I had one simple errand.
That sentence should have been my first warning.
All I needed to do was drive downtown, pick up a package, and come home. According to Google Maps, the entire trip would take twenty-seven minutes. According to reality, I apparently needed provisions, emergency flares, a lawyer, and the emotional resilience of someone negotiating a hostage situation.
I left the house at 10:04am feeling optimistic. By 10:11, I had already called another driver an expired yogurt container.
Traffic was moving nicely until I encountered a man in a beige sedan travelling approximately six kilometres per fiscal year. He wasn’t lost. Lost people look around. This man was staring peacefully ahead as though he had nowhere to be until spring.
I couldn’t pass him because the car beside me had decided my blind spot was a lovely place to establish permanent residency.
Eventually, Beige Sedan turned right.
He did not signal.
Of course he didn’t.
Signals are apparently classified information now.
Three minutes later, I encountered construction.
The road sign said:
ROAD CLOSED
LOCAL TRAFFIC ONLY
I was local traffic.
At least emotionally.
So I continued.
Two blocks later, another barricade appeared.
DETOUR.
I followed the arrow.
The detour took me down a side street, around a school, past the same coffee shop twice, through what I believe was briefly another municipality, and somehow deposited me directly back at the original ROAD CLOSED sign.
I stared at it.
The sign stared back.
“Don’t you start with me.”
Google Maps recalculated.
“Make a U-turn.”
“No.”
“Make a U-turn.”
“I SAID NO.”
“Recalculating.”
The judgment in that woman’s voice was unnecessary.
Eventually, I escaped the construction maze and reached downtown, where I immediately discovered that every parking space had apparently been reserved for someone named “Permit Holder.”
I circled the block.
Nothing.
I circled again.
Still nothing.
On my third lap, I spotted a car pulling out.
A parking space.
My parking space.
The universe had finally apologized.
I turned on my signal and waited.
The driver began backing out.
Slowly.
Very slowly.
Then stopped.
They checked their phone.
I waited.
They adjusted something on the dashboard.
I waited.
They took a drink.
I aged four years.
Finally, they backed out.
Just as I began turning into the space, a tiny hatchback appeared from another dimension and shot directly into it.
I sat there gripping the steering wheel.
The driver got out.
He looked at me.
I looked at him.
He gave me a cheerful little wave.
I now understand why medieval people carried swords.
I continued driving.
Eventually, I found underground parking. The sign said:
MAXIMUM HEIGHT 6’2″
I don’t know why, but every time I enter a parking garage with a height restriction, I instinctively duck.
I was driving a normal-sized car.
My head was not the issue.
I found a spot approximately fourteen kilometres from the elevator and squeezed between two SUVs apparently parked by people who believe painted lines are merely suggestions.
Then came the ticket machine.
“INSERT CARD.”
I inserted my card.
“REMOVE CARD.”
I removed it.
“TRANSACTION CANCELLED.”
I tried again.
“INSERT CARD.”
“That’s what I DID.”
A woman waiting behind me shifted impatiently.
I could feel her judging me.
I tried another card.
“PLEASE WAIT.”
We waited.
Nothing happened.
“PLEASE WAIT.”
“I AM.”
“PLEASE WAIT.”
“I HAVE BEEN.”
The woman behind me quietly moved to another machine.
Betrayal.
Finally, the machine accepted payment and printed a ticket.
I reached for it.
The wind blew it under my car.
Naturally.
So there I was, on my hands and knees in a parking garage, reaching beneath my vehicle while whispering words that would have caused my grandmother to materialize purely to wash my mouth out with soap.
I retrieved the ticket and entered the building.
The package pickup took forty-three seconds.
Forty. Three. Seconds.
I returned to the garage feeling victorious.
Then I couldn’t find my car.
I knew roughly where I’d parked.
Level P3.
Or P2.
Possibly P4.
There had definitely been a concrete pillar.
Excellent clue.
After wandering around pressing my key fob like someone attempting to communicate with dolphins, I finally heard a distant:
BEEP BEEP.
“My baby!”
I followed the sound.
Wrong car.
Someone else’s vehicle had unlocked.
I immediately walked away before its owner appeared and I had to explain why I was emotionally reunited with their Honda.
Eventually, I found my actual car.
Now I just needed to leave.
Simple.
I followed the EXIT signs.
EXIT →
EXIT →
EXIT →
Then:
EXIT ←
Then:
EXIT ↑
“What do you mean UP?”
At some point, I passed the same blue SUV three times.
The third time, its driver and I made eye contact.
We both knew.
Neither of us was getting out.
We lived here now.
We would eventually form a small underground society. There would be elections. Someone would establish agriculture near the payment kiosk.
Finally, daylight appeared.
I could have cried.
I approached the gate, inserted my ticket, and waited.
The machine displayed:
PAYMENT REQUIRED.
“No.”
PAYMENT REQUIRED.
“I ALREADY PAID.”
PAYMENT REQUIRED.
“I HAVE THE RECEIPT.”
The machine remained unmoved by my evidence.
A line of cars began forming behind me.
Someone honked.
That was a mistake.
I turned around in my seat and stared through the rear window with the expression of a woman who had been through things.
The honking stopped.
Eventually, an attendant opened the gate manually.
Freedom.
Beautiful, glorious freedom.
I drove home determined to avoid every major road, construction zone, parking garage, beige sedan, and human being.
Google Maps announced:
“Your destination is on the right.”
I pulled into my driveway at 12:37 p.m.
My twenty-seven-minute errand had taken two and a half hours.
I carried the package inside, dropped it onto the kitchen counter, and looked at the shipping label.
Then I noticed something.
The package wasn’t mine.
I had picked up someone else’s.
I stood there silently for several seconds.
Then Google Maps, still connected to the car outside, faintly announced:
“Ready to navigate.”
“No.”
Absolutely not.
Whatever was in that box belonged to me now.
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