That five o’clock smile is making your cheeks hurt.

The workday—and the corporate coworkers you’ve endured it with—are finally behind you.

In front of you? Five sweet hours of unpaid freedom.

No emails.

No “quick questions.”

Just you and your perfectly open evening.

The only thing standing between you now is that chilly-ass walk to the adult toy box—
The parking lot.

You pick up the pace.

Behind you, your annoying coworker is closing in, and you can already feel the gravitational pull of his black hole conversation—the kind where words stretch on forever, and nothing escapes, especially you.

“Not today, John,” you whisper to yourself.

You adjust your headphones like a New York subway rider dodging small talk and speed up. Now you’re practically flying—half-jog, half-escape mission.

At last, the ground shifts beneath you. Gone is the blinding white of the sidewalk and in is that blissful blacktop of the parking lot. Freedom is so close you can taste it.

You glance up. Cars on either side. Just one quick right turn, and there she is—your beautiful, reliable way home.

And then, unfortunately—you see her.

But something’s wrong.

Your smile fades as your brain struggles to process what your eyes can’t accept.

Your freedom is blocked.

By a line of cars.

A wall of them.

All parked haphazardly across the lot.

Directly.

In.

Front.

Of.

Yours.

You stop. Your legs refuse to take another step. The parking lot suddenly doesn’t feel so magical anymore, and your mood plummets faster than an elevator without a ripcord.

Idiots.

Absolute fuckin’ idiots.

Your company employs absolute fuckin’ idiots.

Something you knew, and yet you now only realize.

Who does this?

Who parks like this?

Animals? Sociopaths? Some unholy fusion of both?

You stare at the blockade, willing it to disappear. It does not.

So you consider your options.

The office is closed.
Tow trucks can’t squeeze in.
And you don’t have a genie in a bottle who can make the world disappear.

And so, there you are. Trapped.

Trapped in the daycare bin of adulthood.

Footsteps. Oh no.

Here comes your coworker—the one who corners you with tales of his fantasy football league as if you personally cared.

“Hey, Gary,” he says, far too cheerful for someone still in a parking lot. “Did you get blocked in?”

You blink at him. Then at your very obviously blocked-in car.

“Yeah, John. I did.”

After a moment, John offers the comfort that only John can give.

“Well, that sucks!” he says, nodding like he’s just delivered a profound truth.

“Thanks.”

…”So are you playing fantasy this year?”

Please like, comment share and tell me what you think. Have you been blocked in?

Never miss a post, and follow me here: 

(1) Tonysbologna | Anthony Robert | Substack