When you have just lived through a family reunion with all of its back-to-the-future sibling rivalry and strained relationships caused by the choice of each person to live an entirely different lifestyle from everyone else as a way of standing out from the crowd, the last thing you need is to almost get killed by the Speed-Park guy on the way from the airport back to your car.
Looking at this man as he kindly waddles down from the front seat to lift your oversized bag into the caddy in hopes of a $1 tip, he doesn’t seem dangerous at all. You even feel sorry for him, knowing that between the weight of his stomach and all of those bags he lifts in a day, his back will be shot in no time. But he is bitter. You are the reason for his misery. And he is going to kill you on the way back to the Speed-Park.
Getting there is a little bumpy, but there are red lights to slow him down a bit. But once on the Speed-Park property, there is no stopping him. He flies down the lanes of parked cars at breakneck speed as the passengers look at each other uncomfortably. A mother clutches her crying baby. A standing man falls into the lap of a man holding tightly to his guitar case. I am the last to exit. Fate - which is never on my side - has me parked in aisle V. But V is for Victory. Except for a scraped elbow I received from grabbing for the balance pole on the final turn, I am unscathed.
I want to say something to this Mario Andretti of the Speed-Park, but instead I cast my eyes downward and hand him his $1. I am very afraid of the Speed-Park man.