IPFW students have begun to leave earlier and earlier for their classes. Sometimes, they stay on campus when they could have otherwise gone home for a break. Or, if they are feeling rather lucky, they will even stop their car where ever they may be and hope that they do not come back to a ticket stuck under the windshield wipers.
The reason that this happens: parking.
No one at IPFW is a stranger to the hunt for a parking spot – at least if they want one within a mile of their classroom. Sometimes, though, people go above and beyond the hunt – they go on an all-out metal massacre – with me as a witness to their abilities.
Awhile back, I was scouring for a place in P3, after finding no luck in either parking garage. I searched up and down each isle multiple times. However, there were side-to-side cars and about ten other running engines joining me in the search. Each of them was ready to snatch up any opening. It was the battle of the fastest turn signal.
Every row held at least one of those people that make going out to your car an awkward experience. There are the students that creep very slowly behind you, assuming that you’re leaving instead of retrieving things from your car. Those are the ones who wait behind you for ten minutes. Or, there are the people who are sick of the hunt, roll down their windows and ask where you have parked.
The very last row, of course, held all the real excitement: there was an empty spot.
Now, I lost this battle – the tiniest car had gotten there first, and all the rest of us had to sit and wait for it to maneuver into position.
Turns out, even the smallest car has difficulty squeezing in between an oversized truck and a hard place. Over and over, the little car corrected its position – often times so slightly I could hardly tell he’d moved his steering wheel. Oh, the tension stirring behind him as class times approached.
He must have sensed tension, or maybe he was just sorry for the wait, because he began to accelerate faster as he was trying to bend his wheels and curve in perfectly. Yet, speed is not the parker’s best friend. After another of those barely-there wheel turns, he slammed straight into the car on his left.
Being the first in the waiting line, I got to see the expression of “did I really just do that? Please, pretend that I did not.”
Amazingly, after the hit, he slid into position in seconds flat. Although I did not stick around to check, I have a feeling he probably had to cut a hole in the top of his car to be able to get out, because it was so cramped.
Now, I found a place and arrived at class relatively close to when I was supposed to be there. It was about half way through my note-taking, though, that it bubbled over: laughter. Not just any laughter, either, but hysterical, knee-slapping and slouching over a painful stomach laughter. I could not stop. Somewhere in my brain it had connected – the bad parker’s left bumper was already smashed before the incident.
Was it the same kind of scenario that crumpled his bumper? Was it from something much worse? I have no idea. All that I am certain of is that if I ever come across him again, I will stay to his right.
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