Primo Parking

Let somebody else have the Front-row Joe parking places. I’m happier away from the crowd and close to the cart-return corral.

When you park next to the corral, it’s easier to remember where your car is and you are rewarded with not having to travel too far to complete your civic responsibility of safely returning the cart.

This is why I hate Market Street. They don’t have cart corrals, because they always send a helper out with you to either push the cart or carry your grocery bags. Without the cart corral as my beacon, I can never remember where I parked. As if the pressure of having a helper at my elbow wasn’t stressful enough!

While I try to stall long enough to locate my vehicle, small talk with the helper is obligatory. In these instances, my favorite conversation starter is this:

“So, is this escorting thing as awkward for you as it is for me?”

This usually tips them a little off-kilter and the person stammers and stutters for a few moments, which buys me more time to scan the lot. Occasionally a follow-up question is necessary if I am having a very hard time finding the car.

“Did you realize you might get stuck doing this when you applied to work here?”

Now if things are getting really desperate, I will sometimes have to enlist the person’s assistance. In order to do this and still retain at least a shred of pride, one must be very subtle about it.

“So, do a lot of people have a tough time remembering where they parked? Do you ever have to help search for the car? Like, if the customer was looking for a navy blue Town and Country minivan—“

“Like the one over there?”

Precisely.

Why can’t they just have cart corrals like everyone else?

For once, I am not the only one who feels this way, and I have proof of it. There’s only one place in the store where you can escape unaccompanied, and it’s over by the coffee shop/deli sandwich area. I guess the management reasons that if the customer is just popping in for a cup of coffee or sandwich, assistance isn’t necessary.

You should see the line at that one register—usually at least ten people deep, all juggling as many items as their arms can hold. Milk, salsa, bacon. Charcoal. Cat litter.

They cheerfully depart with the heavy plastic shopping bags cutting off their circulation. Their fingertips are bluish-purple and starting to swell before they even exit the store.

But they are happy, happy, happy because either they know where they parked and can head there independently, or they can at least stand there and figure it out without the pressuring presence of the parking lot helper.