The Parking Lot Attendant

by Nafkote Tamirat

  Ayale stood up.

  “Maybe we should suspend our little package system. Give you some time to recover.”

  I propelled myself into a standing position and hauled ass to Government Center, almost breaking my nose when I tripped over my own feet and smashed my face into the ground. There was nothing left. I had prepared myself for my father leaving, but never Ayale. I’d thought you could lose only two parents. Soon I’d have just Fiker, which was tantamount to having no one.

  I didn’t speak to my father after that. I would stare him down as he attempted to initiate communication, until he withdrew into his room. He began leaving plates of food on the table and going to bed as soon as he came home from work. I still went to the lot but left earlier and earlier, hoping that Ayale would ask where I was going, miserable each time he didn’t. He might or might not have called during this period, but since I’d stopped answering the phone, I wouldn’t know. My body always hurt. Classes were extended sessions of physical torture; I emerged drenched in sweat, hoping no one could smell or see me.

  I bought headphones, but even music was distressing. Instead, I would listen to the phone ring and ring and ring. It took a while, but finally, whoever it was stopped calling.

  ON THE SUBJECT OF HOW WE GOT INVOLVED

  Sisay and Nathan were dumped in front of the Dunkin’ Donuts on Boylston Street. The first had stab wounds in his chest and stomach; the second nothing but a stunned expression and an empty wallet. The brothers had been working at a small Alewife lot for nearly five years. Sisay had recently gotten married with a lot of fanfare, while Nathan had to be dragged out of bars to make his morning shifts. They had been spotted loudly fighting right before their corpses were discovered. Their mother was convinced that the source of the evil was the washing machine they had forced upon her.

  When three taxi drivers were found dead a month later, we started to connect the dots. According to Ayale, the deaths had been happening for years. Kassahun was the first I’d heard of, but there’d been others before him, spread out over months. The recent murders that had blended into the background of my life were part of a greater, more sinister design. The latest three had been baptized by the same priest in a forgotten corner of Jima, all young, all pooling their money to invest in a building venture on the outskirts of Addis Ababa, which was now running their obituaries in its official newsletter, free of charge.

  Once Ayale had revealed the existence of a pattern, we had him review the chronology again and again, to make sure we understood. He was patient and even offered to write it all down, but that seemed a step too far. It was clear that he was the only one who could help us, not least because of all the information he scrounged up, details whose provenance we didn’t question, so relieved were we to have them. The usual number of people clustered around his booth quadrupled. Initially, they tried for discretion, but the need to know became too great and everyone crowded around, silent, immobile. Ayale handled the growing throngs and the parked cars with an ease that bordered on joy. Chaos brought out the best in him. He thrived on the fear of others. He had never been so attentive. I felt guilty about my gratitude to the deceased for returning him to me, disgusted at myself for releasing my anger so easily, and certain that all too soon, I’d lose him again.

  We thought that Ayale would be the one to crack the case. According to him, the police were at a loss as to who the murderer was, what his motives might be, how he was even getting at the men, since autopsies put their times of death early enough that the streets wouldn’t yet be empty. Many of them had been with others up until these projected times, and yet their friends had noticed nothing amiss. According to Ayale, the police hadn’t even linked these recent deaths with the previous ones until he came on the scene. It hadn’t escaped them that all of the victims were Ethiopian men under the age of thirty-five; Ayale made sure of that. When asked if he was in contact with the specific detectives on the case, he pursed his lips enigmatically, as if his role was too vast to be explained. We respected his reserve so deeply that we questioned him all the more. His cloak-and-dagger responses didn’t deter us; his mere presence made us feel safe. I began to call him before I went to bed, and I could tell that this pleased him.

  With the exception of the brothers, none of the men were overtly connected. None were extraordinary, either in our community or the American one which made ours possible. None of them had children, not even illegitimate ones back home. Taxi drivers and parking lot attendants began to band together at night, refusing to leave well-lit and well-populated areas. Ethiopians started seeking out Americans, since none of the victims had been accompanied by non-Ethiopians. Bostonians became good-luck charms. Ayale told me to bring people to the lot, just in case, but I didn’t want to introduce anyone new; I was afraid that they would love him not enough or too much. I scoffed that the murderer clearly had no interest in women. The minute I said “murderer,” I felt I had thrown a grenade into the world that I could never call back.

  I was curious as to how Ayale knew all that he did about the crimes. I finally asked when we were able to escape the gaggle of people around his booth. The groups had begun to thin out during the long period of clenched quiet directly preceding the fifth taxi driver’s demise. They had become resigned and, what’s more, had begun to suspect. Not Ayale necessarily, but something which made it seem wiser to pull back. I didn’t tell him.

  “I listen. You’d be surprised at how much information is dropped here and there.”

  “At police headquarters, sure.”

  “You just have to be in the right places at the right times.”

  “Not like Kassahun, huh? Wrong place, wrong time. Remember?”

  The streets surrounding us were deserted. Everyone was at work or getting killed. He put his hand on my shoulder.

  “It’s going to be okay, you’ll see. Come on, you’re a city girl—this stuff is nothing.”

  “Why won’t you tell me how you know?”

  Ayale’s grip tightened.

  “Why should I?”

  “Because.”

  “Because what?”

  “All of us just want to know, that makes sense.”

  “But why are you specifically asking me, right now?”

  “Let go, that hurts!”

  “Answer me!”

  “Because I’m afraid!”

  “Of what?”

  “Of you!”

  He gripped me a second longer. When I looked into his eyes, I saw that he could never understand why one might feel fear in the face of the unknown, in the face of death, in the face of seeing only death and the unknown in the eyes of someone you love.

  “One of the usual police officers couldn’t come to the lot for his payment, so I went by the station. That was right after Kassahun. I saw how useful this could be and offered to keep coming back with the money so that he wouldn’t have to tire himself out, and he was almost on his knees, that’s how grateful he was. It was pathetic.”

  I couldn’t respond; my mouth was devoid of language. Ayale walked into the booth and shut the door. I sat on the ground and placed my head on my knees, to the concern of all who hovered or worked. Someone put his hands on my head, a woman’s voice asked if I wanted some tea, and I felt buoyed up by them, as if my loss paralleled theirs and so we grieved on the same plane, within the same dimensions.

  Ayale woke me when his ride arrived. My ass hurt from sitting on the ground. When I tried to get into the car, he pushed me back.

  “Have a good night.”

  “But—”

  “It’s probably better if you go on your own, without me. Just in case.”

  “I don’t know what came over me, I was just so scared—”

  “I don’t have time for this.”

  “Don’t you ever lose perspective and say something you don’t really mean? Has that never happened to you?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “You’re lucky. You w
ould never have been as stupid as I was.”

  “Let’s not make a scene here.”

  The driver was staring straight ahead, but I knew this didn’t mean he wasn’t also intently listening, eager to deliver the gossip as soon as he could get away.

  I tried not to cry as Ayale stepped into the car, as he shut the door, as they drove away. At home, I looked at my father’s door, wishing I could talk to him, but knew that I had nothing to say, not yet.

  ON THE SUBJECT OF LOOKING AROUND CORNERS

  I waited a week so that Ayale would know how definitively furious I was; to let the fact that I wasn’t a permanent fixture in his life sink in; to show him that not only could I leave but I might very well prefer it; to demonstrate that I, a person with a mind full to bursting with non-Ayale-related matters, when insulted, belittled, or threatened had a sense of self that was so healthy that I would, without question, abandon any who dared carry out psychological violence unto me. It would be stating the obvious to say that I wasn’t a doormat because I lived my saturated-with-prospects existence in a way that was defiantly un-doormat-like: let those with eyes see.

  The week was supposed to accomplish all this and more, except that I couldn’t stop watching The Way We Were, weeping each time Hubbell and Katie laid eyes on each other at the hotel, exasperated with myself at each viewing. The years immediately preceding exile found me extremely concerned about wasting time, despite quickly learning that I didn’t do much. This became painfully evident during my parking lot abstinence. I went to school every day but, inexplicably, classes were getting easier, so despite my prolific note-taking and diligent homework-doing, all my educational obligations were complete by early afternoon. I had already phased out extracurriculars because they would have cut into my lot time, and it was too late in the year to join anything except Latin Club, whose two members never showed up at the reserved classroom. Time seemed like a gift from someone who kept asking if I liked it, propelling me into greater depths of guilt as I saw it gather dust in a drawer.

  By Monday of the next week, I had planned everything: the precise time of my arrival and departure, what I would say, how I would act. It was crucial not to linger; I didn’t need him or anyone else to think that I’d missed him. I would be polite but reserved. I’d bring some of my new books, mostly tomes on African political policy, all of which bored me but which I felt displayed to those who cared—it was undeniable that he cared—that I was more than capable of keeping up with modern intellectual thought (I needed it to be undeniable, and thus I equated “need” with “fact”) and certainly didn’t require spoon-fed instruction. I dawdled after school. I went to the bathroom. I checked in on Latin Club. I bought chips. I went to the bathroom again.

  There were the usual bevies of people in every corner of the lot. No one looked at me, and it was the screaming from behind the closed booth door that made me draw closer.

  “You’re going about this all wrong,” Fiker’s voice announced.

  “Have you seen yourself? Have you seen your life?”

  Fury seemed to be making it difficult for Ayale to get the words out.

  “I just want to help!”

  “What help could you possibly give?”

  Ayale sounded genuinely curious.

  “You need an extra person! You think that priest is going to stick around forever? And if you tell me what’s going on, I can—”

  “You can what? What can you contribute? You needed Elsie just to know this much!”

  “You shut your mouth about Elsie.”

  Fiker’s rage made my heart beat faster and faster, as if it were aimed at me.

  “You’re worse now than when you first came,” Ayale said, more quietly.

  “You can’t do it by yourself.”

  “I’ve always done it by myself. You’re the one who always needs people. Ever since we were kids, you’ve needed so much.”

  “I wonder what your mother would think of that statement.”

  “Watch it.”

  “She didn’t know what you’d done. If it weren’t for you, she’d still—”

  “Wait.”

  Footsteps before the door banged open on an Ayale who looked ready to kill.

  “Can I help you?”

  I waited for more and, when it wasn’t forthcoming, wriggled my way past him into the booth. He followed my progress as Fiker leaned against the back wall with an attitude just missing casual.

  “How long were you standing there?”

  “I just got here,” I lied.

  Ayale didn’t seem convinced. We stood in silence, seemingly waiting for something, although what that something was or if it was the same for all of us was anyone’s guess. I finally pulled a cigarette from my jacket pocket, installed it in the corner of my mouth, and gazed back and forth before directing my request to a point in the middle.

  “Could I borrow a lighter?”

  No response. Ayale sat in his usual chair and plucked a magazine from the floor. Fiker looked too weak to stand upright without the support of the booth. I took a breath before launching into my prepared speech.

  “I’d like to apologize for disappearing. I imagine that you’d also like to apologize, so why don’t we just—”

  “If I give you a lighter, will you go?” Ayale’s voice was muffled by the hand he was now leaning on. He had yet to turn a page.

  Worry was entrenching itself in my gut, turning into the kind of panic that I felt on Sundays when my father arrived later than usual. I swiftly took measures to cut it off before it colonized my insides, choking any ability to think clearly, make smart decisions, not lose him.

  “No, I will not leave if you give me the lighter.”

  I smiled but stopped when I found that I was the only one.

  “What will you do?” he wondered aloud.

  “We will talk and make things right.”

  “Nothing is wrong, so there’s no need for that. You can go.”

  It was his turn to smile alone.

  “I’m truly sorry,” I whispered. “I said things I didn’t mean. Maybe you did, too.”

  “I never say what I don’t mean.”

  “Debatable,” murmured Fiker, eyes shut.

  Ayale glared in his direction.

  “Please forgive me. Please. I’m sorry.”

  “No need to be sorry, nothing to forgive. I’ve told you before that I don’t like excessive thanks and apologies.”

  “Also debatable.”

  Both of us glared at Fiker.

  “Can I help you?” I snapped.

  Fiker opened his eyes and looked at me, a closed-mouthed sneer peeking out.

  “You have no quarrel with me.”

  “I have no quarrel with anyone!”

  Ayale jumped in.

  “Which means you can light your cigarette and be on your way!”

  “If you’re not angry, why are you kicking me out?”

  He tore his eyes away from the magazine.

  “Why would you stay? You don’t work here.”

  “What about him?” I asked, jabbing a finger in Fiker’s direction. “What’s his official position, Ayale? What purpose does he serve?” I jerked my hand toward the others, whose eyes were occupied beholding matters and objects that were nowhere near our vicinity. “What about them? I see”—I did a swift count—“two attendants. The rest are just here. Shall I inform them that they’re no longer wanted?”

  He hurled the magazine onto the floor but kept his voice level.

  “I think it would be easier if you just told me what you want.”

  “I only—”

  “Keep your voice down.”

  The end of my cigarette was damp and disgusting; I pulled it out, trying not to cry.

  “I’d like for things to go back to the way they were.”

  “And how were they before? In your opinion?”

  “We were friends.”

  He nodded very seriously.

  “I see. What made you think we
were friends?”

  “We spent time together, I helped you with things, you helped me, too.”

  He nodded again.

  “Come here.”

  I knew I shouldn’t hope, but I did. I looked down at his face, his increasingly veiny eyes, the mole on his cheek. He took my hand, indicating with his other the walls of the booth.

  “How could we be friends? I’m a parking lot attendant. You’re a child.”

  “You’re more than an attendant.”

  “Am I?” He turned my hand over and stared at the palm. “America gave me a job, which means it gave me a name—the attendant—and an identity—the man who parks cars—and a purpose—to park as many cars as possible. That’s all. Everything else, you need to forget. And before that, you need to leave.”

  To say that I spent the next few days in a haze would imply that I had a self which could experience things like alertness and stupor. I must have displaced my body from one location to another because my journal entries, faithfully kept, detail class incidents, quotes, successfully completed assignments, confirmations of my father’s presence. I am only eyes in these entries, reporting on people and places, providing not a clue as to how they affected me. There was no “me” to affect. I only needed to breathe enough air so that I could keep records on those still capable of living.

  It was while walking from the bus to my apartment during this stretch of nothing that I felt someone behind me. When I turned, no one was there. At one time, I might have found this alarming, but now I was concerned only with getting inside as quickly as possible and hastening the hours until sleep. I hadn’t gone far when I espied someone checking a parking meter on the opposite sidewalk; I was sure that he’d been staring at me a second earlier. I watched more closely, and to his credit, he feigned absorption for a little longer before briskly walking toward the corner gas station. Someone coughed. I looked over only to be confronted with a neighbor whose name I forgot but who always said hi because we’d bought appliances from one of her stoop sales.