The Little Old Lady

I had errands to run in Santa Monica and was pleased to find parking available on a meter on a narrow side street. My errands were done in good time, but while I was about them I had received a couple of texts which needed attention, and as soon as I returned to my car, I threw my bags into the back seat and started to climb into the front to address them.

Photo by Marcel Strauß on Unsplash

As I did so, a car drew up beside me and began to hover hopefully. I shook my head with an apologetic shrug in the universal parked car sign language of, “Sorry, I’m not leaving yet,” and continued into my seat. The car continued to wait. Well, it could wait, I thought, until it figured it out for itself, and turned my mind to my texts.

Soon, I began to hear the honking of a horn, at first polite, and then impatient. For a while, I attempted to ignore it. There is a particular etiquette to parking in automobile-choked Los Angeles. At the Farmers Market on Sundays, where parking in the lumber yard lot next door is free but stalls limited in number, we regard it as only considerate to vacate our space as soon as we have loaded in our fruits and flowers; but here on the public street, I had officially paid the city of Santa Monica $2.50 of money earned by the honest sweat of my brow for two hours of parking time, of which there remained 43 minutes left to me, and which I regarded it my full civic right to enjoy. If the other car didn’t understand that, I thought, it was the problem of the other car.

The honking continued, and I turned to look more closely at the waiting vehicle. It was big and expensive, gleaming white and shiny new, occupied, I guessed, by a sleek business executive endowed with a fat bank account and a battalion of minions back in his nineteenth floor office to scurry to do his bidding. I, however, was not his minion and had business of my own to attend to.

The honking went on. And on. And on.

At last I had had enough. I arranged my features into their most aggressive scowl, climbed out of my car, slammed the door, and went to confront the noise polluter.

Peering up at me through the window of the big white car was a little old lady directly from a fairy tale. A silver halo of fuzzy hair framed an innocent small wrinkled face from which enormous blue eyes blinked innocently; the delicate hands on the steering wheel were as fragile as aspen leaves. My aggression quickly faded as my heart began to melt.

“I’m not the one who’s honking, dear,” she whispered sweetly. “That’s the car behind me.”

I looked past her. There was indeed another car on the street, a smaller and more battered black car in which a harried-looking middle-aged man had paused his honking in a silent howl of frustration. Which, on closer inspection, it occurred to me that he had every reason to feel, since the little old lady’s very large car was occupying the whole of the narrow street, rendering it impassable.

“I think he wants to get past you,” I said kindly.

“I know he does, dear,” she said. And twinkled merrily at me. “But you see, I’m waiting for you to leave.”

“Well,” I said. “I’m afraid I’m not leaving for a while.”

Her twinkle faded slightly as her brow furrowed in confusion.

“Not leaving?” she repeated uncertainly.

“I’m afraid not,” I told her. “I have some texts to send first.”

“Texts?” Her brow furrowed further, and my heart turned further to goo: it was a very long time since I had been required to explain technology to someone less savvy in it than myself.

“You know texts?” I said. “Messages people write on their phones? Some people have been sending them to me, and I have to write back to them before I can leave.”

“Oh,” she said thoughtfully, and momentarily looked pensive. Then her face cleared.

“That’s all right, dear,” she said then. “I can wait.”

Except that she couldn’t really.

“You know, I don’t think that’s a good idea,’ I said. “You’re blocking the guy behind you and he sounds like he really wants to get through.”

The little old lady smiled, showing regular small teeth as pretty as pearls.

“I’m fine, dear,” she reassured me. She gestured her little ringed hand towards the car radio from which floated the soothing strains of Debussy’s Clair de Lune. “I’m always happy when I have my music.”

“But the person behind you,” I began. Then noticed that behind the black car was a blue car and behind the blue car was a beige. “The people behind you,” I corrected myself. “None of them can get past you, you see, because you’re holding them all up.”

The old lady twinkled again.

“Oh, I think they can wait, dear, don’t you?” she said. “People these days are in too much of a hurry, don’t you think?”

She sat back contentedly in her seat, and my heart began to unmelt.

“There’s usually more parking on the next block,” I suggested.

She shook her pretty little silver head.

“That’s too far for me to walk, dear,” she said. “I have a hospital appointment just around the corner, you see.” She twinkled up at me, encouragingly. “Don’t worry, there’s nothing wrong me with at all, but my son will insist I have check-ups. He does take wonderful care of me, dear boy.”

I was familiar with the hospital she was about to visit: its parking lot was small and crowded, but, like most hospitals in the area, it offered a valet parking service.

“The hospital does valet parking,” I said.

The little old lady tinkled merrily,

“Oh, heavens no, dear,” she chuckled. “I’m not going to spend my money on silly old valet parking!”

I do not claim to be an expert on personal wealth assessment; but even I could see that the rocks that glittered from her pretty little ears could have bought and sold both me and all three car drivers behind her several times over before we’d any of us sat down to our separate Trader Joe’s Very Berry granola breakfasts.

The little old lady leaned forward confidentially through her window.

“Besides,” she added, “I never feel I can quite trust those valet parkers with my car, if you know what I mean. You never know where they’ve come from.” Tenderly, she leaned down her hand to caress the car’s shining white exterior. “Isn’t it pretty?” she said. “My son gave it to me for my birthday, just this very month. Would you believe I turned 85? I still feel like a girl!”

As the beige car joined its honks to those of the blue car and the black car, I began to wonder if when the little old lady had been small, anyone had ever thought to spank her on her dear little bottom.

The little old lady sat back again in her seat and nodded at me.

“Don’t you worry about me, dear,” she said. “I’ll just sit and listen to my music and wait for you. I’m fine if I have my music, you see.”

The man in the battered black car was now gazing at me with an expression of open pleading.

“I might be quite a long time,” I said. “I have these texts to deal with.”

“I can wait, dear,” she said. “I have my music, and I’m really not in a rush.” She dimpled again, roguishly. “Doctors always tell you to arrive on time, but my Doctor D. has a little soft spot for me, so he won’t mind too much if I’m late. And now that you know I’m waiting, I’m sure you’ll be able to hurry up with sending your textbooks, won’t you?”

The man in the black car lifted meaty hands from his steering wheel and clasped them towards me in entreaty. It was time, clearly, to impose some discipline.

I turned to the little old lady, folded my arms, and spoke slowly and clearly.

“I am not,” I said, “going to hurry with my texts.”

At last I had caught her attention.

“Not?” she echoed doubtfully, her voice quavering just a little in surprise.

“Not,” I corroborated. “They are concerning a particularly serious matter, and I intend to give them the full attention that is their due.”

And having given appropriate weight to the question of whether I planned to meet Candy and Vanessa that afternoon at the coffee place at 3.00 or at the chocolate place at 3.30, I decided to leave no further margin for misinterpretation.

“And after I’ve finished with the texts,” I continued, “I’m going to get out of my car and put more money into the meter. And after that, I’m going to go away and have lunch.”

“Lunch?” the little old lady managed after a moment. I had a feeling that lunch in her world was not a hurried event.

“Lunch,” I confirmed. And lest there remain any confusion, “Appetizer. Main course. Dessert. And coffee afterwards.”

Now, I had hurt the little old lady’s feelings. Her silver curls shivered as she stared up at me piteously. Her pretty little lower lip trembled, and moisture glimmered behind the azure of her enormous eyes. With one searingly reproachful look, she closed her window, shifted her big, expensive white car into drive, and led her dear little self safely away from the stonehearted harpy in the dusty blue Prius.

I was pretty popular with the cars behind her, though.