Bill York

The year was 1960. A large shopping center had just opened. There were no upper-levels for parking. My destination was a restaurant. I pulled into the parking lot. It was full. I drove down a few aisles and saw a couple entering their car. I whipped around two aisles. I was too late. Another car was in front of me. 

The couple began to back out of their space as a flashy sports car swung into the aisle from the other side.  The car in front of me was there first and should get the spot. The car backing out turned to come our way, blocking the aisle so the sports car turned into the parking place. They parked and the driver turned giving the people in front of me a grin plus a middle finger salute. As the couple headed to the restaurant the man turned and gave another disgusting gesture. Oddballs out early in the day.

Although not intended for me I felt like it was a contemptible and insulting way to act. The offended driver of the other car and I were able to find parking places a few rows away.

I noticed the driver, who should have gotten that space, remained in his car until the couple went into the restaurant. 

I sat, avidly curious. A drama was unfolding.



The elderly man got out of his car and scanned the parking area. There was no one else around. He strolled slowly toward the right side of the sports car and stood adjacent to the door.

Suddenly he staggered as though he was suffering from vertigo. His shoulder crunched against the side-view mirror. I heard the metal hit the cement floor with the glass shattering. He stood up, seemingly sturdy.

His eyes slowly surveyed the parking lot again. No one was in sight. The man moved to the other side of the sports car. He stopped at the door, staring at the other side mirror. I could almost read his mind.

I was hypnotized. I even anticipated him suffering another attack of vertigo.

It happened. The man stumbled and fell, his shoulder smashing against the driver’s side mirror, that racket   sounding the same as when the other mirror hit the concrete, that glass shattering, too. 

I watched how quickly the man recovered stability as he studied the damage he had done. As he passed by my car he grinned, giving me a thumbs-up. I returned his thumbs up. He drove out of the parking lot.

I sat in my car for a few minutes then went into the restaurant. I saw the owner of the sports car. I thought about going back to my car and watching their expressions when they saw their flashy car. 

Bill is a 93-year old WW II Navy veteran and retired President of York Furs in Buckhead. You can contact him by email at