Embark with me on a journey. This past week I had 10 minutes to get to a class in Elkins and was driving down from Drescher. As you probably know, Pepperdine hates residential campus drivers more than Al-Qaeda hates “The Bachelorette.” And yet, I soldiered on.
Down the hill I drove, past countless open spots reserved for the proverbial — and often ethereal — commuter student or carpooler. I tried my luck at the Smothers lot, hoping maybe God had pulled off a little Tuesday magic and opened up the gate with a well-timed lightning strike. No dice.
My last ditch effort of the four hidden spots near One-Stop proved also to be futile. The pleather of my steering wheel became ensconced in my fingers as I squeezed on it like a feeble child unable to burst a roll of bubble wrap.
Warding off tears, I rolled back around, only minutes before class, desperate for a spot. And there it was, off in the distance, almost too good to be true, the Lennay Kekua of parking spots. I pulled up to it, a narrow space between a Maserati and a BMW, and attempted to talk myself into what would prove to be the most challenging part of my day: the parallel park.
I evened up with the Maserati, tried to remember how parallel parking worked, realized no one — not even my father — had taught me how to parallel park and resorted to prayer. This prayer was interrupted within seconds by a line of cars, student shuttles and a motorcade of buses carrying inner-city youth.
“One moment!” I shouted. I cut hard to the left, more than 300 people scrutinizing my every move, and could’ve sworn I heard a Compton third grader shout, “Oh there’s just no way he makes it.”
Unfortunately, he was right. I had gone in way too hot, was now perpendicular to the sidewalk and had reduced my chances of success into the single digits. I aborted the mission, tried to start back at square one, but the cars behind me began trying to pass, and then there were cars trying to proceed up the hill in the other lane.
Alas, the patience of the Lord was nowhere to be found. So I drove back to Drescher and made myself a Hot Pocket.
I think we have a parking problem here on campus. Actually, we have more car issues than Detroit in 2008. And thanks to half of our students parking with less care than the headmistress from “Matilda,” if you aren’t Ryan Gosling in “Drive,” even the free spots prove insurmountable.
The obvious answer is more parking lots, but I don’t have time to sit around and wait for that awesome project that will make Pepperdine cool for my grandkids. We need solutions fit for a microwave, not an open-roast fire.
What if there were spots reserved for those with a GPA above 3.25? What if freshmen could only park at Drescher? What if we fed visitors to the lions like the rest of us?
Are these awful solutions? Perhaps, but at least I’m trying — which is more than you can say about our school at the moment and its hapless drivers.
