Late night doorbell. My eldest on the couch watching tv, her sister next to her asleep.
“What the …?”
I flip the porch light and peer through the peep hole.
White guy. Bone white. In a field jacket, knit cap pulled low.
“Take your sister and go upstairs,” I say to the 9-year old.
For a second, dueling thoughts as I look at him again; turning his head from left to right. Thursday evening, quiet, never seen him before.
The Marine in me. Twenty years ago.
But a conscious hesitation — the 37-year old single father isn’t so sure.
That jarhead ego seldom capitulates. I unlock the deadbolt, open the door.
“Yeah, what’s up?”
Maybe I shouldn’t have opened it.
Sunken cheeks. Dark eyes dilated under the porch light. Jagged teeth. Crackhead. No, meth.
“Why you keep parking in my Spot?” he says.
What? That’s what you’re here for?
“Hey, sorry man. Someone was in the other spot so I just parked there.”
“So you parked in my Spot?”
“Yeah, I got a spot right here but I don’t like parking under the tree – pigeon shit and all.” Why am I telling him this?
“So you park in my Spot?”
“I figured you’d put a note on my car if it was a problem, or something.”
I don’t think he even owns a car.
“No, you keep parking in my Spot so I wanted to come talk to you in person.”
“Hey sorry, I didn’t know you were using that spot.”
I’d seen the police over there a few months ago, but not him.
“You’ve never seen me drive that silver Land Rover?”
No. No I sure as hell haven’t.
“No, honestly, I didn’t think anyone was using that spot. That’s why I parked there a couple times.”
Then it stops. His face different. The tension gone.
“Oh,” he pauses. “Well, I can understand. It was an honest mistake.”
What the …?
“Hey, no problem man. I won’t park there anymore.”
“No, go ahead. If you wanna park there sometimes, it’s no problem. But I come home late and I may come knock on your door to move it.”
Think I’ll pass.
“No, no problem. I’ll just find somewhere else.”
“Ok,” he says, his hand out. “My name is Patrick, nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you, Paddy,” I say. We shake.
“Patrick,” he says.
“Sorry, yeah, Patrick. You take it easy now.”
“Yeah, you too.”
I shut the door. Lock it.
“What happened Dad?”
“Nothing. Let’s go to bed.”
About the author:
Raymond Michael Molina is a federal civil service employee in Denver, Colo. He spent three years in the Marine Corps as a communications center operator and member of the All-Marine boxing team. He has a journalism degree from the University of Illinois, Champaign/Urbana.
