It was a cool Saturday in the spring of 1998. The birds in the trees were singing happily as the branches swayed gently under the pressure of the wind. A few white clouds drifted lazily across the sky, betraying no indication that it would rain today. The sun shone down on the little Florida town, but its heat was not repressive, as it would be come the summer months. The McGee kids’ hockey nets were set out in the cul-de-sac, their sticks abandoned for some afternoon Kool-Aid and Easy Mac. Mrs. Brogan was outside with the twins, watching them play in the sprinkler and the little plastic pool her husband had inflated for them.
Her eyes met his as Parker Maggiatto shut the front door of his parents’ house and walked down the driveway to his motorcycle. Parker waved and smiled cordially at her before hiking one skinny leg up over the bike and positioning himself on the seat. He took his backpack off and checked to make sure all his zippers were zipped so he wouldn’t lose his work shirt, then put it back on once he was satisfied. Parker put the key in his hand into the ignition and fired up the engine of his dark blue Supermono. The bike purred, and the twenty-year-old lifted it up off the kickstand and kicked the metal leg up and out of his way. He waddled the motorcycle around to face the road, then took off down the street.
The garage was only two blocks from the neighborhood; if it were any farther, Parker was sure he’d be pulled over for not wearing his helmet. His dark hair danced in the wind as Parker hit thirty miles per hour, the speed limit from the intersection up to Jean Kayle’s house. The road between the cul-de-sac and the first intersection was straight for about a mile, lined by houses with suburban yards. Parker just wanted to hurry in to work and pull his five hours so he’d be done with it, free and clear to go to Lilly’s house for the night. His stepfather was expecting him at 1:30, and Parker was already almost late.
When he hit the stretch of road between the intersections, Parker hit about ten miles over the speed limit. The road was slightly curvy here, not so much that it was dangerous but just enough that it felt like it might be; it was a small thrill in the small town of Jaysdale. There were four curves, then a short straight stretch coming up on the second intersection. Parker reached the stretch and pulled out into the intersection, since it was the cross traffic that had the stop sign.
Parker’s ‘96 Bimota came to the intersection as a woman in an SUV ran the stop sign. She was talking on her phone and was completely unaware of both the sign and of the motorcycle that was suddenly colliding with her front bumper. The impact sent Parker and his bike flying across the intersection. Parker saw spots from the excruciating pain in his leg, and between those patches of white nothingness he could see the bone sticking through the skin. Everything was pristinely clear—the green SUV, its shining silver grille, the blue sky and white clouds, the gray of the pavement as he and his motorcycle were flung violently across it in the air. As they landed on the blacktop, all Parker could think was that he had better be able to fix his bike after all this—then his skull hit the pavement.
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Parker pulled his motorcycle into the parking lot of Kenton’s Auto Repair. He came in through the lobby door and went out into the garage through the service door. At the desk he filled out his time sheet and threw his backpack off onto the lukewarm cement floor. From the backpack he grabbed his button-down gray work shirt, then threw it over his shoulders and around his slightly muscular arms.
When the young man stepped onto the shop floor, his stepfather spotted him from one of the technicians’ stall. “You’re late, Parker,” the older man commented.
“Sorry, pops,” Parker replied nonchalantly. “Traffic.”
Steven Kenton shook his head. “Go on and get to your stall, got three or four jobs lined up for ya this afternoon.”
There was a mini-fridge behind the service counter where the technicians and mechanics kept cold lunches and drinks, and Parker took a can of Mountain Dew out of it before heading toward his stall on the opposite end of the shop. He popped the can open as he walked and took a gulp of the stuff, watching Cesár pull the first car around and park it in Parker’s stall between the pillars of his lift. When Parker reached his stall, Cesár climbed out of the green SUV and handed him the work order. “Brake pads.”
“Gotcha,” Parker replied, taking another swig of his Mountain Dew. He slammed the SUV’s driver-side door shut as Cesár walked back to the service desk for the lunch awaiting him in the mini-fridge.
The overhead fans couldn’t keep the shop cool enough; as nice as it was outside, the stalls were saunas. Parker wiped sweat from his brow as he removed the old brake pads from the SUV’s front left tire. They were so worn down, Parker was surprised that the van hadn’t been taken in for servicing sooner, or that the owner hadn’t been in an accident from the lack of stopping power. He replaced the pads on both front tires in about twenty minutes, throwing the old ones into the box the new ones came in. After lowering the lift arms so that the car was on the floor, Parker kicked the arms around back to the sides of the lift and jumped into the SUV.
Parker drove the van slowly out of the garage and into the parking lot. He pulled it carefully into a space at the side of the shop, parking as far into the space as he thought possible. Once Parker had shut the door, he locked it back up and put the key in his shirt pocket. As he walked around the van, he saw that its back tires were the last thing between the spot’s lines.
“What the—?” he said aloud. “How the fuck?”
He pulled the car keys back out of his pocket and got into the van to try again. Only a second or two after he pressured the gas pedal, the van jounced from colliding with the curb in front of it. Parker turned the car off and sat there for a second, staring out the windshield in bewilderment. Then he came out of the van for the last time, locked it, and looked again at his parking job. The van appeared to be in the exact same place as it had been before—a little less than halfway out of the space.
Parker shook his head furiously. “I give up.” Then he laughed a little and spouted, “I have no idea what’s going on.” So he went back into the shop and got back to work for the rest of his shift.
