At the Parking Lot
O L D P E O P L E need to feel like they contribute to society. It gives them purpose. And helping her in this situation would deny that. I’ll get out and load her car and she’ll pretend like she’s grateful, maybe give me a dollar. But really she’ll feel all worthless. She’ll drive all the way home thinking about it and the depression will settle. She’ll stop shopping and eating. She’ll run out of vitamins. Her family will try to help and buy her those geriatric milk shakes, the ones in the baby food aisle. But she won’t drink them. She’ll probably hang on through Christmas. Then one afternoon, slouched in her chair watching Matlock, she’ll die. Before he has a chance to work that courtroom magic and solve the case, she’ll just check out. And it’ll be my fault. Because society says I have to help old ladies with their groceries, a nice little granny is stinking up her living room and no one is there to feed the cat. I don’t want to kill anybody. I don’t want to be cruel to animals. I just want to park. I just want to go interview for a job. But if she doesn’t get that pallet toilet paper off her shoulder soon she could die right here. Then I’ll never get this parking spot.
The turn signal is clacking.
I sit a little longer. ...
Brian W. Wood
