"Go get yourself a coffee."

Yesterday I spent in the nation’s capital, with a room full of lawyers, people who couldn’t even agree on whether to start the proceedings or not. Some procedural or ultra-confidential information had to be dealt with first, was weighing heavily on those in the room. I sat in the back—at the end of a long conference table—with my writing tablet and magazine. Later, at lunch, I bought the Post. I walked in the brisk December air to a local eatery that seemed popular and fast. Just on the verge of ordering a tuna sandwich, the woman in charge of the soups saw me looking her way. Encouraged by my glance, she asked if I’d like a soup. I walked over, ordered a chili.
“Make it a large one,” I said. I was in that kind of mood.

I took my chili and some chips back to the big law firm, not far from all of the important things in Washington—the train station, the capital building, and other things that escape me at the moment, but are surely important. The day was made colder by my forgetting a winter coat as I left the house. Eager to get on the road, facing a two-hour trip into the city—a drive of just under forty miles—I got in the car and fired it up in just my tweed blazer, a hand-me-down from my father many years ago. I had neither gloves nor a hat too boot. No boots, either.

When the job ended it was after dark. We’d started around ten in the morning and now it was past seven o’clock. I got my things together, all loaded onto a little hand-cart, and went out into the cold of Washington on a December evening. I couldn’t find my car. I’d parked it in haste, moving it from an illegal spot just in front of the building, to a parking garage nearby. The attendant had put a little tag on the windshield and directed me to park downstairs. The upper level spaces were reserved. He gave me no ticket, no receipt, and I didn’t think to ask for one. I’m accustomed to parking in these places, have done so for a few years now, and thought nothing of leaving my car there. The job was scheduled to start in a few minutes, and I didn’t want to hold it up. It being just one minute before ten o’clock, I was able to take advantage of the “early-bird special:” Thirteen bucks for all day.

I walked around to all the nearby garages, found them closed, the doors pulled shut, no signs welcoming parkers at this hour. Some were open, but the one I’d parked in was not among them. I finally left my little cart with a pair of sympathetic garage attendants, wheeled it into their office. I was sure I would find my car and return to fetch it in a few minutes. No such luck. Something was wrong, and I could feel the confusion and self-doubt mounting as I walked the cold city streets, past the winter city-dwellers in their fashionable furs and hats, warm leather gloves keeping them comfortable on the short walk from a heated limousine to the bright glow of a welcoming hotel lounge or restaurant. Sometimes I would enter these places, in my inadequate jacket, and warm myself for a few minutes. Then I would be on my way, making endless circles, starting from the office building where the job had taken place, going past all the garages—about a dozen of them. The ones that were closed I sneaked into as a sleek resident would exit, ducking into the door before it closed completely after the car. I would wander the empty car-caverns, knowing that my garage didn’t look like this, would just walk, because I had nothing else to do.

I returned to pick up my things. I took my phone, wearily called my sister in a nearby suburb and said I was coming to spend the night. I explained that I’d lost my car, it was locked in a closed garage, and I would have to fetch it tomorrow. I was rather vague about what had happened, because I didn’t really know myself. I was tired, cold, confused, and hungry.

I took the train from Union Station, a direct trip to her area. The elevator carried me and my equipment down to the train level, something I hadn’t really thought of beforehand. The escalators would have been my first choice, but I wheeled my cart to the steep bank of electric stairs, looked stupidly at the moving steps, then at my cart, and wondered what to do next. I followed the signs for handicapped access, and got on the slow elevator. Tired and out of sorts, the door closed in front of me for the short trip down to the next level. When it stopped, nothing happened. I waited there, looking at the door in front of me—wanting it to open. The door BESIDE me had opened, had done it with stealth, silently. I hadn’t even heard it.

I got into bed, was asleep in the warmth and comfort of the cozy room, was soon dreaming fantastically of finding my car, exultant at my success, my prowess, how my solid efforts had yielded such impressive results. I awoke to find that this was not the case.

The next day was colder, with some icy stuff falling from the sky. Confident that I would soon find my car, I unhurriedly made my way to the now-familiar neighborhood as I got off the train. I stopped at one of the fancy, warm hotels, its large foyer a veritable shopping plaza of commerce. There I ordered a doughnut and a Danish. The grand total for these two breakfast items was $5.75. The counter girl put my purchase in a little bag, and I also bought a travel-size packet of nose tissues. I re-entered the cold, just a block or two from where I’d left the car. I still couldn’t find it. I walked past the actual garage several times, the sign outside reading: ‘Monthly and hotel guests only.”
“That can’t be me,” I thought. “My garage had a sign stating clearly that an early-bird special was offered.” I remembered it well: Thirteen bucks if you parked before ten. The implicit message I gathered from the sign I read was that no early-bird special would be offered, for the simple reason that only monthly parkers and hotel guests were welcome there.

I continued on in the cold icy stuff, holding my little bag, wanting this odyssey more than anything to just end. I’d had enough, had walked enough, was tired and hadn’t eaten anything—although my more than generous hosts of yesterday evening had tried to make me take something this morning. I stopped at yet another garage. This one was a secure area, the guard held out an arm, forbidding me to venture further. He could see that I was upset, cold, barely holding onto any vestige of reason. He wanted to know what was wrong. I explained about my car. He calmly told me to go around the corner, visit the “Sunspot” store and eatery there, get a coffee and retrace my steps.
“Go get yourself a coffee.”
I did as he said. I had bought the morning paper earlier, when I was confident that things would go well; I read some of it while I drank my warm coffee and ate the items I’d bought elsewhere. This was forbidden—a sign posted in the warm little shop said explicitly not to do that. Health department regulations.

With a little more energy, a bit of clearer thinking, I went outside, leaving my paper for someone else to enjoy. It was barely used, as I’d hardly read any of it. I walked past the same garage that had previously scared off daily parkers with its sign that read “Monthlies and Hotel Guests Only.” Here is what it now said: “Early-Bird Special: $13.00 if in by ten.” I walked into the garage, followed the familiar and steep ramp downstairs, found my car where I knew it would be. I tossed my cold coffee into a wastebasket and drove off, taking New York Avenue out of town to pick up the parkway to Baltimore.

Later my helper came over to do some more work on the front porch next door. The icy stuff was still falling, but it was not raining. As a result, we did not get too wet. The wood I’d bought the other day was rather wet, however; we put it onto the porch and tried to dry it, taking a heat gun to it until the extension cord overheated and burned the end off. This slowed our progress somewhat, so we set about clearing some of the area in front of the house, getting the trash and leaves and so on that had collected over the years from out of the bushes and into trash bags for the yard waste collection. Our rakings looked dirty and terrible on the recently-fallen snow, but I felt better about being rid of the stuff.
I fastened down exactly two boards, still need to put another three into place, but will wait until the lumber has dried off.

Having eaten very little since morning, we had some of my beef stew I’d just made in the slow cooker, a dish that I will probably make a lot more of. With some fresh French bread and cider, we had a good lunch. My truck was ready down at the shop, and we went to fetch it as well. It only remains to put two new tires on it and it will be ready for re-inspection. I’ll do that sometime in the coming week—am not in any particular hurry.