Slurry

Posted on July 28, 2005 in Neighborhood

Every few years asphalt needs a coating of oil to keep it from turning into friable rock. The association chose this year to call a resurfacing company to do the job. When I left the condo to drive to another tutoring session, I noticed fresh green and red paint in appropriate spots along our street. The green paint was new: it designated the area in front of the garages as temporary parking areas. The red — restricted to the corners and to firelanes — prohibited any parking at all. It was about time. Until now, it was a matter of guesswork as to where you could and couldn’t park.

The night before I’d come home to find every extra parking space in our area taken. After circling about aimlessly for twenty minutes or so, I went to a detached part of the development and quickly found a space. I went straight to this place and discovered that it had been slurried — meaning that they’d towed my truck to God-Knows-Where.

I was mortified. There were two men painting curbs and white lines designating parking spaces. I approached one of them. I’d been stupid, I said. My truck had been towed. Did he happen to know the name of the impound lot where it had gone? The young man told me that his company didn’t do that, that they moved the vehicles somewhere not far away. I asked to talk to his boss. He pointed out a scruffy fellow who looked like he’d managed to do both Vietnam and the Summer of Love. The boss told me pretty much the same story. I thanked him — they had both been polite — and set about looking for my truck. They didn’t know exactly where I could look for it — that was another crew.

I walked and walked around the complex. Now and then I spotted a green pickup. It never was mine. The midafternoon heat slashed through me from the sun and also abraded my feet as it rose again from the asphalt. My legs began to ache: it felt as if the muscle and the bone had dissolved and flowed out, leaving a hard exoskeleton of skin to support me.

After calling Lynn in a mild panic, I found the first painter again and asked him the phone number of the company. “What time is it?” he asked. I pulled out my cell phone and told him that it was twenty minutes to four. “Good,” he said. “They’ll still be there. The number’s on the side of the truck. 714 area code.” So it was.

I called and a young woman answered. She listened and asked a few questions as I kept walking, kept searching for my wheels. Had I parked in tow-away zone? No. (I guess she asked it because it had happened before.) I glanced up and there was another green pickup. I could not read the label on the side, but it looked like mine. “Hold on,” I said. “I think I see it.” I narrated my progress towards the truck. It seemed right. Right color, right configuration. Was it a Nissan Frontier? Yes. When I got up to it, I glanced in the cab and saw all my familiar junk. “I found it,” I told the receptionist. “Wouldn’t you know it. Call someone to get help fixing a problem and it fixes itself.” I told her to tell her boss that the painters had been very kind, said goodbye, and drove off.