Some days I remember both my name and the name of my company when answering the phone. Some days I remember to bring an actual lunch rather than a block of cheese grabbed from the fridge on my way out the door. Some days I even manage to leave work at 5:30 without the itchy feeling that I’d forgotten something. And other days, I’m wandering around downtown with a high-heeled shoe filling with blood while I try and fail to deliver a sensible pantsuit to a TV judge.
My GPS has failed me, insisting that a partially gravel parking lot catty-cornered from a detention facility I didn’t know existed, was in fact the high-rise I was looking for. I picked my way through the gravel in my at-one-point-sensible-mid-heeled shoes, towards the “pay here” sign. My plastic dry-cleaners bag rustled with each step as the pantsuit swung out behind me in the wind like a conspicuously purple banner. There was a guy standing at the ticket machine. He was wearing what looked like a work uniform, complete with official-looking lanyard, messing with the machine. Fixing it, I assumed. I ask him if I’m close to the building. “Nah! I’m going to the courthouse.” He pointed to a squat building behind us. I was looking for a judge, but it wasn’t the right building. As I turned to leave he called out the name of the building I was looking for to a guy that just walked up. The man shook his head, but a homeless man on the corner picked up the call.
I got in my car again, writing off the three dollars I paid to park. A man carrying what looked like a car antennae with the tip dragging on the ground, asked me for two dollars and fifty cents exactly. A prison transport van drives past me. “You are here” my GPS chirps over and over again, at an intersection, in front of a wig store, at a hotel. I can see the building, I just can’t figure out how to get there. So I ditch my car at a parking deck and walk there.
In hindsight, the building wasn’t hard to find at all. What was hard to find, was my car and the nondescript parking lot I parked it in.