THE PARKING LOT 500

It started like any other trip to the grocery store: me, my car, and a mission for bread and coffee. But then I spotted them. Another car pulling into the lot at the exact same time.

Two vehicles. One lot. Destiny.

I don’t know who threw the first punch — maybe it was when they rolled a little too confidently past the cart return, or maybe when I flicked my blinker with just enough aggression to make a point. But suddenly, the air shifted. We weren’t just parking anymore. We were racing.

The lot became a track. Aisle by aisle, turn by turn, we jockeyed for position. They cut wide past the garden center. I hugged the inside lane like I was trying to slingshot out of Talladega. The stakes were obvious: whoever made the better move here… would own the day.

Shoppers froze mid-cart. One guy dropped a bag of chips and whispered, “It’s happening.” A kid climbed onto the hood of a minivan, chanting “Go! Go! Go!” like it was the Kentucky Derby.

My opponent’s brake lights flashed — a feint? A sign of weakness? I floored it, hitting a blistering 12 miles per hour. The crowd gasped. Somewhere, a car alarm went off as if to punctuate the moment.

They countered hard, weaving past a Prius like it was a stationary cone. I nearly clipped a runaway cart, swerving so tight the groceries in the backseat shifted. Sweat dripped. My knuckles whitened. Somewhere in the distance, I swore I heard a NASCAR commentator yelling, “Boogity, boogity, boogity — let’s go parking, boys!”

We were neck-and-neck now, side by side down the center lane, two middle-aged warriors locked in silent combat. Tires squealed. Hearts pounded. The deli worker lit a cigarette just to steady his nerves.

And then… the final turn. Time slowed. I could see the whites of their eyes. My blinker clicked like a countdown to judgment day. One last push, one final burst of horsepower, and I slid into position like a gladiator claiming the arena.

When the dust settled, when the shopping carts stopped rattling, when the spectators dared to breathe again… I looked up at the sign in front of me.

Handicap Parking.

All that for twenty feet closer to the door.

And now that I’ve got my handicap tag, parking may never be the same.