Escape from the garage

I may never trust another sign again.

It said, "Open," in bright red electronic letters.

And, because it said, "Open," it lured us in.

We were heading to a baseball game in Fort Wayne, a mid-day, mid-week game, the kind that used to be called a "Businessman's Special."

The trip was an indulgence.

But we'd received word from Connie's brother just a few days before that his wife had been killed in a traffic accident.

And just that morning we lost our good friend and neighbor, Gary Gibson.

So it was an indulgence we could justify on the grounds of mental health, if nothing else.

I made a brief appearance at the office and promised to return in late afternoon to wrap up some loose ends and take care of an after 5 p.m. photo assignment.

But the middle of the day was set aside for sunshine and minor league baseball at what has become our favorite ballpark, Parkview Field in Fort Wayne.

And then I trusted the sign.

We'd used the parking garage before a number of times, but that was always on a Sunday afternoon. This was a Wednesday morning.

Big difference.

For the first 75 feet or so, everything was fine.

Then the line slowed to a crawl.

And it crawled, and it crawled.

We'd trusted the "Open" sign about 5 minutes before the first pitch, but the clock kept ticking as we kept crawling up through the crowded garage.

It would not be entirely accurate to say there were absolutely no parking places.

But it would be on the money to say there were no sane parking spaces. It might have been possible to squeeze a small car into three or four of them, but a sunroof might have been necessary to get out of the vehicle.

You couldn't have opened the doors.

The National Anthem was sung.

The first pitch was thrown.

And we were still crawling in a tunnel of gray concrete while the sun shined on the great American pastime.

And then the crawling stopped.

I have no idea what level of the parking garage we had reached at that point.

All I know is that there were enough SUVs, cars, and pick ups ahead of us that we couldn't see around the next corner, and there were at least an equal number behind.

The only thing we had going for us is that the two of us had come alone.

We could see cranky kids whining in all the other vehicles in line.

What was the hold-up? I'll never know.

There may have been a fender-bender as someone tried to get into a parking space that was six inches too narrow.

There may simply have been panic.

Short of getting out of the car and marching up the ramp there was no way of knowing.

And since there was no way of knowing when the line would start moving again, I wasn't going to leave the car.

At one point, we became hopeful when a security guard on a Segway scooted past us to sort things out.

But nothing happened.

So we were less hopeful when a second security guard on an equally ridiculous looking Segway scooted past.

And when nothing happened then, we were downright cynical when a third neatly-pressed, official-looking guard on a Segway followed suit.

Finally, roughly 45 minutes after we trusted that brightly-lit red "Open" sign, the logjam broke.

Did we get a parking spot in the garage? Of course not.

My guess is that there were roughly 35 to 40 more vehicles stuck in the garage than it was ever designed to hold.

We did make it to the ball game, though.

Sure, it was the top of the third inning.

But that didn't matter.

We had escaped.[[In-content Ad]]