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The Spot

Carl Robinette stops by with his latest entry in his Baby Idiot series. In case you are not up to speed with the series, allow me to surmise.

People are (baby) idiots.

The Spot by Carl Robinette




The thing is, sometimes most people just don’t get it most of the time. 

Like when you have to work almost a whole shift taking tickets at the movie theatre and all you want to do is go home. But the other thing is, when you live someplace like an unpermitted studio apartment above a medical marijuana dispensary, you don’t always get what you want. 

Parking especially. 

And just when you think the whole world is the biggest bummer on earth, it gets to be an even bigger bummer because someone parked their wicked new convertible in your spot. 

The fact that the car is basically the baddest ride you’ve ever seen and only several decades newer than your crappy moped doesn’t stir up any feelings of resentment at all. You just want to park in your own spot, but you can’t expect some guy who drives a convertible to get that. 

Just like you can’t expect movie theatre customers and managers not to be full on dickheads. Those people just don’t get it. 

But the thing is, as soon as you see this convertible sitting there silent but deadly in your spot, you know it’s up to you to help the driver—help him get it. 

*

Sometimes when you see some schmo with really good dope and he’s younger and richer and has more beautiful features about him than you, you’re like, Whoa. That guy rules. 

Other times you just think he’s basically a dumb baby idiot. 

And when he comes galloping out of the shop to his convertible, he swings his hips like he lords over every parking spot ever. 

So you go, Hey fart knocker, you’re in my spot. 

And he’s like, Oh, I didn’t realize. I thought it was the store’s spot. 

Smug. 

So you go, Sign says no unauthorized vehicles, bozoid. Or are you too stupid to read? 

And he’s all, I thought the shop hung that sign for patients. My bad. I’m leaving now, okay friend? 

All you say is, I aint your friend, Amigo. 

Because sometimes it’s about more than a parking spot. It’s about taking back what was taken from you. 

And if you don’t stand up to spot thieves, nobody will. 

Plus, with a ride like that there’s no question this guy is a big time drug kingpin or a guerilla terrorist, so you start taking pictures of his license plate. And you’re almost pretty positive you’ll get beaucoup bucks in FBI reward money for bringing down a crime lord. 

Also, have you ever wondered why they don’t make everyday protective wear for stomachs? 

I have.

*

The thing is that sometimes strong, young men are good at blocking attacks and counter-punching, and if you have allergies they can coincidentally flare up and make your eyes start watering at the exact moment a young man sucker punches you in the stomach. And sometimes you come down with a twenty-four-second flu immediately after that and you vomit in the bushes. 

Which isn’t even embarrassing. 

But you pants the guy anyways. 

And push him, because your spot is your spot. 

The thing is when you push a guy and he has his pants down around his ankles and there’s a bit of a curb behind him, the guy is probably-slash-definitely going to suffer a bit of an accident. 

 Experts say that when a man trips and falls outdoors in an urban setting he has a strong likelihood of brutally smashing his head and face into a brick wall. So far, field tests uphold this to be true. 

Later when your grandma or someone looks at you like you’re some moron because you told her about what happened, you’re like, How do you know that there’s no way in heck the FBI will respond to any of my emails, Grandma? 

And the other thing is sometimes you get tired of explaining how you aren’t going to admit to misdemeanor jack-crap if you didn’t do anything wrong. And how pantsing someone doesn’t make it a sex crime.

You just have to keep repeating yourself: This is a cut and dried case of parking spot self-defense.

But some people, like lawyers from the county, want to keep reminding you that the jury won’t necessarily see it that way.

Carl Robinette is a journalist and author bent on saving the world from people who don’t agree with him. His fiction has been published in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine and Shotgun Honey. When he is not writing fiction he poses as a reporter for The Star News and several other San Diego publications. www.carlrobinette.com