Love Song of the Buzzard

There are few things at this point in my little life that intimidate me more than the parking lot at LAX. To abandon your car in the swallows of the lot for a long term amount of time requires a drop-off at Lot C, an endless abyss of slots that stretches on for miles upon miles. From there, you take two shuttles to the flight terminal, check in, finagle through the wearisome process of airport security, and board your plane.

It all seems simple enough, unless you’re like me: exceedingly paranoid about forgetting where you left your car. My only precaution against such an oversight is to write the parking space down in three different locations, and then repeat the space as a mantra until I am positive it is tattooed in my memory. Lot C – C18, Lot C – C18, Lot C-C18, Lot C-C18.

This chant was repeated throughout my entire Thanksgiving break, always in the background of my mind as I flew 3,000 miles home to greet my family and carried on with the rest of my vacation. Thankfully, it stuck, as I was able to retrieve my car several days later from Lot C, space C-18.

But as I drove out of the lot, I was forced to confront my fears when I saw a family of four whose car had obviously been misplaced. The parents were screaming at each other, using their hands as visors as they looked in opposite directions, and the two young daughters were trailing behind, struggling with their rolling suitcases under the beams of the afternoon sun. My heart went out to them, it really did, and I even considered for a split second offering my services in their search.

I wonder now how long it took them to recover their car and if maybe they’re still trailing through Lot C, trudging up and down the labyrinthine (a nice word) aisles, screaming at each other.