No Parking

Sometimes, sometimes I miss living in Provo. (It sounds better if I say I miss living at BYU, doesn't it. Yes. I believe it does). I miss living between walls as thin as tissue paper, (therefore equally as sound-proof) and in stairwells where the smell of every one's dinners would indefinitely collide (sometimes for days) creating a sort of goulash of Lean Cuisines, frozen pizza and Strawberry Poptarts. I miss the feeling of family right outside my window, the grass between apartments our collective playground. I miss the stepping stones. I miss having peanut M&M's thrown at the bay window by the boys in 311 and playing executive billiards, even if I always lost. I miss stealing LoveSacs, sitting in lawn chairs gabbing until the early hours of the morning and making quesadillas for L&L at 1 am. I miss popping screens off of windows. I miss visiting The Shed and taking Spence to Costco to buy roses for whichever girl he was currently trying to woo. (So glad he ended up with Sara!) Mostly, I miss the people; those dear souls who sat beside me on Sundays, below the Periodic Table of the Elements, while we listened to Bishop Ballard's weekly challenges. BOND.

Once, I parked my car in the slot marked 117. It was adjacent to the spot assigned to our apartment and...vacant, which was basically unheard of at that late hour. It was just for the night. I didn't think my new neighbors would mind. It was the first week of school. No mid-terms, projects or papers to pen. I'd move it in the morning when students awoke and both bodies and autos dispersed. I wish I had taken a picture of the outcome of my misdeed: huge block letters made from silver duct tape, a midnight maneuver by my new "neighbors." YOU PARK HERE, it read. A large arrow pointed from my car to the spot labeled 216 where my roommate's car still sweetly slumbered. I pulled the tape from the cinder block wall which separated our complex from the complex behind us* and walked around the corner to the dumpster. I threw that sticky stuff away. It took me about 3 days to get up enough courage to fess up to the sticky situation I had gotten myself into.

The good news: the tenants of 117 became dear friends. (I'll forgive Cody his smelly Costco pot stickers, which permeated the stairwell for days on end). I saw Brady (the duct tape artist) a year ago at a Santa B get-together. He's all grown up and responsible (meaning he always parks where he's supposed to), with a wife and two darling kids. He's an attorney now. And, if I had to, I'd call him up to represent me. Especially if, say, I needed to get out of a really bad parking ticket.


*Speaking of big block letters, the complex directly to the south is called "The Colony." (I could write a whole post about the names of apartment complexes in Provo, but I'll save that for a later date, or for some other blogger who feels prompted to do so). The Colony's sign is painted with reflective paint so you don't run right into the sign (which you would, because it is smack-dab, dead-center, right in the middle of the entrance to the place.) Some geniuses whom I will forever love, scratched the paint off of the "Y" in Colony, so at night the sign reads, "The Colon." Ha! And people think there's nothing to do for fun in Provo!