Parking Karma
Anyone who has worked as a personal assistant understands the experience of supporting every minutiae that human chaos has to offer, chasing after someone who probably moves through the world with great force and unpredictability, whether that person woke up with a randomly-generated list of outrageous demands, or they keep you guessing about whether you can cling to the position through the next rent cycle.
If you have the ability to think fast on your feet and detach from the emotional firestorm whirling around you on an average Tuesday, then “you’ll go far, kid” at least in the personal assistant industry. Plus, I had the bonus of parking karma. I always seem to find the right spot when I need it.
Of course, not every boss comes with the same mayhem. I worked a few assistant jobs with perfectly pleasant, kind, and helpful bosses. The best tuna fish sandwich I’ve ever tasted was made from scratch just for me by one of my former bosses. But, the few times I had to maneuver highly stressful workplaces did come with a beneficial side effect - electrifyingly fast problem solving skills.
If I don’t concentrate too hard, I can provide knee-jerk answers to impossible questions, such as “Where’s the thing with the thing?” On the other hand, I came to rely on my instinctive choices in all areas of my life, such that I simply stopped planning ahead. I find myself in difficult binds all the time because I did not think through it with a little lead time.
For example, I decided to go to one of the local Chicago indie cinemas one recent Saturday. I went through my usual routine of venturing off the highway onto Irving Park Blvd, finding a comfortable anything-but-Starbucks coffee shop with enough white noise chatter, as well as enough non-brunch people, so I can write for an hour or two. Focused writing. Good coffee. Breakfast tacos. And headphones to drown it all out.
Giving myself 30 minutes for travel and parking, I hop in the car and find parking by the Alamo Theatre, the newest indie theatre, which many will know from Austin and Los Angeles. They don’t play commercials. Instead, they play random clips featuring the actors from the feature presentation. You can see freaky B-movie scenes with now A-listers, or even chaotic home videos if they were coked up enough to post it on YouTube. A great playful way to set the tone with rare performances.
They also offer gastropub-level food, craft beer, and fresh popcorn with toppings like parmesan truffle butter. No concession stand either. You simply write down what you want on a piece of paper, and someone fetches it for you like magic. The final hard and fast rule that guarantees a good experience, you cannot enter late. If you arrive even a minute late, you’re SOL. For real. It’s transcendent. Okay, commercial over.
As I looked for parking on the side streets, I found some unusual behavior that concerned me, but not as much as it should have. Compact cars were stopping mid-block, unloading what seemed like train-loads of drunken college kids with cases of beer.
Ubers and Lyfts stacked up around the corner. “Should I be worried?” is what I should have said to myself at this point. But, I’m optimistic, and I’m blocks from Wrigley Field, so maybe they’re pre-gaming for opening day... three weeks from now.
The backed up traffic made me abandon my plan of street parking. I would have to resort to the parking garage at Addison and Clark. So, I headed straight for Clark.
As I turned on Clark, it hit me - the signs that had bombarded me for the last three hours. The green hats everywhere. The parade on my parents’ TV. The house parties with a trail of vodka cans by the coffee shop. I drove straight into grand central station of the annual Wrigleyville St. Patrick’s Day celebration.
A sea of stumbling green-shirts floated like cattle along each side of the street. They crossed mid-block with the help of the entire Chicago police force. This day was one of the many drinking holidays in the city, like Halloween, 4th of July, or Harry Caray’s birthday.
Now as I waited behind dozens of home-made taxis stuck at the light, I wondered if I would even make it to the garage a block away in time for the movie. I sat watching the carnival of self-medicated frat boys and girls, admiring how the city had assembled a temporary steel barricade to provide safer passage for the inebriated masses along the sidewalk all the way down to the end of the... OH NO! THEY’VE BARRICADED THE PARKING LOT!
My parking plan B evaporated in an instant. I now had 5 minutes to snag some kind of miracle street parking. I have parking karma, so I stayed focus for the next 5 minutes with an optimism that only comes from denial.
The moment finally came as I found myself in the same spot where it all started, about to turn onto Clark. I was done-for. I had no choice but to throw in the towel. I called the theatre to apologize, hoping they would let me come another time or maybe even refund me at the last minute.
At this particular red light, my phone signal dropped, such that the theater staff responded: “You c... fo... er.... ha.... and then you p... ko...” Because of all the distractions, without thinking, I skipped over Clark to avoid the traffic and get back on my way home. As I drove down Sheffield, the phone finally connected, and the Alamo dude kindly repeated the magic words:
“You can enter parking on Sheffield.” Sheffield FTW!
I slid into my seat as the lights dimmed, ordered my silver bowl of fancy popcorn, and enjoyed the joyful celebration of art and chaos that forged the film PROBLEMISTA, a fanciful, optimistic tale of hope, and the power of believing in yourself as a personal assistant deals with a chaotic art critic boss. So, if you’ve ever worked as a personal assistant to a creative person, you will enjoy it even more. It left me believing in myself, that no matter how many drunks I have to run over, I still have paring karma.