The small car's engine roared as it trundled down the city street, cars passing to either side, most honking. There was the occasional middle finger thrown as well, as if for good measure. The noise coming from under the hood would have been fine, even welcomed, had this particular vehicle not been electric. It should have been whisper quiet, unlike the petroleum-fueled pollution machines that had preceded it. But the last gasoline car had been scrap for at least fifty years.
And so the hunk of plastic and polymers, once the pride of Atlanta (cars were no longer made in Detroit, had not been for some time), nearly limped through traffic, attracting copious amounts of attention from the multitude of pedestrians it passed. Luckily for the driver, the side windows were tinted, keeping him anonymous behind the darkened glass. For Scott, anonymity was good, even without the thundering rattle trap.
After another two blocks of angry glares and obscene gestures, Scott finally arrived at his building. He turned into the entrance to the underground garage, the steering mechanism groaning in protest. "Come on, almost there," he said, trying to coax just a few more feet from the beaten machine. As if in response, the electric motor developed a high-pitched whine, just as the front tires bumped over the slight bump just before the ramp leading down into the massive parking garage. "Great," Scott said as he nodded. "That sounds expensive."
As he brought the car to a stop at the automatic gate, Scott pressed the button to lower the driver's-side window, but nothing happened. He released it, pressed again, and the glass started to slide down. It stopped half way. "Son of a..." Scott started to curse, but caught himself. There was no point in profanity, not really, and instead, he fished for his apartment keycard in the cluttered center console. He tossed gum wrappers, a straw, a mint from a restaurant that he was pretty sure had closed at least a year prior. He finally found the card, somehow buried beneath the detritus, despite the fact that he'd just put the card in there that morning. How it could have reached the bottom of the cubby was beyond reason, yet Scott still wasn't surprised. That seemed to be the way of things.
He found that, by placing his arm through the partly-open window, bending his elbow, then forcing his shoulder almost out of place and pivoting his hips in the seat, he was able to get the keycard just close enough to the reader to still not be recognized. He instead resigned himself to opening the car door and reaching around its metal frame. A green light flashed, and the metal gate began to slide open. That, at least, worked. Probably because it wasn't his.
With a little pressure to the accelerator, Scott was able to get the tiny vehicle just inside the gate before it stalled.
"You can't be serious," he muttered, sitting in the now-silent car. "No, really, you can't be." He pressed the "on" button, noticing that the small blue light just below it was out. Nothing happened. He pushed it again, holding it. The same nothing happened. He jabbed the button several times with his finger (sometimes you had to be persistent with these things, or they'll think they're in charge) and yet, the car would not turn on.
He sat for a second, contemplating his options, although none came. The car was in the way of the entrance, just inside the automatic gate, and would have to be moved before anyone else could get into the garage. Pushing it was Scott's first thought, quickly dismissed though. He had the strength to move the little car, but he couldn't do that and steer, not without power steering. It seemed very unlikely that he could get the motor to start. Scott knew next to nothing about cars, except that it was starting to look more and more like he'd need a new one. He glanced around the garage, both hoping to see someone, and dreading it. He could use the help, if he found someone willing, but could stand to be spared the embarrassment.
As his options dwindled, frustration started to set in. Before he realized what he was doing, Scott balled his fist and punched the steering wheel. The car let out a loud, unexpected beep that made him jump. "At least the horn works," Scott muttered.
It took another minute or two of deliberation before he finally conceded that the car, as it was, would not be moving from its current location, and the sooner he accepted that, the sooner he could get inside and call a tow truck. Or a garbage truck, for that matter. Did they take cars? He thought not, was pretty sure they didn't, actually. But still... it might be worth looking into. If nothing else, they're probably be cheaper. He got out with this thought, slamming the door behind him.
"Hey! You just gunna leave that there, asshole?" a voice shouted from behind him. Scott turned to see another car, just outside the gate, its driver leaning from the lowered window, arm raised in a "what's the matter with you?" gesture.
"It won't start," Scott said back, then shrugged. There didn't seem to be any more to say on the matter, and so he turned and began walking away, toward the elevator doors that led up into the apartment building.
"Hey!" the man shouted again, anger edging his voice. "You can't just leave that heap of shit in the way! How am I supposed to get in?"
Scott only half turned his head, and pointed straight ahead. "Entrance on the other side, on Eugene Street." He was still walking, and looked forward again after he had finished talking. The driver of the other car shouted something back, but by that point, Scott had lost interest. He was pretty sure something was said about his mother, but wasn't entirely sure just what. A minute later, the voice was cut off by the closing of elevator doors.
***
Scott lived on the one hundred and twenty first floor of the high-rise apartment building. It was so far up, in fact, that on certain rainy days, it was impossible to see anything from the apartment's windows except for the dark, billowy clouds. Once, during an especially nasty storm in which the clouds hung lower than normal, Scott's apartment was actually high enough to see the sunshine above them. He hadn't even noticed that it was raining until he left for work.
This day, though, the weather was far more typical: light breeze, temperature not terribly unpleasant, although still on the warmer side. The sun wasn't going down quite yet, although it had certainly passed its apex and was somewhere on the downward arc toward the horizon. This time of year it would wind up shining right into the wide living room window before dipping behind another building, preventing a view of the sunset. As Scott entered the apartment, a tiny arc of sun was just starting to show at the top of the window.
He dropped the keycard on the small table next to the door, then his wallet and the key fob to the car that he had just recently abandoned. A quick thought of the other, inconvenienced driver flittered across his mind, wondering if he had given up and gone around the building yet or not, then vanished.
Scott crossed the room (it wasn't much of a trip) and settled into his favorite spot on the couch, relaxing contentedly as the cushions molded to his body. They had been designed to do just that, sensing pressure points and adjusting padding to compensate, although at this point it happened as much because of the age of the couch as anything else.
As soon as he had gotten comfortable, the phone rang. Scott knew who it was already, and was in no mood to answer. Plus, he'd just sat down, and felt no real need to accommodate anyone who would interrupt the most sacred time of the day: the first few minutes after coming home from a long day at the office.
It took five rings before the machine picked up. Just like the old answering systems of years gone by, the ones that used two mini tapes to first play a greeting, and then record the caller's message, this one played the call as it was received. Scott recognized the voice immediately.
"Scott? This is Al, Al Harrison. The superintendent." Al had a bad habit of always introducing himself in exactly that way, no matter how long he had known you. Scott had lived in this building for four (or was it five?) years now, and any time Al had to leave a message, he always included his title. At first, it seemed almost self-important; like Al needed you to know exactly who and what he was, a proclamation of his authority and position. After some time, though, Scott had begun to think that it was more as though Al couldn't really quite remember if he'd told you who he was yet, and wanted to make sure.
"Hey," Al continued, "I just got a call from a really pissed off guy saying that your car is parked just inside the Mason Street gate. Uh, you know you can't really park there, right? Of course you know that. Look, do you think you could get it out of the way ASAP? You'd really be doing me a favor, man. Thanks." There followed a series of muffled noises, then Al's gruff voice saying "Oh come on hang up you mother..." before the line went dead. Scott couldn't help but smile, just a little.
Al was a good guy, and Scott really didn't want him in any kind of trouble, or really even inconvenienced if he could help it. He figured he'd have to call to have the car towed. A small laptop computer sat next to him on the couch. It took only a few minutes to find a local, cheap towing company. Repeating their number so he wouldn't forget, he got up to get the phone.
