full-service garage

Monday, mar. 19, 2001   |   0 comments

In my old apartment, my window was right above a really hot hooker spot — my garage — so I’d overhear stuff like, “Do you want to fuck here, or over there?” as I was drifting off to sleep at night. And whenever I pulled into the driveway, the night-lady, who’d be standing there blocking my way, would always think I was there not to park my car but to enter her “private garage”. I’d have to show her my clicker, point at the door rolling up behind her, smile and shake my head, and mouth, “No thank you, no thank you!” before she’d move out of the way. My friends would always complain what a nightmare it was trying to park in my neighborhood — not because there were no spaces (though that was a big problem, too), but because looking for parking is so similar to looking for a date: the same slow circling of the block, the same neck craning over the steering wheel. Whoops!