#10 Waiters Creepers and Cutters

Ah, parking. That quintessentially American enterprise second only to driving itself. Fully fifty percent of all road rage can be traced directly to the battle-zone of the parking lot. I for one forgo the battle. Call me a parking lot pacifist. I plant my vehicle somewhere on the perimeter of the zone and smile all the way into the store as I watch silent curses and furious hand gestures fly behind tinted driver’s windows. When it comes to being cut off in a parking lot, we are a nation of quite effective mimes.
For parking lot warriors the ultimate goal is to land that perfect slot right next to the front door of the target store. A social anthropologist would tell us that there are essentially four types of combatants: The circlers, the waiters, the cutters and the creepers. Jeepers. The waiters are the worst. They’ll plant themselves in the driving lane of the parking lot and wait for a slot to open up, however remote the chance may be. If they see a couple approaching, cart loaded with kids and pampers and a hundred pounds of assorted whatnot, the waiters will sit there while the harried parents unload all their groceries, put the squirming kids in their respective child seats, drink the last of their smoothies and put away their cart. All the while ignoring that a new parking slot has opened up three cars down. I actually enjoy it when a cutter comes along from the other direction and swoops in to take the long-coveted space.
Oh yeah, cutters. The various dings on the bumpers and fenders of their often decrepit vehicles testifies to the need to keep your distance from same. ‘Nuff said.
Then there are the creepers. They hope something will open up if only they can go slow enough. Apparently, their life demands some form of progress. But the difference between a waiter and a creeper is like the difference between a clam and a snail. They’re both icky balls of jelly as far as I’m concerned. Woe to the person who accidentally finds himself behind a creeper. That illusion of movement traps you, but the lane is still blocked and the time is still wasted.
The circlers, on the other hand, seem to have settled for the roulette wheel of life philosophy. They have a lot of time on there hands—and one presumes—gas in their tank. The most amusing form of circler is the one at your local health club. They circle the parking lot endlessly until a space opens up in the first rank of slots. Ironic, since the purpose of their visit to the club is to exercise.
And, um, isn’t that what walking is?
America, ya gotta love it.