Traffic Life : Passionate Tales and Exit Strategies
Edited by Stephan Wehner
An Anthology
 
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Parking Structure Three Wes Alderson Something was wrong with the parking structure. It hurt John's eyes when he tried to look directly at it. At first glance, the gray concrete building seemed perfectly or- dinary-a typical square, four level parking structure just outside the Psychology building of U.C.L.A. But on closer examination, it resembled some of the il- lustrations featured in the stupid psychology book his wife Millie showed him. While Millie drove their big, gas guzzling 2002 car, John sat on the passenger side. He picked up the book from the floor of the car and thumbed at the pages. Pictures in the book showed objects whose far side some- how looked closer than their near side-impossible topol- ogy distortions. He shook his head and lay the book down. John squinted through the bug flecked windshield at Parking Structure Three. The top level, the fourth deck of the structure, seemed fuzzy. He needed to visit his op- tometrist again. It was hell getting old. He was fifty two years old and the fringe of hair that remained on his head was graying. John wiped the sweat off his forehead in annoyance- it was a July afternoon. Heat waves shimmered from the pavement. A dry east wind sprang up out of nowhere and ­ 138 ­
  
Wes Alderson 139 blew an assortment of old newspapers and dead oak leaves, skittering and scraping over the blacktop, up against the parking structure. The wind died, releasing its burden. The debris settled in the white flowered bushes growing along the concrete walls of the structure. Millie stopped the car just short of the entrance. John rubbed his hand over his bald head. He shuffled his feet on the car floor in agitation. He cracked his knuck- les loudly and chewed at his grey mustache. 'Well, what are you waiting for? Are you going to drive in there or are you going to sit here at the entrance all evening?' His wife Millie drew in a deep breath and sighed. 'Be patient. I have to wait for the entry arm to rise and let us in. You asked me to drive today. Want to take over now?' John said, 'We're gonna be late for your OCD lecture. Those useless quack psychologists.' Millie put the car in parking gear and sat there. She folded her arms, and turned to glare at John. She shook her gray haired head sadly. 'Not quacks,' she said. 'I'm the one who has to put up with you..' 'Yes-quacks, by God,' John said, 'And I'm not compul- sive. Things just gotta be logical and orderly around me.' John was a Harvard Law graduate. He knew better than everyone else. He distracted himself from his agitation by using one finger to trace triangular patterns on the back of his other hand, connecting the freckles and age spots with nice neat imaginary lines. All the lines formed tidy right triangles, straight out of a Euclidean Geometry text. Millie simply sat there behind the steering wheel waiting. One at a time, several cars pulled in behind them and the drivers began to honk their horns. A real racket. John's fingers began to twitch. He pointed at a hand-drawn sign. 'Look-it says, For Lecture, Living With OCD, push entry button and go to level five. Did you even push the damned button yet?' The whir of Millie's electric window was the only answer. She reached out, pushed the button and the entry arm im- mediately rose to admit the car. John smirked. He sat in his seat grumbling under his breath about logic, com-

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