My work parking garage is the worst parking garage in the world. The spaces are tiny, it’s single direction, twelve levels over six floors , and it was designed to destroy wheels
So I always park on the roof, which takes a certain sort of psycho. Today, my normal corner spot was being patched, so I had to pick somewhere else.
One of my fellow dedicated nutters is a guy who parks his GL63 on the roof. I can barely maneuver my Jag through this garage, so maneuvering a GL through twelve levels of that shitshow every day requires a genuine dedication to avoiding door dings.
The guy who owns it had just parked, so I explained that I parked next to him because I know he’s as insane as I am. Then we had a five minute conversation about the perils of door dings and how Jags don’t look as good as they used to.
The only other time I’ve felt such a sense of complete security was the time I rode the subway with my ex’s commando brother.