Crawling in a parking garage
I went to meet up with friends in the city center. By now, I knew the route from my head to the car park.
The big, sandy square was my main destination. Though the weather was grey and rainy, I assumed a positive spirit and sang along with the songs on the radio.
As I drove down the steep slope of the parking garage below the square and approached the ticket machine, I was suddenly overcome by a sudden urge to look cool.
I was a rat in the big city, the cobblestones resonating the tip-tapping of my feet. The night was young and I wanted to join the hustle and bustle.
The machine offered me a ticket and I reached for it with two fingers. I think I wanted to pull it out the way a master at sleight of hand pulls out a spectator's chosen card from behind their ear, but the ticket in question would not budge.
It was then that I experienced the limited strenght of your index and middle finger compared to the relative, opposing force of a ticket machine. Fumbling, and realising that I must have looked utterly ridiculous after my second attempt, I reached out again (this time with my thumb and index finger). Only to see the ticket slip between my fingers as the machine spit it out without a pause.
And so I found myself, on my knees at the entrance to the car park feeling the ground for the ticket, humiliated and humbled. I certainly did not look cool.
…ᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷ