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So there finally appears to be a sequel to this story.
First, there's a mea culpa. Part of the fun of the last story came from my mistaken belief that the pedestrian door is locked on the inside. It may have been at one point, but not at press time. Which means that it's more than likely that Rosencrantz and Guildenstern simply turned slightly to the right and walked right out the door again as soon as they realized their mistake. Without their car, of course.
Or had they?
Last night, I let myself into the parking garage at 2 A.M. and was a bit surprised to hear elevated voices coming from the second floor, where my car was parked. (Parking garage acoustics.) Not far from my car was a young man, pacing like a tiger and talking animatedly into a cell phone. Frayed baseball cap, cargo shorts, rude T-shirt - you know the drill.
At the sound of my car door slamming, he looked up sharply from his conversation. "Hey! Guy! Hey!" He ran over.
I opened my window one (1) crack (paranoia strikes deep in a darkened parking garage at 2 AM, and this guy was tripping my needles) and said, "Yes?"
"How do I get outta here?"
At that moment, I made a charitable assumption. "Well, you either have to talk with the security desk at One City Center, or call the number on the sign in front of the building to speak with the garage managers."
He looked confused. "No, see, the gate came down while I was in here, and now I need to get out."
I reiterated that I was not the man to help. My Get-Out-Of-Garage Free card was poorly concealed at this point, and I'd be in deep trouble if I either loaned it out or he made a grab for it. If he wanted to get his car out of the garage, he'd have to pay the $76 (a $50 fine plus a full day's ticket; them's the breaks), cash on the nail, and I couldn't help him. I've had people try to panhandle their way out of that garage at me before, and I don't know a stronger word than "no." He had, I said, only to call the number on the front of the building to be liberated. He had a cell phone. It worked. This was not my wheelhouse.
This exchange went back and forth a few times, until he finally said, "Well... 'kay..." and returned to his corner, again dialing his phone. With relief that I hadn't been pressured for assistance I wasn't inclined to give, I drove out of the garage, let myself out with my keycard, and headed off down the road.
I was halfway home, rolling over the conversation in my mind for the obvious "Customers Suck" thread, when I realized that he hadn't actually mentioned a car.
So far I've revealed an awkward prejudice in myself - man walks over asking for an assist, all I can think of is how to extricate myself politely and make my escape. In my half-listening state, I had assumed that he wanted instructions, not directions. On the other hand, he'd been standing under a veritable conga-line of exit signs leading to the building's only unlocked door, fretting at his unjust imprisonment because the most obvious exit was barred. For three hours.
And now that I think about it, he hadn't come pelting after me when he heard the gate open, either. There had been time. That gate makes a racket and takes a while to roll shut.
Suddenly I wondered how long Rosenstern and Guildercrantz had cooled their heels before trying the door. And maybe that homeless guy I'd seen sleeping under the stairwell a few weeks ago wasn't homeless after all. So on my way to work the next day, I asked the man on the security desk how often people were "locked in" at the parking garage.
"All...the damn...time," he grumbled. Sometimes overnight.
I think each time someone gets "locked in," they hang another exit sign. (Might also explain why the door is no longer hot.) That would explain why there are so many. I don't know why. It doesn't seem to be doing any good.
At least this one had a cell phone to play with.
First, there's a mea culpa. Part of the fun of the last story came from my mistaken belief that the pedestrian door is locked on the inside. It may have been at one point, but not at press time. Which means that it's more than likely that Rosencrantz and Guildenstern simply turned slightly to the right and walked right out the door again as soon as they realized their mistake. Without their car, of course.
Or had they?
Last night, I let myself into the parking garage at 2 A.M. and was a bit surprised to hear elevated voices coming from the second floor, where my car was parked. (Parking garage acoustics.) Not far from my car was a young man, pacing like a tiger and talking animatedly into a cell phone. Frayed baseball cap, cargo shorts, rude T-shirt - you know the drill.
At the sound of my car door slamming, he looked up sharply from his conversation. "Hey! Guy! Hey!" He ran over.
I opened my window one (1) crack (paranoia strikes deep in a darkened parking garage at 2 AM, and this guy was tripping my needles) and said, "Yes?"
"How do I get outta here?"
At that moment, I made a charitable assumption. "Well, you either have to talk with the security desk at One City Center, or call the number on the sign in front of the building to speak with the garage managers."
He looked confused. "No, see, the gate came down while I was in here, and now I need to get out."
I reiterated that I was not the man to help. My Get-Out-Of-Garage Free card was poorly concealed at this point, and I'd be in deep trouble if I either loaned it out or he made a grab for it. If he wanted to get his car out of the garage, he'd have to pay the $76 (a $50 fine plus a full day's ticket; them's the breaks), cash on the nail, and I couldn't help him. I've had people try to panhandle their way out of that garage at me before, and I don't know a stronger word than "no." He had, I said, only to call the number on the front of the building to be liberated. He had a cell phone. It worked. This was not my wheelhouse.
This exchange went back and forth a few times, until he finally said, "Well... 'kay..." and returned to his corner, again dialing his phone. With relief that I hadn't been pressured for assistance I wasn't inclined to give, I drove out of the garage, let myself out with my keycard, and headed off down the road.
I was halfway home, rolling over the conversation in my mind for the obvious "Customers Suck" thread, when I realized that he hadn't actually mentioned a car.
So far I've revealed an awkward prejudice in myself - man walks over asking for an assist, all I can think of is how to extricate myself politely and make my escape. In my half-listening state, I had assumed that he wanted instructions, not directions. On the other hand, he'd been standing under a veritable conga-line of exit signs leading to the building's only unlocked door, fretting at his unjust imprisonment because the most obvious exit was barred. For three hours.
And now that I think about it, he hadn't come pelting after me when he heard the gate open, either. There had been time. That gate makes a racket and takes a while to roll shut.
Suddenly I wondered how long Rosenstern and Guildercrantz had cooled their heels before trying the door. And maybe that homeless guy I'd seen sleeping under the stairwell a few weeks ago wasn't homeless after all. So on my way to work the next day, I asked the man on the security desk how often people were "locked in" at the parking garage.
"All...the damn...time," he grumbled. Sometimes overnight.
I think each time someone gets "locked in," they hang another exit sign. (Might also explain why the door is no longer hot.) That would explain why there are so many. I don't know why. It doesn't seem to be doing any good.
At least this one had a cell phone to play with.
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