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Show . 'V -.- ' s "' J jfT W -J jr Imm- . m ill Hi -ly 1 f 1 "LLL"1 V ( im8cn)9CDnn(BM Wflnisrtfle by David Fleisher Leaving a car unattended can be a risky business My plane touched down at Salt Lake International airport at 8 p.m. It had been a long flight from Atlanta, and I was ready to race up the canyon to Park City and settle slowly into a mixed drink. It had taken nearly four hours to get to Salt Lake and I was already beginning to feel the effects of jet lag. I went to the baggage claim area and picked up my luggage, then proceeded to go to my car which I had parked in the airport parking lot ten days earlier. I parked in the "long term" parking section. Since I had parked the car at six o'clock in the morning to meet a 7 a.m. flight to Atlanta, I couldn't remember the exact spot where I parked, yet I had a fairly good idea of the general vicinity. I walked across the "short term" parking section, closest to the terminal, ter-minal, carrying a hanging clothes bag and a suitcase, both heavy. Ten days ago, I remembered having to walk over a rope. I parked in a section where work was being done on the pavement. I think they were painting parking spaces, but it was six in the morning and I was half asleep and didn't pay much attention to it. But I definitely remember hurdling over this rope, an important clue to finding my car. I walked through "short term" in a matter of minutes. I passed several cars but since none of them belonged to me, I continued walking. How could one of them belong to me anyway? I'm in "long term" parking. I didn't expect to locate my car so quickly. I left "short term" and began to walk faster towards "long term." I had visions of little Pina Coladas floating around in my head. Park City was only a half an hour away, and then I could see friends and relax. The "long term" section is fairly large and the spaces are divided alphabetically. I had parked in "J." Or was it "P?" Of course it could have been "Q." Okay, so I didn't write the letter down, but it was six in the morning. mor-ning. I arrived at section "J," looked around and didn't see my car. And then I went to "P" and to "Q." I placed my bags down on the pavement, faced the terminal building which appeared to be about a half a mile away, and made a statement: "Could someone please tell me where my car is?" Since there was no one standing in the immediate im-mediate vicinity, I got no answer. Suddenly, Sud-denly, it dawned on me that I hadn't seen the rope. Where was the rope that I hurdled ten days ago? I picked up my bags and decided to go to a completely different section of the "long term" parking area. I figured tlje rope must be over there. The bags were beginning to feel heavier and heavier; in fact, my left shoulder was now four or five inches lower than my right shoulder. I could see a rope in the distance. Good, my car's over there. I'll just go over the rope, throw my bags in the car and get out of this place. Pina Coladas were still dancing in my head. I finally arrived at the roped-off area. There was not one car parked there. "My car has to be here!" I said aloud to myself. "This is where I parked it!" As I put my bags down on the pavement, I tried to control myself. I looked at my watch and saw it was , 8:45. I had been schlepping the bags around the parking lot for over a half an hour, looking for a car that I don't even like! I've been wanting to get rid of my car for weeks. I again faced the terminal building and said aloud, "Could someone please tell me where my car is?" I left the bags on the pavement and walked around the roped-off area. I was sure I parked it here. I couldn't accept the fact that it wasn't where I parked it, and it was right here! I went over this rope! I mean, how many ropes can there be in an airport parking lot? By the time I returned to the terminal ter-minal building to inquire about my car, it was past nine. My left shoulder felt like alfalfa sprouts. I was in pain, I was sweating, I had to use the bathroom, my glasses were fogged ovw and I ws talking to mvself and getting strange stares from people. And I still had no Pina Colada, not to mention my car. "This is a little embarrassing," I said to an airport official, "but I can't find my car in the parking lot." "I'll call security," he said. "Give me your license number and a description descrip-tion of the car." He picked up the phone and gave security the information on my car. After a few moments, the official said to the person on the other end of the line, "Yeah. Yeah. Yeah." If this guy says, yeah, one more time I'm going to buy him a one-way ticket to Iceland, I thought to myself. The man finally hung up, looked at me and said matter-of-factly, "Your car has been relocated." I looked at a complete stranger standing next to me and said, "My car's been relocated." The stranger looked at me and said, "Yeah?" Yeah, I said. The airport official told me my car had been relocated because it was parked in area where "improvements" "improve-ments" were being made, and they didn't want it to get hit by flying debris. I looked at the stranger. "They moved my car while I was in Atlanta because they didn't want it to get hit by flying debris." " Yeah? " the stranger said. "Yeah," I said. I learned that my car was now parked in section "TT," which was located at the far end of the parking lot. By the time I got to my car, I felt like it had been relocated to Wyoming. It was sitting in a dark, dirty area along with several other cars. There were little bushes growing in the area. There was no pavement, just dirt. I expected a cow to walk past any moment. I paid the twenty-five dollar parking fee, and headed for Park City. I considered con-sidered filing a complaint, but decided against it. They might get angry and retaliate by relocating my car to Mexico. As I walk up Main Street I hear the Ten O'clock Whistle. |
