Tired of working for “the man”? Looking to change fields, make the leap into something completely new? Something where you can be your own boss, set your own fees, and nobody, but nobody can balk at them ‘cause you have them over a barrel?
Open your own impound lot!
All you need is a modestly sized piece of decrepit property tucked behind an abandoned strip mall garnished with graffiti and surrounded by barbed wire fencing, a ramshackle shed that looks like rapists live there, a few very large, very angry dogs, a willingness to gouge your fellow man for the sake of your annual trip to the redneck Riviera and maybe some new teeth for your sweetheart, and a friendly rapport with the local police, and you are in the money!
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I wanted to kick myself when I went to pick my son's car up from the XX impound lot in XXX, Virginia. (No, this isn’t a mistake. I’m not naming names lest they sic the aforementioned angry dog on me.) I had no idea a business could look so bad, feel so shady, and yet from the thousands of dollars in CASH I had to hand over to the druggy looking dude who greeted me, be so profitable. I mean, why in God’s name did I go to college? There had to be three, four dozen cars there, locked up and awaiting the arrival of some poor schmuck like me who had to beg and borrow – but not steal because who needs more shit involving the police at this point – to scrounge up the money to free my kid’s car.
This dump with the rapists quarters? Was a gold mine. .
I handed the cash to the druggy looking dude. (I think he was 16.) The wind was blowing hard. My friend Charity, who drove me there and who weighs all of 11 pounds, was standing to my left shivering off her three ounces of body fat. The druggy looking dude counted the money while I stood there in my appropriately packed tee shirt and linen pants freezing and terrified the bills were gonna blow away in the wind and hoping I’d counted it correctly because if not, the deal was gonna go bust and the lot was going to close, costing me more and more every day because its hours of operation are, and I quote, “when we want,” when finally the dude said something like “We’re cool” and I said “What?” and he walked away and into the ramshackle rapists shed and I turned to Charity.
“What did he say?” I yelled.
“What? I can’t hear you! My ears are frozen!” She shouted back.
Oh my God, I thought, that bastard took my money. He better be getting me the keys or I’ll… I’ll do what? Breach that shitty shed?
My kid’s in jail. I’ve dragged one of my dearest friends to a pit that looks as bad as the Bronx. And there’s every possibility we’re gonna wind up in the trunk of one of the vehicles this place is holding hostage for a trillion dollars a day.
I’m going to kill my kid.
Five long, frozen minutes later the dude returns, hands me the keys to my kid’s car and unlocks the gate. I give Charity the high sign which means, I’m following you because it doesn’t matter how long I lived here, I will get lost getting back to Warrenton so please don’t leave me! and follow him into an abyss of vehicles.
“That’s yours,” he says.
“How’m I supposed to get in?” I reply, seeing my kid’s car crammed between two others.
He shrugs.
Isn’t this a great business? You make all this cash and you don’t give a damn about the people impacted by the impound. If I didn’t have a conscience, I’d already have cards made. “Suzy’s Impound Lot! You Arrest the Autistic, We Charge them Double!”
Somehow I squeeze into the driver’s side. For a moment, I don’t care that the druggy looking dude is an ass. That it just cost me about two grand to get my kid’s car back. That Charity and I are in the most desolate, frightening spot in quite possibly all of Virginia and it’s my fault (correction: my kid’s fault). I’m just so happy to be in the car and be bringing it home and then –
I look around.
The filth in my kid’s car is indescribable. Hundreds of receipts. Empty bottles of Gatorade. Crushed cans of Monster and Red Bull. Mail. Opened and unopened. Clothes. Soccer balls. Baseball caps. Cleats. Those plastic Livestrong wristbands I’m still gonna kill Lance Armstrong for. McDonald’s and Chic Fil A bags and boxes and straws and wrappers and crumbs and sunglasses and Autism awareness pins and, and, and.
I’ve never seen anything like it.
But wait – I have! I saw my condo. How did it not cross my mind that the car would be an exact replica?
Because I live in Fantasyland. Because I want my son, by some magical miracle, to suddenly be neurotypical. To be able to live on his own. To have his own life.
So I can enjoy mine.
I’m going to have to figure out how to do that without the magic and, if I can, maybe that’s the miracle.
This is part of a piece I’m calling “Life On The Inside.” You can read parts 1-10 here, if you’d like to catch up.
If you’d like to check out my other work, I invite you to visit my website for my books and TED Talk, and if you’d like to join me on Facebook or Instagram, I’d love to see you there.
My deepest thanks to all of you for joining me on this journey. Your notes and emails, particularly after Part 9: The Price of Loneliness was published, touch my heart. I’m sorry if I haven’t responded. Between work and attorney appointments and all the time it takes to wash my warden uniform (kidding) I don’t know if I’m coming or going. Ok, that’s not true. I’m not going anywhere.
Thank you so much for being here and for encouraging others to do the same.
Love,
Susan xo
I don't know if my parents ever had that wish that I would suddenly turn neurotypical, but, if they did, it probably didn't last long.
I may say "My ears are frozen" soon. There's a high risk of them being so in a Canadian winter even if I wear my toque.
I may seem happy, but I've been rather depressed off the keyboard. Writing and reading here has been a tonic I really needed.