Also, I keep hearing noises from behind me but no one’s ever there.
I’m just being paranoid. It’s the trauma, don’t you know.
The breathing I hear, which is definitely not my own, doesn’t exist. It couldn’t. This is a trick my mind is playing on me, to deceive me into thinking that I’m not just flung out here on my own devices. It’s not working, though, because what my mind is forgetting is that it’s mine, and so I’m using it to play games with itself twice as quickly and twice as hard as it’s attempting to pull a fast one on me.
My biggest fear is that I’ll go crazy. Scratch that. My biggest fear is that I will never have food again, but going crazy is a close second.
I can hear the breathing again, and all of a sudden, that feels really good. I don’t want to start pulling theories out of my ass this late in the game, but if Ayale really is on his way here, and that really is him behind me, this could be my chance to talk to him, make him realize just how mistaken he is, maybe even tell him about my father.
Or maybe he’ll just slaughter me here, where there are no witnesses, and never think about me again.
Also, wouldn’t Ayale just send a disciple? Personalized execution is for those who matter.
I checked again and no one’s there, but I always thought Ayale could hide with the best of them. Call it instinct.
Go to college, kids! If not, you’ll literally die alone!
If my heart beats any faster, cardiac arrest will be the end of me because I’m no hummingbird and my heart is meant to be measured in its pace.
I’m going to turn around, just one last time.
No I won’t! I must be losing so many kilowatts of energy every time I turn my neck.
I just did it. Science was never my subject of choice.
No one’s there.
I keep thinking of Odysseus telling the Cyclops that his name is Nobody and getting away but then ruining it by boasting that his name is Odysseus, bam, take that Polyphemus. I hated Odysseus. I hate overly clever men.
One more turn around and then I’m done.
It would be terrible and hilarious if, after all this, it was a heart attack that finished me. I survived the firing squad, but my eighteen-year-old heart failed me.
Just one more and then it’s eyes forward for the rest of this stroll.
No one there.
I need to move on. Make something of myself. Meet some new people.
Once more.
Not there.
Good. Good, good, good.
What if I can’t make anything of myself? Without him, I would have been just another example of boring and slight upward mobility. I would have been just me.
He’s still not there.
At least I’m not a prick like Odysseus. But also, he had adventures.
No one is coming for me, not to save me, not to kill me, because I’m not worth the effort.
I guess my father thought I was worth the effort. I guess he thought it all along. My mother too, in her own way, after a while.
Still no one.
I really loved him. I really loved her. I really loved all of them.
One more turn.
There is nothing now that I don’t miss about before.
Acknowledgments
Massive and heartfelt thanks to:
my family, who even when they didn’t get it, loved me enough to pretend until they did; my friends, who have become family, and who cooked for me, traveled with me, read my drafts, and advised me through visas, tax returns, real estate, emotions; Victor LaValle, who gave me shit until I got better, and then gave me my chance; my agent, Julia Masnik, who stuck with me and believed in me, even when I didn’t; my editor, Caroline Zancan, who championed this book when many wouldn’t; and Kevstar, who has done all of these things and more, despite my whining.
About the Author
NAFKOTE TAMIRAT is a native of Boston. She holds an MFA from Columbia University. Her short stories have appeared in Birkensnake, The Anemone Sidecar, and Best Paris Stories. The Parking Lot Attendant is her first novel. You can sign up for email updates here.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Part I: On the subject of How My Father Found Us a Home and I Followed Him There
Part II: On the Subject of Where We Were Before and Where We Were Before That
On the subject of How We Met Ayale:
On the subject of The Right of Kings:
On the subject of How My Father and I Came to Learn about B—:
On the subject of All That We Knew About Ayale:
On the subject of the Vicissitudes of Telephonic Communication (I):
On the subject of South Street Diner:
On the subject of How I Came to Genuinely Suspect:
On the subject of Some Teachers I Once Had:
On the subject of The Disciples:
On the subject of the Basement Covenant:
On the subject of Distractions:
On the subject of the Vicissitudes of Telephonic Communication (II):
On the subject of How We Got Involved:
On the subject of Looking Around Corners:
On the subject of How the Answer Was Worse:
On the subject of New Year Presents:
On the subject of Why Ayale Needed a TV:
On the subject of Love:
On the subject of How Everyone Found Out and Didn’t Like It:
On the subject of How It Ended There Before We Came To Here:
Part III: On the subject of Revelations that Mean Less Than One Would Expect:
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
THE PARKING LOT ATTENDANT. Copyright © 2018 by Nafkote Tamirat. All rights reserved. For information, address Henry Holt and Co., 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.henryholt.com
Cover design by Nicolette Seeback
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Names: Tamirat, Nafkote, author.
Title: The parking lot attendant: a novel / Nafkote Tamirat.
Description: First edition. | New York: Henry Holt & Company, [2018]
Identifiers: LCCN 2017019274 | ISBN 9781250128508 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781250128515 (electronic book)
Subjects: LCSH: Fathers and daughters—Fiction. | Ethiopians—Fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3620.A67 P37 2018 | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017019274
e-ISBN 9781250128515
First Edition: April 2018
Our e-books may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at (800) 221-7945, extension 5442, or by e-mail at [email protected].
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
The Parking Lot Attendant Page 19
