by Michael Clark
Sometimes, all that’s left to do is scream. I like to consider myself a pretty calm guy. To push my buttons requires the personal equivalent of nuclear codes, a combination so specific and impossible to discover that I may as well be a patron saint.
Then, I started driving.
Life became harder, and I had a crippling case of road rage. I showed up late to class one day because 35 pedestrians crossed the street all at once without looking. I hit one of them, but they were probably ne. A car tried turning left in one lane trac and had to yield for over half an hour before someone let them make their turn. There are currently 1,200 people at the local Wendy’s as we speak.
Driving drives me crazy.
Alas, the American nightmare perpetuates this routine and puts me behind the wheel again. Its noon, and I technically didn’t oversleep, but it sure feels like it. I haven’t showered yet, so I dunk my head in the sink and consider myself clean. I switch clothes in a matter of seconds and get in the car before I am legally considered conscious. My mom was blind and could drive just ne, I’m sure I can drive on two hours of sleep.
The radio plays the same country song on loop the entire way, I can’t turn it on because the knocking of my car’s engine sounds more like pounding. I like to drown that out. Luke Bryan serenades my twisted soul, tears stream like the cold beer he sings about. I pull into The Parking Garage.
To say I hate The Parking Garage is like saying freezing to death sounds kinda unpleasant: it’s a hell of an understatement. However, parking here makes the trek to class just a bit easier since it’s closer to campus. Ten dollars an hour and a twelve minute walk, but so be it! My single class today with no required attendance beckons me. I have twenty dollars left in my bank account, I can probably afford this.
I take my ticket, tenderly turn into the first floor, and the dance begins. Hundreds of cars, spiraling down deep into the dark depths of The Parking Garage. I follow suit, joining their ranks, assimilating. I have become part of the hivemind. A car pulls out, thousands try to claim their birthright and pull into that empty spot, only one succeeds. The denied drivers’ weeps of frustration sound like the howling of a dying animal piercing into an apathetic sky.
By the third floor, it’s impossible to turn around because twenty five cars ride my tail, and now there’s twenty seven. Now there’s 2,530. Distant honks cry out, but I’m too numb to comprehend such a frequency. I am led deeper into the abyss. My parking spot calls, and soon I will be fortunate.
By the fifth floor, I have lost cell phone service. The radio screams in static. My engine knocks in Morse code to warn me of what’s to come. I can’t turn away. The honks get louder.
By the eighth floor, I am at a complete stop. A man behind me gets out of his car and begins banging on my window, begging me to get out so he can have my car. He offers me ten bucks. A good deal, but Something Unseen drags him o before I can accept the contract.
By the twenty fourth floor, days have passed. I eat Styrofoam from the Chinese takeout boxes in the back of my car, I drink melted ice from months old cups. My car still has a full tank of gas. 999,999,999 miles to empty. Such great gas mileage. The honking is deafening.
By the one hundredth floor, I haven’t felt alive in years. Luke Bryan wails in perfect harmony with the static. My phone wants to tell me that my loved ones miss me. I can’t understand. The engine knocks, I try to answer. Words won’t escape my cracked lips.
By the 300th floor, I wonder if this was ever worthwhile. At this point, my peers have graduated and moved on to have children and a fulfilling career. I am unaware. I am still in The Parking Garage.
On the 672nd floor, a parking spot awaits. I haven’t moved my arms in so long that I break a bone just turning the steering wheel. The thrill of moving in a direction other than forward nearly kills me. The stimulation of seeing a wall in front of me makes me cry. I hit the wall while trying to park, and my car bursts into flames. It doesn’t matter anymore, I open the door and crawl out. It takes minutes.
My legs burn. I have to get to class now. There’s no chance that I could climb a single stair, so I jostle towards the elevator to find that it is out of service. The thick line of cobwebs confirms that I am the first person to touch foot in this place in a long, long time.
With nothing left to do, I collapse. Cars leave me behind as they sink further into the depths of The Parking Garage. I want to stop them, but I can only watch. I am alone. Sometimes, all that’s left to do is to scream. It sounds like the honk of a horn.
Michael Clark is an Oklahoma State University sophomore majoring in strategic communications. Raised in Loco, Oklahoma, he has had two stories published before turning 21. As a fan of avant-garde art, he enjoys blending various genres and ideas together to try and make completely unique stories. In his free time, Michael writes for newspapers and buys useless toys for his cat.