Another Parking Snafu

I’m running late for work again. But I’m still downtown early enough to nab a free parking spot on Government Hill. A parallel space at the top is free, and with no cars behind me, I decide to make an attempt. I’m encouraged by the easy way I slid in last time I parked here, especially because it’s no easy endeavor. The one lane road is quite narrow, of course, and the spots are on the left. Since I’m used to parking on the right, left-side parallel parking is an extra challenge. On my first try with this spot, my sole success was in bestowing a permanent scrape upon the Corolla’s right front bumper.

Today the space is almost mine, but I scrape the cement wall to my left before backing in completely. I try to straighten out and back in again, but a line of three cars forms behind me, and the thought of making them wait does not appeal. St. Thomians are extreme honkers.

This is making me sweat.

I continue the hunt, checking for angle spots on the downside of the hill. All the good ones at the very bottom are taken. But there are still plenty of ridiculous spaces left.

Foreground = Silly Spots.

Background = Legitimate Spots.

Why are these parking spots ridiculous, you ask?

Well, it is simply impossible to properly park in them. They are far too small, for one thing. I drive a Toyota Corolla of modest size and still have trouble fitting within the painted white line. It doesn't help that the angle of the line is strange and unrealistic, like an empty puzzle space with no pieces to fit.

Does the shape look odd to you? Or is it just me?

But by far the worst thing about these spaces is that if you inch ahead so as to not have your rear bumper sticking into the one lane road, you run a serious risk of having your front tire fall off the ledge.

And this, folks, is exactly what happens to me.

My front left tire drops off the ledge and my rear right tire flies up in the air, and there my car balances like a three-thousand pound sea-saw.

My first reaction is, “Of course this would happen to me. It was only a matter of time.”

I look to my left and see a man and a woman watching. The man—young, serious and lean—

already looks like he’s fixin' to help.

I clumsily manage to get out of the car and greet my witnesses.

“Good Morning,” I say, trying to smile, “this is typical for me.”

The woman looks on and offers friendly, concerned remarks.

The young man gets to work examining the situation.

I start trying to call Mike, who is already at work downtown only a couple blocks away. I don’t know what I think he’ll do to help me, but I’m convinced that I need to reach him. He doesn’t answer. Mike always answers.

One of my regulars (large hot chocolate & warm bottle of water) stops by the scene. She saw the whole thing. She's a stateside girl about my age, and is heading to her legal assistant job in the building next to R&J’s. She looks all cute and professional, per usual. I sometimes feel pangs of envy when she comes into the coffee shop for how cute she looks going to her office job. I used to look cute and professional going to my office job rather than my current peasant uniform of a mocha-stained yellow polo.

Luckily, she is very sweet, and offers to help. I’m hesitant to be behind the wheel while trying to get out of this mess, so she drives while the young man and I push on the rear bumper in an attempt to add a counterweight.

My new friends do their best, but the Corolla only slips further over the ledge.

Fortunately, more helpful people approach—two guys and a woman I recognize from the coffee shop.

They strategize on the best way to return my tires to the pavement. It’s decided that I need traction beneath my dangling tire. What we need are rocks and boards. I’m beginning to think I should keep rocks and boards in my trunk for these instances.

I continue trying to call Mike. I think I mentioned during the telling of the Corolla’s last adventure that I am generally of little use when it comes to problem solving with heavy objects. 

Another regular (16oz mocha with whip) who works in the government building nearest to where my car is “parked” comes out of her office and asks if we want to take a look at the old board behind her building. She holds it up for us to see. One of the guys determines that it will work. And they go about stacking the rocks and board underneath the wheel.

We try backing out again, this time with me steering. (I really need to do something besides try, in futile, to call my boyfriend.) Even with three people pressing down on the elevated back bumper, and one pushing from the front, the car still won’t budge.

More rocks are found and shoved under the board and tire. And, as if sent by Providence, four strapping men walk through the permit lot toward where our group is gathered. They are recruited and all four get positioned to push from the front.

I, sitting impotently in the front seat, have finally gotten Mike on the phone by dialing his assistant’s extension. Just when he gets on the line, we’re ready to roll. I take the moment to ask him stupidly,

“Sorry. Did I interrupt you?”

To which one of the most recently acquired men pushing from the front says to me,

“Sweetheart, this is no time to be talking on the phone.” He sounds irritated, and I can’t blame him. At least he did the Caribbean thing and left the sweetheart part in.

“Gotta go. Nevermind.” I say into the phone and hang up.

Four people push down on the back bumper. Four people push up on the front bumper. I gently push on the accelerator. And the Corolla backs up over the ledge and onto the cement once again.

The crowd quickly scatters; I imagine they’re all late. I’m feeling a bit dazed as I exit the car. By the time I get out, most are gone. Only the first man and woman remain.

“Thank you,” I try calling out after the dispersing crowd. “Good karma points to you all…” My voice trails off as I realize they can’t hear me.

“Thanks,” I say to my first two onlookers.

The young man keeps his head down, going over to inspect something- perhaps the ledge or the rocks we used.

“Hey, let me shake your hand,” I say.

He stops and allows me to shake.

“Come into R&J’s and I will by you breakfast, lunch, whatever you want. Thanks so much.”

He blows it off like it’s no big deal that he spent the last 30 minutes helping me out of my silly parking snafu.

I walk toward work feeling a little stunned and very grateful. Twice now, my fellow islanders have gathered together, with little effort on my part other than doing something stupid in the first place, and have saved me with muscle and ingenuity.

Once again, I am, without a doubt, blessed.