Perfect Parking Spot

The office building is one of five others. Each building is surrounded by a large parking lot with spaces that outnumber the employees four to one.

Except for this employee.

Throughout my young corporate career I refuse to park in my building’s lot. The self-assigned space is crucial towards my daily mental capacity. As I cross onto company property lot everyday I envision entering a three-dimensional laser cube with two guards trolling on top of the building wielding Texas-sized shot guns.

My job may dictate my pay scale, my work or vacation time and my lunch hour, but I control my parking space. I win this round in the power struggle.

My original parking space was a four minute stroll because of a prime shade spot. However this presented a problem for three months on tardy days.

The man works at least two days a week in this office. He always approaches the door on time but scans the lot before en enters the front door. Two minutes later he passes my cube en route to his office.

The hunt was on those tardy days. As I pulled into my space 10 minutes late I saw 20 yards out from the door. I sprinted across three lots and ducked behind a car to miss his lot scan. Then as he disappeared through the building door, I fled up the stairwell, through the office back door and dove into the cube.

A quick computer login and a breath hold to conceal the pants followed while upon his approached.

“Morning,” he said over his shoulder.

“Morning sir,” I meekly leaked from my oxygen starved lungs after my 100 yard dash while I brushed off forehead perspiration.

This wouldn’t work. I found another shade spot in an adjacent with half walk time. Today’s wardrobe malfunction: laundry caught up with me and I’m out of solid white undershirts. I’m wearing a SMU Mustang shirt inside out to conceal the blue script.

Besides shade, my self choice spce serves me decompression from high octane work moments. One time I fell into a heated 10 minute phone discussion and later punctuated the end with a receiver slam accompanied by a loud expletive. A week later I kicked my chair onto the desk and chewed out my computer.

To control these outbursts I evacuated Cube 19. A small trip off site from the trollmen dissipates my anger. If desperate times arise, I lock myself in the car, roll up the windows and punch out the steering wheel. It’s always the wheel’s fault.

These tantrums lasted only six months. Today I’m a little more mature and little more seasoned to handle the pressures. Even though it’s rare I leave in a huff, the car still resides in the shade with my peace.