The White Chrysler
My dad drives a huge minivan, or a “sport van,” as he calls it. He can’t park it worth a damn. Whenever I’m in the car with him he urges me to bring my handicap permit because those spots are much easier to park in. I never use the permit unless the walk is truly a pain in the ass, or when there is a parking meter (if you have a handicap permit you don’t have to pay). So, I started charging him one dollar every time he uses it. On our summer vacations I actually rack up quite a few Washingtons. Sometimes I joke with him about raising the fee. “Next summer I think I’ll raise it by 25 cents due to inflation and other miscellaneous taxes,” I say. The other day I offered to rent him the permit for a monthly fee, but he refused because it’s a felony.
Last year my apartment complex at school had a limited number of parking spots. I didn’t want to waste my time searching for them, so I had the manager install a handicap spot right next to the building. My buddy Duckman, who lived right across from me, got pissed off when anybody parked in either his reserved spot or my handicap one. He printed off notes telling people to move their car or get towed. One time I saw my neighbor’s white Chrysler there, so I grabbed one of his notes and put it on the car. 20 minutes later it was gone.
Weeks later I was walking home from a football game. I glanced over to find that same neighbor next to me, talking to her friend. “I know you,” she said. “You’re the one with the handicap spot, aren’t you?”
“Uh, yeah.”
She continued talking to her friend. “One time I parked in his spot and he put a note on my car.” My neighbor then made the most condescending smirk I’ve ever seen. She thought that she and her perfect gait were so much better than me.
Enter ANGER.
I wanted to do something—punch her in the face, kick her in the vagina, even get her in the crossface chicken wing. But I didn’t. I just watched as she and her friend moved ahead, seeming to mock me for my inability to walk quickly.
That night I was standing in the driveway talking to my friend when I spotted her Chrysler. What ever should I do? At first I thought about bashing the side mirror, but figured it would be too loud. I put my hands in my pockets trying to decide what kind of vandalism would be just. I pulled out my keys. Yeah boyeee. I grabbed the long, skinny key, ready to scratch the fucking shit out of her door. I took a few steps forward, then stopped. What if the Chrysler is her roommate’s car?
That bitch is lucky I’m not more observant.
Keep reading:
The White Chrysler: Part II
Last year my apartment complex at school had a limited number of parking spots. I didn’t want to waste my time searching for them, so I had the manager install a handicap spot right next to the building. My buddy Duckman, who lived right across from me, got pissed off when anybody parked in either his reserved spot or my handicap one. He printed off notes telling people to move their car or get towed. One time I saw my neighbor’s white Chrysler there, so I grabbed one of his notes and put it on the car. 20 minutes later it was gone.
Weeks later I was walking home from a football game. I glanced over to find that same neighbor next to me, talking to her friend. “I know you,” she said. “You’re the one with the handicap spot, aren’t you?”
“Uh, yeah.”
She continued talking to her friend. “One time I parked in his spot and he put a note on my car.” My neighbor then made the most condescending smirk I’ve ever seen. She thought that she and her perfect gait were so much better than me.
Enter ANGER.
I wanted to do something—punch her in the face, kick her in the vagina, even get her in the crossface chicken wing. But I didn’t. I just watched as she and her friend moved ahead, seeming to mock me for my inability to walk quickly.
That night I was standing in the driveway talking to my friend when I spotted her Chrysler. What ever should I do? At first I thought about bashing the side mirror, but figured it would be too loud. I put my hands in my pockets trying to decide what kind of vandalism would be just. I pulled out my keys. Yeah boyeee. I grabbed the long, skinny key, ready to scratch the fucking shit out of her door. I took a few steps forward, then stopped. What if the Chrysler is her roommate’s car?
That bitch is lucky I’m not more observant.
Keep reading:
The White Chrysler: Part II