Part 2The Price of a Parking Place

Conventional methods had failed. I'm not one to escalate conflict, but I had been backed into a corner.

That Friday, instead of going straight home, I drove to an auto parts store. The cold, heavy metal of a parking lock felt like a weapon in my hand. "This one," I told the clerk. "The strongest you have. Can you install it tomorrow?"

"Sure, Saturday's fine. But you have to make sure the spot is empty. We can't drill if there's a car there," the installer warned.

"It will be," I said through gritted teeth.

To make absolutely sure, at 11 PM on Friday night, I sent a message to our department's group chat, which had over three hundred people in it.

Friendly Reminder: Spot B-07 is a private spot. I have scheduled a technician to install a parking lock tomorrow morning. To the colleague currently using the spot, please move your vehicle as soon as possible to avoid disrupting the installation. Thank you.

I even tagged Leo specifically. I felt I had done everything I possibly could, covering all my bases. That night, for the first time in weeks, I slept soundly, dreaming of the satisfying clank of the lock rising, barring all trespassers.

On Saturday morning, I arrived at the garage half an hour early, buzzing with the thrill of reclaiming my territory. But as I rounded the concrete pillar and my spot came into view, my excitement was doused with a bucket of ice water.

The white SUV was still there. Parked as smugly as ever. It was so perfectly centered that you couldn't have fit a piece of paper under the tires, let alone drill into the concrete.

Blood rushed to my head. I pulled out my phone and dialed Leo's number. It rang for a long time before he finally answered, his voice thick with sleep. "Hello? Who is this?"

"It's me. Jenna." My voice was tight with anger. "I notified the group last night that I'm having a lock installed today. Why haven't you moved your car?"

A chuckle came from the other end, laced with annoyance and mockery. "Jenna, are you serious? You're calling me on a weekend for this stupid crap? I was out drinking with friends last night, got home late. I'm still in bed. How am I supposed to move it?"

His words were a physical blow. "You could have gotten a designated driver. Or you could come down and move it now. The installer is on his way," I said, trying to keep my voice from shaking.

"Why should I?" his voice suddenly rose. "You expect me to crawl out of bed for your little project? My head is killing me. You figure it out. Get a few guys to help you lift it or something. Stop bothering me!"

Click. He hung up.

I stood there, clutching my phone, listening to the dead air. I felt the blood drain from my face. Make my own arrangements to move it? It was an SUV that weighed over a ton and a half. What did he think I was, the Hulk?

I was trembling, not from cold, but from a pure, unadulterated rage. I looked around the empty garage. It was just me and this metal beast squatting on my property, a stark picture of my own helplessness.

When the installer called, I had to tell him, my voice trembling, to cancel the job.

I didn't leave. I just stood by my parking spot, staring at the car. I didn't know what I was going to do. I just couldn't accept defeat. I felt like a soldier defending a castle, utterly vanquished, making one last, pathetic stand.

An hour passed. Then two. Then three. The air in the garage was cold and damp. My body was stiffening.

Just as I was about to give up, the elevator doors opened, and Leo emerged, yawning and stretching. He saw me and his face soured, not with guilt, but with the annoyance of having his weekend disturbed.

"You're actually still here? Is it that serious?" he grumbled, fumbling for his keys. "It's just a damn parking spot. Do you have to make such a big deal out of it? It's not like you're the only person in the world with a parking spot."

"A big deal?" I felt like I was on the verge of screaming. "It's my spot! I paid for it! What gives you the right to use it every day and act like you're entitled to it?"

"Jeez, you're so uptight," he said, getting into his car and rolling down the window. He looked at me like I was insane. "We're colleagues. We're supposed to help each other out. With an attitude like that, how do you expect to get anywhere in this company?"

The engine roared to life. He left me with those words, speeding off and leaving me standing in front of my now-empty spot, his "uptight" echoing in my ears. The smell of the exhaust made me cough, and as I coughed, tears I didn't know I was holding back began to stream down my face. It wasn't sadness. It was humiliation. It was the suffocating feeling of a rage with no outlet. I felt like a clown who had thrown a punch with all her might, only to hit a pillow.

Just then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw an older woman with gray hair carrying grocery bags walk past the stairwell entrance. She must have heard our argument, because she paused and looked over at me, her brow furrowed.

It was Mrs. Gable, who lived on the floor above me. Our eyes met for a second. Her gaze was a mixture of curiosity and pity. She gave a small shake of her head and continued up the stairs.

In that moment, I felt like my complete and utter humiliation had been put on public display.