By Claudia Johnson
Special to the Florida State Times
Dr. Claudia Johnson, a graduate of the FSU English department's Creative Writing Program, teaches screenwriting for the FSU Film School. She is the author of Stifled Laughter, an account of her fight against censorship in Florida, which has been nominated for a Pulitzer prize. Her success as a writer, professor and free-speech champion has not exempted her from the common lot of the FSU community: parking problems. For Johnson, the search for a place to put her car seems complicated by a tendency to go soft in battle:
I spent five years at Florida State finding my calling and my voice as a writer, but there were days I would have traded all that for a good parking place.
Like one hot April day a few years ago.
I'd circled the lot by the Mecca across from the fountain for more than five minutes, nice and slow, like a shark. There were no parking places. My screenwriting class was about to begin. If nothing turned up in the next 60 seconds, I would have to park down the hill and hike a mile back up in the heat. I'd arrive late for class, perspiration pouring off me like sweat.
I was about to drive out of the lot when I saw a red car back out. I drove toward the space. That's when I saw the white mini-van, a sleeker van than my own, one of those new plastic models that would look more at home on the monorail tracks down at Disney. It rounded the corner at the opposite end of the lot. The parking space was halfway between us.
Oh, no way, I thought. I raced toward the space, rows of cars going by in a blur, and I beat the other van by a length. I turned off the engine, a little amazed at myself, a little ashamed -- I'd never done anything like this before -- but I pushed the feeling aside and adjusted my rear-view mirror to put on some lipstick. The white van was stopped right behind me. The driver -- a woman about my own age -- was glaring at me. Her eyes said, "I want to eat your intestines."
Now what? Was she going to kill me? Or worse, key-scratch my van, the first new car I'd had in a decade?
I decided to stall. My students would just have to wait. If I stalled long enough, she'd give up and go on. I put on my lipstick. I brushed my hair. I gathered my books. I brushed my hair one more time. I touched up my lipstick. She was still sitting there. I decided there was no way around it; I would have to walk past this woman to get to my class. I steeled myself and got out of the car.
"That was so rude," she shouted.
"Look," I said. "I was waiting for more than five minutes."
"I was waiting for 20!" she shrieked. "I was waiting there, at the end of that row. The driver said I could have that space when he left!"
Oh, right, I thought. Then, calling her bluff, I held up my keys. "Would you like the space? I'll move my car if you want."
"No, that's all right," she snorted and drove back to the spot where she said she'd been waiting.
Wimp, I thought to myself. I walked on to class, but halfway there, I began to feel guilty. What if she'd really been waiting that long? The feeling surprised me. A guilty conscience, I thought, was a thing of the past, something my parents invoked to keep me in line. Quaint, you know, like Jiminy Cricket.
My students were waiting, a bright and rowdy bunch. They razzed me, "You're late." I confessed what I'd done. I asked them if I should feel guilty. "Nah," they said. "She's a wimp."
After class I returned to my van. There wasn't a key scratch. That made me feel worse. I felt guilty until the next week when I drove down to campus to teach my next class. I drove into the lot. There, right before me, sat the white van. The engine was off. The windows were down. The woman was reading a book, waiting, I guessed, for the next space to open. So, she'd been telling the truth.
I pulled up beside the white van. The woman glanced up from her book, did a small double take, then went pale herself. I lowered my window. She swallowed. I let her sweat for a moment; then I shot her a nice, friendly smile.
"Look," I said. "About what happened last week. I'm sorry... "
"No, I am," she said."I shouldn't have shouted at you. I was in a terrible mood. I've felt guilty about it all week."
We both burst out laughing. I told the woman she could have the next space. Then I drove out of the lot and parked down the hill.