Parallel Parking

In 2003, I finally got my driver’s license. I was 17 years old, I had a 1992 Honda Civic, and in 2003 three of the four doors still opened.  

It was summer, I’d had my license for two weeks, when I arrived at Rachael’s house in the afternoon.  It was one of those rare beautiful days, sunny, warm, not too hot for pants. In good spirits, I pulled onto the block.  I immediately noticed that the street was particularly parked up. There was exactly one spot available, in between two cars across the street from the house.  It wasn't huge, but it was just right for my Honda. All it took was a little parallel parking skill.

Which I did not have. But I had at least passed the test, so I knew I COULD do it. Maybe. I had plenty of time, and I couldn't see anyone around, so I pulled up alongside the first car and prepared to back up. 

I backed right in the curb.

So I pulled out, and backed up again. Hit the curb at a wide angle.

Frustrated, but not ready to give up, I prepared for another try.  And that’s when I noticed the neighbor standing on his lawn watching me, grinning. 

The neighbor was 16 years old, and his name was Adam.  He thought I was absolutely hilarious. I pointedly ignored him.

I backed into the curb.

“Getting closer!” Adam called out, pumping a fist in the air encouragingly. I did not answer.

I backed ONTO the curb.

“Turn it a little more to the left…no…right….yes….like that…hahaha!” said Adam. 

I prayed to God and asked that if only I could parallel park this car in only one more try I would never ask for help again.

It didn't work. But I couldn't give up at this point.  Especially since Adam had suddenly shut up and gone inside.

Left alone, my panic started to subside.  But only for a minute, because after a minute, Adam came out with a lawn chair, made a show of flopping down into it, and settled himself in to watch my performance. Occasionally he would clap, on every try he would shout directions and make judgments upon  my driving skills.

Somewhere around attempt #11, Adam realized something. His grin vanished, his eyes opened wide, he leaped from his lawn chair and started running straight at me, screaming, “THAT’S MY PORSCHE!!!!!!!!!”

I realized he wasn't running straight at me, but at the car just in front of me, which was, in fact, a Porsche, a fact that I had not noticed in my concentration, and which Adam had not noticed in his wicked glee. Adam was frantically jumping into his car trying to start the engine when I made my final back-up maneuver. I was sort of in—but my back wheel was up on the sidewalk.  I sighed, and was about to try again, when I heard an older male voice.

“Oh no, sweetheart. That’s good enough. Leave it there.”

I stuck my head through the window to see a man holding a dog on a leash, standing and watching.  I heard Adam’s car start. “I can just leave the car like this?” I asked the man.

“I would,” he said.

I sighed, and turned off my engine. Relieved, Adam turned off his car as well.  I grabbed my belongings and bolted into Rachael’s house without looking back.

Despite all the time I spent at Rachael’s house that summer and the summers to come, I never saw Adam again.

UNTIL ONE DAY 8 YEARS LATER I WAS IN A BAR with Rachael and upon walking in, she said, “Oh hey, I know that guy!!” and made a beeline for a guy about our own age sitting at a table with a friend.  I followed her, because I always follow her, and we pulled up some chairs and sat with this guy and his friends.  We were all introduced, the guy’s name was Adam, his friend’s name has been forgotten in the pages of my memory.  Rachael soon became engrossed in conversation with his friend, and I felt obligated to start talking.  I asked him how he knew Rachael.  He told me he’d been her neighbor growing up.  I said that was very nice.

Then I said, “YOUR NAME IS ADAM AND YOU GREW UP AS RACHAEL’S NEIGHBOR????”

At my shouting, Rachael turned around. “What is going on?”

I said, “THIS IS YOUR NEIGHBOR. ADAM.”

She said, “Yeah, so?”

I said nothing.

She said, “AAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”

Adam said, “Uh……what?”

Rachael said, “She tried to parallel park in front of your house once.”

Adam said, “YOU’RE THE GIRL WITH THE BLUE HONDA CIVIC!!!”

I died of shame. 

Year of Firsts: Lock, Stock, and Two Smoking Barrels

Next on the list of Firsts was to learn to shoot a gun.  Until Sunday, I had never touched a gun. In fact, I had never seen a gun in the real world apart from the handguns police officers keep holstered on their belts and the military weaponry carried around by soldiers I’ve run into in other countries. However, since we all know now that exactly NO  ONE is coming for me in the event of the zombie apocalypse, I decided to take matters into my own hands and learn some vital skills that may someday help me survive in the hostile decimated world.

Two kind hearted gun-owning friends and one non-gun-owning-yet-gun-enthusiast friend agreed to assist me in my First.  Since we don’t know if these friends want their names on the internet, we will call them Friend1, Friend2, and Friend3 (the numbers do not indicate order of importance, so please do not write in with complaints).  Sunday morning, filled with trepidation, I put on a white sweatshirt and wrapped a brilliantly pink scarf around my neck to be sure I was not mistaken for a tree, a deer, a duck, or a target board.  Anyone who has been to a shooting range versus the woods on the first day of hunting season probably realizes that this was stupid and pointless. But as we know, the whole point of the First exercise is to tread beyond the line of ignorance drawn where I was born.  

The drive was long, the weather was rainy, and my head was filled with daydreams of getting accidentally shot in the face by a normally mild-mannered gun-owner seized by a fit of insanity, or by myself seized in a fit of total incompetence. When we arrived, Friend1 removed several shotguns from the trunk of the car and handed one to me. Struck with the horror of suddenly for the first time in my life holding an actual, real, un-plastic, un-water-filled gun, I couldn’t figure out how to hold it while also keeping it as far away from me as possible but then not wanting to admit to wanting to keep it as far away as possible so also holding it nonchalantly in a discreet yet totally cool manner.

“Stop holding it like a purse,” instructed Friend1.

I made my best attempt.

We walked into the store.  Immediately on my left was a door covered in photos of men next to large dead creatures. Immediately in front of me were lots of guns. Lots and lots and lots of guns.  Within half  a second I went from a person who had never seen a gun to someone who has seen eight billion guns in very close quarters.  One of them was pink.  One of them was monstrously large and had a notecard on it that read “This is not a real gun.”  It was the most comforting notecard I have ever read, even after the Women’s Studies Notecard Incident of 2003.  

“Hey!” said Friend3, pointing. I looked, and discovered a paper target of a zombie with little red capsules that burst like blood when you hit them. Practical application learning device!

We went to the counter to fill out paperwork. I had to write my driver’s license on a paper stating I was mentally sound and not about to sue anyone and then sign it. Friend1 asked for bullets for the shotguns.

“We don’t have any left,” the employee told him.  “There’s been a real shortage of that type of ammunition since the 2008 election.  Mysterious.  The companies are all still producing it, they keep making it, but where is it going? No one can find it to buy it.  Could be a conspiracy…”

If only I could remember everything he said. He did implicate Obama in the plot to ruin gun owners’ lives.  I was super pleased. What could be a better part of my gun experience than a gun owner spouting conspiracy theories with Obama at the heart of the nefarious cloud of mystery?

Yet, EVEN BETTER was the conversation between a second employee and a customer I caught the tiniest bit of on the way out. The employee was explaining the best way to shoot a groundhog in the garden. 

Oh yeah.

That happened.

When we had collected everything we needed (bullets, clay pigeons, ear protection, eye protection) we headed out into the rain to begin shooting. I am not exactly sure what I expected. It’s not that I didn’t expect what I saw, but I also didn’t not expect it either. In any event, there was no way I was in any danger of being mistaken for a deer, or anything other than a confused liberal who had wandered across the Virginia border.  There was a defined area where shooters stood all  in a line, shooting straight ahead at targets located at various distances. This greatly lessened the chances of getting shot, making my pink scarf unnecessary.  

 Friend1 showed me how to load the shotgun (which life has taught us is also known by some as a "boomstick") and how to load the clay pigeon launcher. Both were of equal difficulty. I learned that pumping the gun causes the useful result of actually moving the bullet into the chamber from which it is fired, and is not, in fact, simply an action used by men in movies to make themselves look really cool while making a dramatic sound.  I learned to brace the gun against my body for the kick back, which turned out to be significantly less than I feared.  I had envisioned myself being knocked over violently into the mud.  While I did feel it, it did not affect my balance or cause me any concern. This was pretty exciting.

But not as exciting as my 8^th or 9^th try at the flying orange discs when I actually shot one in the air.

“Holy shit!” said Friend3. “You hit it!!”

“Did I?” I said, confused.  “I did???”

“Yes…you did,” said Friend3

“THAT’S AMAZING!!”  I got quite excited for myself.

From there we moved over a few yards to shoot a handgun.  I am pretty sure I did manage to hit the paper the target was printed on, which is probably enough accuracy to at least slow down an advancing zombie. Looking three targets over to the right, I saw that instead of the traditional circular target someone had affixed a sketch of what appeared to be a zombie Osama Bin Laden.  At least, we are assuming it was supposed to be specifically Bin Laden.

After we had all shot many rounds into an unsuspecting paper, a voice on a microphone explained that everyone should finish their round, cease shooting, and when everyone had ceased, a red late came on over each station and everyone was safe to inspect or change their targets.  During this time, Friend1 suggested I take a little walk down the line to see the guns being used by others.  I wandered off, hands in my pockets, trying to look natural, and hide my total horror and terror at the sight of some of the weaponry others so very near me were using for their target practice.

After 1.5 hours I needed to head back to the safety of the North, so we packed up and drove out into the continual rain. Verdict? I still don’t believe people should be keeping the types of weaponry so many Americans keep in their homes. That shit’s ridiculous.  What we need in this country are high powered taser guns.  I say let every American home have one or ten of those.  Taser the crap out of intruders and the children and neighbors you mistake for intruders.  Enough to knock them unconscious for a good ten hours. I can totally get behind that.  However, I do now see the appeal of sport shooting in places like gun ranges and I also believe in hunters being able to have certain types of guns for hunting purposes.

Anyway, now I know how to shoot a gun (or some kinds of guns) should the apocalypse come.  Take that, ExBoyfriend1. I may survive for 24 hours after all. Provided someone happens to drop a shotgun immediately in my vicinity along with the proper ammunition. And I have at least an hour between each set of 3 zombies in which to load new ammo. Whatever. I’m working on it.