Concrete Syntax
At the end of the service, we were all requested to form a circle and greet the person parked next to us. It took some time to get all the cars aligned. The luxury sedans were jockeying for position rather aggressively. And the smaller coupes were trying to avoid the much larger utility vehicles, which, due to the size differential, required their drivers to crane upward out the window to converse.
Everyone steered clear of the oil-streaked hatchback with its glass shot out, its engine vibrating like a jackhammer. The church is committed to the principle of unity and equality of all, except for them.
Once the pairings were settled, the matter of who should be required to clamber over to the passenger seat to hear the other driver, which had not been clarified beforehand, caused much confusion and delay. Some, like myself, had deliberately avoided parking too close, requiring some additional maneuvering to bridge the distance, the cumulative rumble of idling engines having made it progressively difficult to hear.
One driver was so angry about this that he nearly blew the roof off his convertible.
Across the way, I noticed a red minicar that had gotten stuck with a Prime Mover, one of those mammoth homes-on-the-move that one never sees parked. I thanked the Lord that it was not me in that minicar.
The driver with whom I was partnered was unable to lower his window, which required him to communicate with nonverbal indicators that I could not understand. My lack of comprehension caused him to pantomime in an exaggerated fashion, like a burlesque. I adjusted the zoom on my ocular fittings, then opened the door, causing a part to fall out, but this only seemed to frighten him and he drove away.
It looks like a small house, but is more like a utility shed that stands at the edge of the parking lot. The place inside is just big enough for a stool, a desk inside the plexiglass partition. Window. Not much else in there—a traffic cone under the ledge, a clock radio, a hotpot, a calendar from the lumber yard, a punch clock.
Most people who park in this lot have a permit, so either the attendant waves them in, or sometimes there is no attendant, just the shack and a sign that says “permit parking only, please.” Except Sundays, which are free, but the lot is empty on Sundays and the shack has its door closed.
At night, when most of the cars are gone, a man drives up in a green van and parks right by the hut. He is usually wearing a brown velvet tuxedo. He opens the door to the hut with a key, steps inside, and turns on the light in the little building.
When he steps out of the hut, he is carrying the stool that is kept by the ledge inside.
Puts that down.
Stands on it and whistles.
One little horse, a falabella (not much bigger than a big dog), comes out of the hut.
He whistles again and another little horse comes out.
Then another.
And another.
Then there are 12 little horses standing in a circle facing the man who is now standing on the stool. He holds his left hand up, extends his pointer finger and makes a circle motion above his head and all the horses make a full circle, this time nose to tail. The man whistles again and the horses start walking in concentric circles that get smaller and smaller until the innermost horse has to step up on top of the horse immediately in front of him.
This continues until the horses have formed a tower, one on top of the other.
When the man in the tuxedo steps down from his stool, the top horse jumps down and walks back into the hut, followed by the next and the next. He puts the stool back in the hut, turns the light off, shuts the door.
The man in the brown tuxedo gets back in the green van and drives off.
Something like this happens when most of the cars are gone.