If there’s one thing I love about LA, it’s parking. Not the weather or the sunshine or the politics, which are all great and lack flaws, nor the wealth that other people have or that I have, which is quite a lot. More than other people have in other cities, and more than any of my friends have at their lesser jobs in lesser (not creative) fields.
No. The incredible amount of money I make causes people to treat me very differently once they find out how much it is, because they are intimidated and oftentimes shy about my financial situation and my big house– indignant at the way I have created enough wealth to go from new money to old money in one generation. You read me correctly, that’s enough wealth to provide not just for my parents, but for my parents when they were children, and my parents’ parents when THEY were children, and even my great-grandparents when they were children. This has created an odd dynamic between my great-grandparents and my great-great-grandparents, who are now subject to the whims of the new lords of the house, their children aged 4 and 6. To be honest, I have no idea who my great-great-grandparents are. With that, comes immigrant guilt.
Sorry, I don’t want to start talking about my immense wealth. What I want to talk about is parking. I love to park. I love to sidle up next to another car and turn my steering wheel all the way to the right and slip in behind them. Now at a 45 degree angle, pointing out towards the street. When I do this, I have no fear. I love when I do this and the car in front of me gets so wet and sticky- waiting for me to then turn my wheel all the way to the left and slide further behind. I do that, and notice the car in front of me is, in fact, being covered with oil. I pay it no mind. I back up into a spot and see the car in front of me is owned by a rival oil baron, my next door neighbor, who hates when I play my music loudly in my house because I have better taste than he does and it makes him feel bad about his lack of culture. To live in LA and lack culture, I couldn’t imagine it. I have culture. So much that it overflows and leaks all over my fancy house and my stacks of $100 (One hundred) dollar bills. Leaking, like the oil is leaking all over his car and getting under my tires. My neighbor, I can’t remember his name because every time he’s tried to tell me I’ve played my music louder, angry because his wife is incredibly beautiful and no woman will touch me, because of the scars. No, despite the scars.
He looks at me with glee and smokes a cigarette. Unfortunately he looks cool, so cool, too cool, and when he flicks the cigarette into the spill– that at this point is leaking from the ceiling and dripping onto my face– the whole car goes up into flames. His car explodes, knocking him backwards into oncoming traffic and getting him hit by a car driven by a 13 year old Soundcloud rapper. The car is a Maserati, (I don’t even know what that car brand is, I just read the name, I’m too rich to drive any car currently on the market or that exists as a memory in anyone else’s head,) and when that happens, when he dies, I am sad.
I am trapped in the car. Soon it will explode and I know I will meet the same fate as he has. When I die, at least I will know I parked perfectly behind him. He was probably so fucking mad about that. He’ll never be who I am. He’ll never have as much money as I do. Probably because he’s dead. When I’m dead, in a few seconds, I’m going to be so much better at being dead than he is. Wait, how do I pay for the meter when I’m dead. I’ll probably be here for way more than two hours. God fuck dammit I better not get towed. This spot means everything to me.
