At Norse Hall one night, I climbed the stairs, changed into silver stilettos and watched the lesson, looking forward to a nice evening of tango. Near the end of the class, I walked over by the DJ to get ready to make an announcement about workshops on Saturday.
A young man was pointing at me from the doorway, seeming to be directed by the cashier. When he headed towards me I figured he might want info about the workshops. He said in a hushed tone, “You are needed at the front desk.” Thinking it had to do with the flyers or sign up sheet, I headed over to answer whatever question had come up.
The cashier said in a very serious tone, “You’re parked in a loading zone and they’ve called the tow truck so you’d better get out there.” I rushed back to the DJ, asked him to make the announcement, grabbed my coat and purse, did not change out of my 3″ spikes and headed as hurriedly as one can in heels, down the stairs.
At the corner where I’d parked I could see that one of the HUGE Franz Bread trucks had partially turned into their lot and was perilously close to the rear end of my Subaru wagon. “Someone” had not noticed the now clearly apparent yellow line when they parked their car with the plates “A TANGO” in the no-parking zone. Butterflies, knots, and other internal distress signals were rapidly multiplying and competing with a gigantic, yellow iconic symbol of capitalism for my immediate attention.
The first section of a truck that can carry enough pastry to reach the moon and back had made the left turn around the corner, but the middle section was inches (and I mean three or four) from the back of my very vulnerable vehicle that looked like it could be totaled while standing still. My precious Lego-sized car with its set of tinker-toy-appearing wheels was completely blocked by an annoying-how-rude-over-sized car parked in front of it, blocked at the rear by the middle section of the 105 (one hundred and five foot long, the driver pointed out, clearly for my benefit) trailer. I was, um, sandwiched in. By a bread truck. Yeah, yeah, the irony. (I have a picture that shows the truck (close enough to qualify as hugging my dwarfed Subaru) with large white letters that boldly declare “The Good Bread.”
There was absolutely no room to move any direction and each moment became more tense than the preceding one. One of the three less-than-amused drivers finally said, “Call the tow truck and let them get it out.” This indicated that they had not already been called, but the message was of only slight relief. There was no way that a tow truck or even a toy truck could have reached either end of the car and attach anything larger than a paper clip.
Several more anxious minutes passed, then one of the drivers said he would try backing up the behemoth (he actually said “trailer”) So he very very slowly crept backward about six whole inches, the most he could move without crunching the endangered piece of engineering wizardry that was blatantly blocking his entrance. Not even enough for his wheels to make half a rotation.
The lady driver politely offered, “If you give me the keys, I’ll back your car up and drive it out.” “Wow” I thought, “that’s optimism.” But, I figured if she can maneuver one of those giants hither and yon, this would be a snap. (Bad choice of words.)
And she DID! It was amazing watching her skillfully squeeze my car between the Alpha-rig and the car in front of mine which had a prominently protruding trailer hitch, making it even more problematic.
After the Great Escape, she found a place to park my rescued treasure across the street. (That spot had not been available earlier or you wouldn’t be reading this.) I apologized profusely for the inconvenience, lack of observation and…there was no other way to describe it, my absolute stupidity. She said “That’s ok. It happens all the time.” (Perhaps, but not to me, me thought. And it shan’t again.)
I thanked all of them for their understanding and promised to buy Franz forever. They laughed and said that at least they’d made a sale. I told the lady that if there was ever anything I could do for her, I’d be happy to. This was obviously an empty sort of offer, but heartfelt.
I clickety-clacked back down the sidewalk and back up the stairs. By then my stomach was saying, “You’re kidding, right? The only thing “dancing” tonight will be your digestive tract.” I changed shoes and headed back to the car that I had come to appreciate in ways I never dreamed of until a few minutes prior. Almost home, a strange noise erupted from the passenger seat that sounded like a funky radio station. Without knowing what else it might be, I figured I must have accidentally switched the ring tone on my phone. Stranger things have happened…
When I arrived home and lifted my purse, there was a cell phone under it. Whaaaat!? Where did that come from and how did it get there? Oh yeah, there had been another person in the car.
I took the phone inside and pushed the center button which showed that someone had missed a call from “Darren.” I called him back and sure enough it was the other driver. The phone belonged to Michelle, the angel who had moved my car. I whisked back to the scene of the crime. The car that had been parked so nonchalantly in front of me was gone. Naturally. If only… I called “Darren” and he told Michelle I was there. We met in the middle of their lot, I gave her the phone, we expressed mutual gratitude, shook hands, smiled and went on our way. Whew.
Anyone with the reasoning skills of a gnat would…
Look on both sides of one’s car when parking near the entrance of a driveway where trucks come and go from all directions at all hours. And never ever ever tango with a triple trailer. Thanks to the good will and driving skill of the Franz crew, all is well. Except my pride.