Letters Home From Economy Parking Lot G
My Darling Lucille:
My dear, we’ve just landed! Oh, how I miss you. I am weary from my three-day real estate conference in Reno, and I long for the comforts of home. My body is weak from my journey, which consisted mainly of eating Sbarro pizza and shooting pool with Chuck Reynolds, the bastard. Now, I must exit Terminal 3, journey to Economy Parking Lot G and make my way home to you and the children. I’ll see you very soon.
Yours, Billy
Sweet Lucille:
What an oaf I am! Upon arriving at the airport parking lot three days ago, I left our gleaming 2010 Nissan Maxima and hurriedly scrawled the lot and row number on an Office Depot receipt. Alas, the ink rubbed off inside my Chinos — beautifully pressed as always, my love — and I am having a bit of trouble finding my parking spot. At this time, I have been walking up and down the lanes of Economy Lot G for 45 minutes and have seen no trace of the car. An inconvenience, to be certain! Rest assured, I will persist. I long to be in your arms again.
See You Soon, Billy
Hello Again, Lucille:
I have now been walking back and forth along the steaming rows of Economy Lot G for more than two hours. I have finished the 12 Greek yogurt pretzels I purchased for nine dollars in the terminal, and I grow weaker by the hour. I am realizing that I very well may have parked in Economy Lot H, not G. Luckily, Economy Lot H is situated just across the street from Economy Lot G. I am sure that I can convince a noble airport bus driver to help me traverse the street, which is overrun with jaded Uber drivers. Give the children my love.
Slightly Frustrated, Billy
Lucille, How Are You?:
The airport bus driver was a taciturn, woefully unhelpful fellow named Burg. I am now positive that I did, in fact, park in Economy Lot H; however, Burg will not take me there although it is across the street. He says it is against his protocol and “close to his quittin’ time, anyway.” I will have to cross the freeway on foot with my briefcase in one hand and this scratchy neck pillow in the other. I am reminded of the brave crossings completed by our forefathers; however, unlike Lewis and Clark, I do not have a wise, motherly Native American woman to guide me. I have only my wits and this tiny Mona Lisa print I won in Reno. You’d never know it’s not the real thing, honestly.
Getting Very Hungry, Billy
Dear Lucille:
I was greeted with a chilling sight upon entering Economy Lot H. Piled up amid discarded Manchu Wok containers, I found several human skulls. I can only imagine they belong to those unfortunate travelers who have come before me. We’re not so different, those skulls and I. We both seem doomed to wander Economy Lot H for all eternity. This unforgiving landscape will claim me, clutching me to its dry, dusty, garbage-riddled breast until I expel my last breath. Tell the children that I went down fighting, Lucille. I mean that quite literally: Chuck Reynolds just breezed past me in his new Saturn and flipped me the bird. I chased him down, and we scuffled for several minutes. He tore my tie.
Terrified, Billy
P.S. Upon further inspection, the skulls were actually mounds of Duty Free receipts.
My Cherished Lucille:
How fragile life is! As I lean against this ant-infested bus stop in Economy Lot H, I feel the breath slowly trickling out of my body. I am reminded of the frivolous pursuits to which I have been enslaved for decades. What are material things when existence is so fleeting, Lucille? We are but microscopic amoebas living precariously atop a wind-blown dandelion, frantically clicking back and forth between episodes of “Malcolm in the Middle” until we expire. If I had only known, I would have spent more time pursuing what really matters: a hot, fresh Cinnabon from the O’Hare kiosk. No matter — for the first time in my life, I feel an overwhelming sense of clarity. I feel such peace. I am ready to go.
All My Love, Billy
Lucille:
It was Economy Lot G after all. Be home in 30 minutes.
Lillian Stone is a midwest-based comedy writer and performer. She endeavors to complete every American Way in-flight crossword before anyone else can get their greasy little hands on them. So there!
