Ingress and Egress
Who designs a parking lot like this? It shouldn’t be so hard to drive to the doctor’s office where I’m going. This strip mall is dominated by Wal-Mart, a space simplified. A lot of the eastside of Las Vegas is newly developed and should benefit from the new surveying abilities, better understanding of ingress and egress, designs meant to make the “consumer experience” as simple as possible. But I feel like I’m in a labyrinth, driving into dead ends with newly paved cement curbs and awkwardly placed parking spaces. Without cars parked in their places, it’s hard to get definition. I’m late again.
I can see in the distance my destination: the doctor’s office in the corner of this strip mall, with a skinny kid loitering in the emptiness of the front steps. Feels like civilization hasn’t made it to this corner yet.
I get there, maybe I’m overstating my frustration, but I feel rushed and agitated. I quickly start to unload my car because I’m delivering the artwork for the doctor before she starts seeing new patients. All of it is custom with her face. She may be new, but she has a place.
As I walk toward the door, hands full, the loitering kid looks at me from behind his aviator glasses that are tinted with the Batman logo. He’s older than I thought initially—maybe 20—and I think he should have outgrown this phase by the time he was 10. But the kid opens the door for me and in addition to being surprised with his kindness, I’m suddenly made aware of his dress: the uniform means he’s not loitering, but securely guarding the office, a gainful means of employment.
“Thanks,” I say and I walk into the empty doctor’s office, without any patients it feels sad and unaccomplished.
“Do you want help unloading the rest?” He asks and then adds: “It’s not like I’m going to be doing much today anyways.”
“Sure.” I relent. So far from home I’m pleased by the kindness and I feel a not unpleasant obligation to learn more about this kid, who’s scrawny frame doesn’t fill out his uniform but he seems much bigger once he’s helping, easily carrying heavy packages.
He drops the packages off inside and I feel compelled to ask him: “Why are you here?”
He shrugs, it’s probably something he’s pondered enough to give an adequate answer for others, and he says, “One of the nurses was mugged behind the office.”
“Really?” I pretend to be surprised, but the details of the neighborhood seem to flush my mind: empty strip malls propped up by Wal-Mart and parking lots impossible to drive.
“Yeah, I grew up around here, I live just down the street.”
We head back out to the car for one more load.
“Well this is a convenient job then.” We’re almost done with all the heavy lifting.
“Tomorrow’s my last day. They’re going to bring in the armed security guard for when there are actual patients.”
“That’s a bummer. What are you going to do then?”
“I don’t know. I’m in the Army Reserve, I’ve already completed my active duty, and I live with my parents.”
“A good way to save money.”
We put the last of the packages down. He takes off his Batman sunglasses. “What’s funny is that I signed up for the Army to get out of Vegas. And they stationed me back here of all places.”
I want to say that I’m sorry. I want to say that we don’t end up where we plan on going. We don’t get to be superheroes. Sometimes we end up in empty doctor’s offices. But I summon some positivity and say, “I’m not sure where you’re going, but I’m sure you’ll be alright.”
This is not quite a lie, but it’s at best wishful thinking.
He nods, but looks at the ground.
I want to get out of here fast. I walk back to the doctor who wears a blank face of boredom in the split second before she sees me walk in. Then she’s animated, thanking me, with an anxiety that borders on depression. I wouldn’t have pegged her for that, but I suppose that’s what happens when people are not in their right place. She signs the acceptance papers, lets me walk out and I see a smidge of her going blank again.
The security kid stares intently at the phone screen since there’s nothing left for him to offer me. It’s ignorance strategy.
I get in the car and as I drive I run into a dead end of the poorly designed parking lot. But I can retrace my steps, and the memory of where I’m from gives me direction for where I’m headed.