The Parking Lot
Driving in the snow had never been my favorite task. Usually it was the fear of getting stuck or losing control that bothered me. But that afternoon the wind and the cold were the problem. The temperature had dropped to around zero degrees, turning the snowflakes into tiny bullets of ice. And the relentless wind acted as the gun that fired them in an endless curtain that blocked out the sun and the sky.
The view through the windshield was nothing but a grayish haze and the occasional red glow of a brake light. Street signs shook and leaned with the blustering. Luckily, Sylvia, my beloved wife, was by my side giving me pointers as I drove. I always appreciated that. In hind sight, it wasn’t the best day to go down to the hardware store in Mill City, but the one in Roosterville near our house was a joke.
While we were in town, we decided to get something to eat. I wanted to get home before dark. The only thing worse than driving in the snow, was driving in the snow after dark. But I wanted to eat too. I erred on the side of food.
Downtown Mill City featured a couple of trendy restaurants. We didn’t go to them very often because on the weekends they were always packed. Some time over the last few years we came to the conclusion that spending an hour in a lobby holding the little plastic box they give you, waiting for it to buzz and flash before you finally sat at a table, made for a disappointing evening. There is only so much time a person can spend looking at ice skates, marching band instruments and the same old garage-sale crap they bolt to the walls in those places before it starts to get under your skin. But in the middle of the week, we could walk right in and sit right down.
Not surprisingly, all of the parking spots on the street right in front of Gravy’s were full. I pulled into the municipal lot three buildings down and backed in. If the snow drifted up while we were inside I wanted to be able to push right through it without having to stop and shift the transmission. After I killed the ignition, Sylvia and I both just sat there for a moment looking at each other, our hands on the door pulls. Neither one of us could bring ourselves to open our door and step out into the cold.
She gave a quick lift of her eyebrows. Her way of asking if I was ready.
I nodded, even though I wasn’t. It was either brave the cold until we made it around the corner, or go home and cook. Neither one of us wanted to do that. We both pushed our doors open and jumped from the car. The cold and wind cut to the bone. When I rounded the front of the car, Sylvia grabbed my arm and pushed her body against mine. Huddled together, we ran to the corner of the building toward the street.
In the other three seasons of the year the brick sidewalks downtown looked really nice. But in the winter, when the gaps and cracks filled with snow and ice it was like walking on a hockey rink. Despite heading into the wind, our pace slowed to short and intentional steps.
As we passed under the jewelry store’s canopy, a man stepped out from the recessed entrance into our path, so sudden and unexpected, that it sent me for a loop. I stopped walking. I stopped feeling the cold. The man said something, but to me it was just noise. For two or three seconds I couldn’t wrap my head around what was happening. He stood there and held a cheap wristwatch loose in his gloved hand. A crack ran down the face and bare metal poked out from the gold plating on the corners of the band.
The world made sense again, and felt cold again once I took a good look at him. Tattered and dirty clothes. At least three jackets, all in various stages of disrepair, cloaked his tall and lanky frame. A shaggy beard covered his face and scabs poked out from the strips of fabric tied around his head in a makeshift scarf.
He spoke again. “Please?” It was more pleesh. His voice sounded wet and a bit childish. Like there was too much saliva in his mouth and it kept him from making the S sound. Seeing the way his lips curled inward, like the folks at the retirement home I used to work at, I thought to myself that he must not have had any teeth.
“I’m trying to get down to Ohio for my father’s funeral.” The guy really struggled to say the sentence. I saw then that he did have teeth. They were just brown and yellow nubs worn down to his puffy gums. Before or since, I have never been as horrified as I was when I looked into that man’s mouth.
I started to reach into my pocket. I’m not a bleeding heart, but it was the coldest day of the year and he was stuck outside. I could spare a few bucks. I’d even let him keep his piece of shit watch to sell to the next guy who happened to walk down the street. Sure, he’d take the money and buy a rock or a bottle of swill or whatever it was that floated his boat. Why should I care? If that was what got him through the night, then let him have it.
Sylvia tugged at my coat sleeve. She wouldn’t even acknowledge that the homeless guy was there and walked ahead, pulling my arm with her.
“Come on, Curt,” Sylvia’s tone was casual and unapologetic, but I could hear a hint of fear behind the words. She was scared of him. I couldn’t blame her. We went around him and by the time we walked through the entrance to the restaurant he was out of sight.
“You don’t think he’s really going to a funeral do you?” She asked me.
“No, I just felt sorry for him.”
“We have our own problems to worry about. We can’t solve his for him.”
* * *
After dinner, we stood in the restaurant’s vestibule buttoning our heavy coats. It was completely dark outside. The snow looked beautiful swirling around in the halos of light surrounding the old-fashioned gas lamps that lined the sidewalk. Its beauty was fleeting. As soon as you were on the other side of the window, it was anything but beautiful. The wind tugged at the double doors, separating them just enough to whistle through the small room like someone blowing into a glass bottle.
“I’m still mad about the bill,” I said even though I wasn’t. I just wanted to postpone the inevitable trek through the arctic conditions on the way to the car.
“I think you’re going to have to let that go, Curt.” Sylvia said without taking her eyes off the over-sized Italian paintings hanging on the walls.
With my key fob in my bare hand, I reached through the gap in the doors, and pressed the remote start button. The light on the fob flashed green. I put my ear to the gap in the door and listened for the sound of the engine turning over. The wind drowned out all sound and stung against my skin.
“It’s just the principle. Two dollars and forty-nine cents for a glass of soda out of a fountain,” I said, hoping the car was within range to start.
Sylvia didn’t acknowledge that I was speaking. Probably because we usually had this same conversation every time we went out to eat. She suggested once that I order water if I didn’t want to pay for soda. But that’s only ever a good idea after the meal not before.
“It only costs them about a penny.” She still wasn’t looking at me. I gave up the fight. “You want me to bring the car around?” I asked.
She whirled around to face me. “Yes,” she said, suddenly engaged in the conversation. Sylvia usually rejected acts of chivalry. She carried herself as a strong and powerful woman who was capable of opening her own doors. But when the temperature was below zero she was willing to make an exception.
I headed out the door wishing I’d brought my hat and walking as fast as I could on the icy sidewalk. When I reached the canopy again, I remembered where that homeless guy had poked out from earlier. I went to the far side of the sidewalk, away from the building and store entrance. A rush of relief washed over me when I saw that it was empty. I rounded the corner into the parking lot, finally off those damn bricks and started jogging toward the car. The lights were not on. That meant the remote start had been out of range. I pulled a glove off with my teeth and found my keys. This time the lights illuminated and the engine cranked.
And from between two cars out came that guy. I walked wide of where he stood, into the shine of my headlights. He followed me and said something I couldn’t hear. It didn’t really matter what words he used. I stopped. I knew what he wanted.
He came into the light with me, but stopped a good ten feet away. I wasn’t sure if he recognized me from our encounter an hour before or not. Those of us that live indoors must all look the same to those that don’t. I made the mistake of making eye contact with him. He didn’t bother with his sales pitch for the watch or the sob story about the funeral- he just held out his hand.
I glanced back at the sidewalk toward the restaurant, not wanting Sylvia to know I couldn’t say no to this guy. With my glove still in my mouth, I pulled my money out of my pocket. Forty-six dollars is what I had in cash. Two twenties folded over a five and a single. I slid out the six bucks from underneath the twenties, stuffed those back in my pocket, and held out the small bills for him to take.
He strolled over to me, grabbed the money then just stood there. I wasn’t sure what the usual protocol was for such a transaction. I expected a thank you, but I wasn’t going to wait around in the freezing cold for it. My good deed was done. I was ready to go.
“Wait,” he said and held his arm out toward me. Shadows filled the hollow spaces of his sunken cheeks and eyes. “All of it.” He flicked his hand up and down at my pocket. The headlights reflected in his hand. It was then that I saw he was holding a jackknife and pointing the blade toward me.
In hind sight, I had done everything backwards. When he begged for money, I should have kept right on going. And when he threatened me with a weapon, I should have cheerfully handed over every penny. The forty dollars still in my pocket wasn’t worth risking my life over. But at the time, I didn’t think of it in those terms. I had just given him what I considered a generous handout. Originally, I was only going to give him one dollar, but I gave him six. Then he had the guts to point a knife at me and demand more.
The situation may have been more menacing if the man wielding the knife appeared to have enough strength to use it. His hand shook like he had Parkinson’s disease and he was skinny enough that if the wind picked up a little more he might have blown away. All he did when he pointed that knife at me was awaken a level of anger I didn’t know was inside of me.
I wasn’t having it. It wasn’t my fault he was on the street. I hadn’t been in a fist fight since I was in the fourth grade, but that didn’t stop me. Before I had even processed the thought I wound up and swung at him. Maybe he couldn’t see me because the lights of my car were between us. I was behind them, and he was in them. Or maybe it was because he was strung out, but he never moved. My fist clapped against his face. The momentum of the punch carried me forward. I pushed my forearm into his forearm to keep him from stabbing at me and gave him a quick shot to the stomach.
The look on his face almost made me laugh. He seemed confused. I wasn’t playing my role. Mugging etiquette suggested that he was in charge and I was supposed to be scared and give him cash and quietly sulk away. But he picked the wrong guy. I grabbed a hold of his wrist and dug my thumbnail in between the two bones in his arm.
He hollered out and finally after fifteen or twenty seconds dropped the knife. I kicked it toward the car in the next spot and let go of the guy, hoping he’d run away or drop to the ground to get his knife. But he didn’t, he came at me, clumsy and awkward. We wrestled for a few seconds and the next thing I knew I was behind him, my chest pressed into his back. It obviously had been months since he had washed. The stench of dirty hair and body odor was overpowering. It was his strongest means of defense. I grabbed his arms to keep him from gaining an offensive position, so he compensated by arching his back and smacking the back of his head into my face. I saw stars.
His hat had fallen off at some point in our scuffle and his scarf hung loosely around his neck. He bent forward again in a move I read as him preparing to lurch back again. I hooked my arm around his neck and pulled him back. His long hair was a greasy, matted mess against his head. I tried holding my breath because his head was right in my face, but I hadn’t had this much exercise in years and I couldn’t hold it. I had to breathe only through my mouth.
Memories of sparring with my older brother washed over me. I could remember him putting me into a headlock and yelling out, “Sleeper Hold!” I stood there with my arm tight around his neck and his arms flailing. Probably a minute went by but it seemed much longer. His body went stiff and then fell limp. I eased my hold to make sure he wasn’t faking, like I used to with my brother. I let him fall to the ground. Paper stuck out of one of his hands, still curled in a fist. It was the money I gave him. I took it back and got in the car. I shifted into drive before it occurred to me that he was in my way. If I pulled out then, I would have run him over.
I hopped back out and stood over him and then poked at him with my foot. He was out. Fortunately, the guy weighed less than a buck and a half. I was able to drag him by the arms across the parking lot away from my car.
“Curt?” My wife’s voice came from behind me. “What is going on?”
“Get in the car,” I shouted.
She came up next to me and saw that the lump at my feet that appeared to be a human body was indeed just that.
She started shaking her hands by her face. “Is he dead?”
I was pretty sure he wasn’t, but I didn’t answer her question. “Please. Just get in the car.” I heard Sylvia open, then close her door.
I was right behind her. As soon as I sat down, she activated the electronic locks.
Before I pulled out and before I told Sylvia what happened, I wanted to see him move. I didn’t want him dead. I couldn’t carry the guilt of killing a man, homeless, or a junkie, or otherwise. The sleeper hold was only supposed to last a few seconds, not be fatal. We sat there waiting. Waiting for him to turn over, or get up, or something. I wanted to leave, but I had to know. Move. Move. Move. For the first time in my life, I was eager to drive in the snow.
The view through the windshield was nothing but a grayish haze and the occasional red glow of a brake light. Street signs shook and leaned with the blustering. Luckily, Sylvia, my beloved wife, was by my side giving me pointers as I drove. I always appreciated that. In hind sight, it wasn’t the best day to go down to the hardware store in Mill City, but the one in Roosterville near our house was a joke.
While we were in town, we decided to get something to eat. I wanted to get home before dark. The only thing worse than driving in the snow, was driving in the snow after dark. But I wanted to eat too. I erred on the side of food.
Downtown Mill City featured a couple of trendy restaurants. We didn’t go to them very often because on the weekends they were always packed. Some time over the last few years we came to the conclusion that spending an hour in a lobby holding the little plastic box they give you, waiting for it to buzz and flash before you finally sat at a table, made for a disappointing evening. There is only so much time a person can spend looking at ice skates, marching band instruments and the same old garage-sale crap they bolt to the walls in those places before it starts to get under your skin. But in the middle of the week, we could walk right in and sit right down.
Not surprisingly, all of the parking spots on the street right in front of Gravy’s were full. I pulled into the municipal lot three buildings down and backed in. If the snow drifted up while we were inside I wanted to be able to push right through it without having to stop and shift the transmission. After I killed the ignition, Sylvia and I both just sat there for a moment looking at each other, our hands on the door pulls. Neither one of us could bring ourselves to open our door and step out into the cold.
She gave a quick lift of her eyebrows. Her way of asking if I was ready.
I nodded, even though I wasn’t. It was either brave the cold until we made it around the corner, or go home and cook. Neither one of us wanted to do that. We both pushed our doors open and jumped from the car. The cold and wind cut to the bone. When I rounded the front of the car, Sylvia grabbed my arm and pushed her body against mine. Huddled together, we ran to the corner of the building toward the street.
In the other three seasons of the year the brick sidewalks downtown looked really nice. But in the winter, when the gaps and cracks filled with snow and ice it was like walking on a hockey rink. Despite heading into the wind, our pace slowed to short and intentional steps.
As we passed under the jewelry store’s canopy, a man stepped out from the recessed entrance into our path, so sudden and unexpected, that it sent me for a loop. I stopped walking. I stopped feeling the cold. The man said something, but to me it was just noise. For two or three seconds I couldn’t wrap my head around what was happening. He stood there and held a cheap wristwatch loose in his gloved hand. A crack ran down the face and bare metal poked out from the gold plating on the corners of the band.
The world made sense again, and felt cold again once I took a good look at him. Tattered and dirty clothes. At least three jackets, all in various stages of disrepair, cloaked his tall and lanky frame. A shaggy beard covered his face and scabs poked out from the strips of fabric tied around his head in a makeshift scarf.
He spoke again. “Please?” It was more pleesh. His voice sounded wet and a bit childish. Like there was too much saliva in his mouth and it kept him from making the S sound. Seeing the way his lips curled inward, like the folks at the retirement home I used to work at, I thought to myself that he must not have had any teeth.
“I’m trying to get down to Ohio for my father’s funeral.” The guy really struggled to say the sentence. I saw then that he did have teeth. They were just brown and yellow nubs worn down to his puffy gums. Before or since, I have never been as horrified as I was when I looked into that man’s mouth.
I started to reach into my pocket. I’m not a bleeding heart, but it was the coldest day of the year and he was stuck outside. I could spare a few bucks. I’d even let him keep his piece of shit watch to sell to the next guy who happened to walk down the street. Sure, he’d take the money and buy a rock or a bottle of swill or whatever it was that floated his boat. Why should I care? If that was what got him through the night, then let him have it.
Sylvia tugged at my coat sleeve. She wouldn’t even acknowledge that the homeless guy was there and walked ahead, pulling my arm with her.
“Come on, Curt,” Sylvia’s tone was casual and unapologetic, but I could hear a hint of fear behind the words. She was scared of him. I couldn’t blame her. We went around him and by the time we walked through the entrance to the restaurant he was out of sight.
“You don’t think he’s really going to a funeral do you?” She asked me.
“No, I just felt sorry for him.”
“We have our own problems to worry about. We can’t solve his for him.”
* * *
After dinner, we stood in the restaurant’s vestibule buttoning our heavy coats. It was completely dark outside. The snow looked beautiful swirling around in the halos of light surrounding the old-fashioned gas lamps that lined the sidewalk. Its beauty was fleeting. As soon as you were on the other side of the window, it was anything but beautiful. The wind tugged at the double doors, separating them just enough to whistle through the small room like someone blowing into a glass bottle.
“I’m still mad about the bill,” I said even though I wasn’t. I just wanted to postpone the inevitable trek through the arctic conditions on the way to the car.
“I think you’re going to have to let that go, Curt.” Sylvia said without taking her eyes off the over-sized Italian paintings hanging on the walls.
With my key fob in my bare hand, I reached through the gap in the doors, and pressed the remote start button. The light on the fob flashed green. I put my ear to the gap in the door and listened for the sound of the engine turning over. The wind drowned out all sound and stung against my skin.
“It’s just the principle. Two dollars and forty-nine cents for a glass of soda out of a fountain,” I said, hoping the car was within range to start.
Sylvia didn’t acknowledge that I was speaking. Probably because we usually had this same conversation every time we went out to eat. She suggested once that I order water if I didn’t want to pay for soda. But that’s only ever a good idea after the meal not before.
“It only costs them about a penny.” She still wasn’t looking at me. I gave up the fight. “You want me to bring the car around?” I asked.
She whirled around to face me. “Yes,” she said, suddenly engaged in the conversation. Sylvia usually rejected acts of chivalry. She carried herself as a strong and powerful woman who was capable of opening her own doors. But when the temperature was below zero she was willing to make an exception.
I headed out the door wishing I’d brought my hat and walking as fast as I could on the icy sidewalk. When I reached the canopy again, I remembered where that homeless guy had poked out from earlier. I went to the far side of the sidewalk, away from the building and store entrance. A rush of relief washed over me when I saw that it was empty. I rounded the corner into the parking lot, finally off those damn bricks and started jogging toward the car. The lights were not on. That meant the remote start had been out of range. I pulled a glove off with my teeth and found my keys. This time the lights illuminated and the engine cranked.
And from between two cars out came that guy. I walked wide of where he stood, into the shine of my headlights. He followed me and said something I couldn’t hear. It didn’t really matter what words he used. I stopped. I knew what he wanted.
He came into the light with me, but stopped a good ten feet away. I wasn’t sure if he recognized me from our encounter an hour before or not. Those of us that live indoors must all look the same to those that don’t. I made the mistake of making eye contact with him. He didn’t bother with his sales pitch for the watch or the sob story about the funeral- he just held out his hand.
I glanced back at the sidewalk toward the restaurant, not wanting Sylvia to know I couldn’t say no to this guy. With my glove still in my mouth, I pulled my money out of my pocket. Forty-six dollars is what I had in cash. Two twenties folded over a five and a single. I slid out the six bucks from underneath the twenties, stuffed those back in my pocket, and held out the small bills for him to take.
He strolled over to me, grabbed the money then just stood there. I wasn’t sure what the usual protocol was for such a transaction. I expected a thank you, but I wasn’t going to wait around in the freezing cold for it. My good deed was done. I was ready to go.
“Wait,” he said and held his arm out toward me. Shadows filled the hollow spaces of his sunken cheeks and eyes. “All of it.” He flicked his hand up and down at my pocket. The headlights reflected in his hand. It was then that I saw he was holding a jackknife and pointing the blade toward me.
In hind sight, I had done everything backwards. When he begged for money, I should have kept right on going. And when he threatened me with a weapon, I should have cheerfully handed over every penny. The forty dollars still in my pocket wasn’t worth risking my life over. But at the time, I didn’t think of it in those terms. I had just given him what I considered a generous handout. Originally, I was only going to give him one dollar, but I gave him six. Then he had the guts to point a knife at me and demand more.
The situation may have been more menacing if the man wielding the knife appeared to have enough strength to use it. His hand shook like he had Parkinson’s disease and he was skinny enough that if the wind picked up a little more he might have blown away. All he did when he pointed that knife at me was awaken a level of anger I didn’t know was inside of me.
I wasn’t having it. It wasn’t my fault he was on the street. I hadn’t been in a fist fight since I was in the fourth grade, but that didn’t stop me. Before I had even processed the thought I wound up and swung at him. Maybe he couldn’t see me because the lights of my car were between us. I was behind them, and he was in them. Or maybe it was because he was strung out, but he never moved. My fist clapped against his face. The momentum of the punch carried me forward. I pushed my forearm into his forearm to keep him from stabbing at me and gave him a quick shot to the stomach.
The look on his face almost made me laugh. He seemed confused. I wasn’t playing my role. Mugging etiquette suggested that he was in charge and I was supposed to be scared and give him cash and quietly sulk away. But he picked the wrong guy. I grabbed a hold of his wrist and dug my thumbnail in between the two bones in his arm.
He hollered out and finally after fifteen or twenty seconds dropped the knife. I kicked it toward the car in the next spot and let go of the guy, hoping he’d run away or drop to the ground to get his knife. But he didn’t, he came at me, clumsy and awkward. We wrestled for a few seconds and the next thing I knew I was behind him, my chest pressed into his back. It obviously had been months since he had washed. The stench of dirty hair and body odor was overpowering. It was his strongest means of defense. I grabbed his arms to keep him from gaining an offensive position, so he compensated by arching his back and smacking the back of his head into my face. I saw stars.
His hat had fallen off at some point in our scuffle and his scarf hung loosely around his neck. He bent forward again in a move I read as him preparing to lurch back again. I hooked my arm around his neck and pulled him back. His long hair was a greasy, matted mess against his head. I tried holding my breath because his head was right in my face, but I hadn’t had this much exercise in years and I couldn’t hold it. I had to breathe only through my mouth.
Memories of sparring with my older brother washed over me. I could remember him putting me into a headlock and yelling out, “Sleeper Hold!” I stood there with my arm tight around his neck and his arms flailing. Probably a minute went by but it seemed much longer. His body went stiff and then fell limp. I eased my hold to make sure he wasn’t faking, like I used to with my brother. I let him fall to the ground. Paper stuck out of one of his hands, still curled in a fist. It was the money I gave him. I took it back and got in the car. I shifted into drive before it occurred to me that he was in my way. If I pulled out then, I would have run him over.
I hopped back out and stood over him and then poked at him with my foot. He was out. Fortunately, the guy weighed less than a buck and a half. I was able to drag him by the arms across the parking lot away from my car.
“Curt?” My wife’s voice came from behind me. “What is going on?”
“Get in the car,” I shouted.
She came up next to me and saw that the lump at my feet that appeared to be a human body was indeed just that.
She started shaking her hands by her face. “Is he dead?”
I was pretty sure he wasn’t, but I didn’t answer her question. “Please. Just get in the car.” I heard Sylvia open, then close her door.
I was right behind her. As soon as I sat down, she activated the electronic locks.
Before I pulled out and before I told Sylvia what happened, I wanted to see him move. I didn’t want him dead. I couldn’t carry the guilt of killing a man, homeless, or a junkie, or otherwise. The sleeper hold was only supposed to last a few seconds, not be fatal. We sat there waiting. Waiting for him to turn over, or get up, or something. I wanted to leave, but I had to know. Move. Move. Move. For the first time in my life, I was eager to drive in the snow.