wall's not too close."

I don't remember the next few moments in any way I can write about. Forward, reverse. Left, right. Left, forward. Right, reverse. At one point, I popped my head out the window to see how much space I had from the wall. Excrutiatingly close. I put it in reverse and tried to manufacture some space, but I only sputtered. Bewildered, I went back into drive. My car was in the deep into the steep now, subject only to the laws of gravity. I tried to go backwards again, but nothing. I went back into drive, and at some point, I heard it. Screeching, crunching and popping, like somebody crushing cans while running their nails down a chalkboard. I know that I emitted an embarassing, high pitched groan, if you could call it that, through my locked jaw. I put it in park and yanked on the emergency brake, then tried to open the door. It may have been a figment of my panicked imagination, but the door wouldn't open. For a second, I looked at the sun roof, thinking the only way out was up.

That's when I heard voices. I looked to the left and saw a hipster dude and two attractive females standing in the front of the parking lot, staring. I rolled down the window and tried to act casual. Undoubtedly, it was the ruckus that had stopped them in their tracks, but I hope it had more to do with screetching of the car and not of its driver.

The guy waved off the women, telling them to find a seat in the bar, and started jogging towards me.

“Hey man, you’re in a tough spot.”

“Yeah, I know, I…”

“You’re just gonna wanna get outta here, if you can.” He was at the impact point, inspecting the damage.

“Is it bad?”

“Yeah, it’s bad, dude—-“

“The car or the fence?”

“The car, dude. The car.”

He went up to the front of car and told me just the cut it all the way left. I did, and two seconds later, I was free.

“There you go, dude, tough break. You got insurance?”

“Yeah....Fuck. I came here to watch this stupid fucking game. I don’t even care!” I was trying to explain that this was a random and undeserved catastophe.

“Yeah, just forget about it. Come in, have a beer, deal with it later.”

Pathetically, I rambled out of the parking lot and found perfectly good street parking a block away. I inspected the damage myself and was more shocked than I should've been upon seeing the violent gash that the metal and concrete had cut into my car. I kicked the tire a few times. It was 90 degrees out.



The rest of the afternoon was a bitter disappointment. The Red Lion turned out to be a German bar, not English. It was packed, as expected. The bartender, an old woman in lederhosen, shouted at people to get out her way. I had to pout with Heffeweisen instead of Guinness, which is Irish and made for pouting. I was rooting for France, and they lost.

I hadn't accounted for the unexpected. I stood in the bar explaining to myself what had happened over and over, just like I'm doing now. It's a bump in the road, a minor setback. There are several other cliches I've told myself that I can't really remember right now. I've learned to ignore it over the past week, but every time I have to get gas, there it is, staring me in the face. When I get it fixed, I'll have to go a week or so sans car, which may be a good thing. What pisses me off the most is that I knew I was making bonehead decisions, but I made them anyway. After the game, I sulked for a few more hours, until a sort of serenity settled over me. I spent the rest of the night going back and forth to the laundrymat down the street, on foot.