Turns out, not all parking lots are happy places. Some parking lots are zones of aggravation, put here to eff with your well-being. Some parking lots sit in judgment off your worthiness. You push the big, germ-covered button and hope the ticket spits out and the mechanical arm opens. Sometimes you get the ticket. Sometimes you don't. The times you don't get the ticket are usually when the parking attendant has vanished from existence and you're on your own. You can either sit there and wait for several hours and be late for your important meeting. Or, you can hope the SJG crosses your path and helps you out of a jam. I had already parked and was making my way into the building when I noticed my friend, the devastatingly handsome Jim (and I say devastatingly handsome not because I'm contractually obligated but because it's 100 percent true) idling at the parking lot entrance, ticketless, and rapidly losing hope. I immediately took action and laughed at his misfortune. I pointed out that last time we were here for a meeting, the elevator didn't work for me but worked for him. This time, the parking thingy worked for me and not for him. What was the universe telling us? That we're all pawns in some larger game? That -- okay fine, I'll get to the criminal part. My devious mind started clicking. I told Jim to back up carefully and drive "in" through the exit. The arm was up, there were no spikes threatening tire damage. "Are you sure?" he asked me. "What's the worse that could happen?" He followed my sneaky instructions and we made it to our meeting on time. "I never would've thought of that," he said, as we walked toward the elevator. "It takes a Jew to get out of a tight spot."
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