I stood locked in a steely-eyed gaze with my roommate. The tension was as thick as Everglades fog, and I felt that everything -- our friendship, our happy arrangement as roommates for the next nine months -- was about to disappear. Regardless, I had to right the injustice that I believed was occurring at the kitchen table in 505 Bice. This was not about friendship, it was about parking.
"You have too been groped in public!" I accused through clenched teeth. For lack of a better solution, my roommate and I had agreed to play "Never Have I Ever" (the sleazy man's Paper, Rock, Scissors) to determine who would get the coveted S3 permit for the Bice lot. The person who went out first lost the parking spot, and, seeing as how I was being thoroughly housed by a score of six to three, I was not about to let a certain instance I had witnessed at a frat party first year go unmentioned.
We had already disqualified our other apartment-mate with a car from the competition on the basis that she and her roommate had a plush, amply sized room while my roommate and I share a room that can be best described as an architect's idea of a practical joke. Sure, there is a silver lining to the black cloud that is our room: If her alarm goes off, I don't even have to tell her to turn it off. From my bed, I can both turn off the alarm and shake her awake. Our room also helps us relive our middle school days in that we sleep so close together, it feels like we are constantly having a slumber party.
It isn't all roses, however. We've had to make a lot of tough choices in our room, such as whether we want to shut the door or have access to our clothes in the drawers below our beds. But even that decision was no match for our parking predicament. We both realized the inevitability of the situation. One of us would be parking a mere 20-odd feet away, and the other, exiled to the dank confines of the Ivy Parking Garage. So my roommate, equally determined to stake her claim to the parking space, rolled her eyes and calmly defended herself.
"That doesn't count," she said. "It was on the dance floor, and he sneak attacked me and got me in a booty vault. I couldn't escape."
"Well," I said, outraged. "If that doesn't count, then neither does mine."
I held steadfast to this indignant attitude until someone pointed out that my incident in question happened just the other night and was clearly not a dance floor assault. Oops.
Though I made a valiant comeback that night (who would've thought that never hooking up in my parents' house would ever have any advantage besides avoiding an awkward sex talk from my mom?), it was my roommate who emerged victorious. I was a good sport about it. Well, I was a good sport about it openly. Secretly, I thought about smothering her in her sleep, an act that would not require me leaving my bed.
Nevertheless, there was still hope. Not only did I not have to officially move my car for another couple of days, but it was announced that there was going to be a raffle for the remaining spots in the Bice lot. I should've known from the outset that this raffle would do me no good. I was the kid in grade school who always got her name pulled for "reptile tank cleaner" instead of "line leader" when the teacher "randomly" pulled names for classroom jobs. Needless to say, my name was not picked for one of the parking spots.
My other advantage, not having to move my car for a few more days, actually came back to haunt me. As it turned out, the other unlucky souls in Bice had the same idea as me and decided not to move their cars until the last possible second. This made for a parking logjam that forced me to park illegally. Imagine my delight when I found a $30 parking ticket the next day, tacked mockingly to my windshield. Convinced I was going to outsmart Parking and Transportation, I decided to dash for my keys and move my car to the prime spot I saw was empty. In my rush, I forgot something -- how to turn. I ploughed into a Mustang while attempting my escape from illegal parking and now am the proud owner of a $700 maintenance bill.
At least I got a legal spot after all that, right? Wrong. One of my apartment-mates called and nervously told me, "Yeah, um, Erin, hate to tell you this, but you're still parked illegally." Well, super.
The last leg of my parking adventure came when my roommate and I trekked down to the Parking and Transportation office at 7:30 a.m. We had, of course, waited until literally the last minute to get our permits before ticketing began anew.
When I got to Parking and Transportation, I was struck with the miserable irony that there were absolutely no available parking spots. I parked illegally in front of the building. Did you catch that? There is NO PARKING at the PARKING and Transportation building! I pleaded with the woman at the desk not to send me to the Ivy Parking Garage.
"I'm sorry, hun," she responded. "But you're not on the list."
"I know! I know! And it's all because I was groped in public," I cried. She gave me a sympathetic look, like maybe she knew my pain, and this urged me to continue. "I don't know if I told you this, but I'm from Florida! We're getting hit by a hurricane! Have pity, and give me a better spot!"
She politely declined to do so, and I trudged back out into the freezing drizzle. When I approached my car, a well-meaning man told me I had parked in a no-parking zone. I only wish he was my roommate so I could kick him in my sleep.
Erin Gaetz can be reached at gaetz@cavalierdaily.com
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