SUM FLUX
Volume 1, The Lot
Are You Okay?
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Are You Okay?

a podcast radio play by Sandolore Sykes

This piece is part of The Lot, the first volume of SUM FLUX. It kicks off with Edition 1, featuring seven writers. Read more about this zine and its theme here: https://sumflux.substack.com/p/volume-1-the-lot

This is a full-cast autofictional radio play about the time I became far too fascinated by the mysterious guy who spends his days sitting in his car in the parking lot behind my house.

Cast:

Scott

Jeremy

Bethany Amy Rohan

Leo Elliott

Real-life photo of the real-life spot the man inhabits daily. Note my lit window in the distance.

The Transcript:

Scott:

Today's episode is going to take a personal turn. I haven't spoken much about my twin sister before, but something happened recently that I couldn't stop thinking about, and I want to share it with you. On this podcast, we often explore simple questions with complex answers. I urge you to look closer, to ask more and more questions.

But can curiosity go too far? Is there a point where observing becomes invasive—not just for the observed, but for the observer?

Sandy and I grew up in a family of storytellers. Our father was a political consultant and radio host; our mother, a popular advice columnist and psychologist. Neither of them wrote novels, but Sandy and I always felt they wanted us to write.

I became a journalist and podcaster. Sandy became a fiction writer and visual artist. Our childhood was a training ground for storytelling. We spent hours creating narratives, playing pretend, putting on elaborate shows, writing and illustrating stories. Our parents encouraged it every step of the way.

We were also fascinated by people. With walkie-talkies and binoculars, we'd spy on the neighbors, inventing entire lives for them. For me, that curiosity turned outward into real-world stories. For Sandy, it became the foundation of her imaginative worlds.

When this story begins, Sandy had just landed a writing contract for a popular science fiction TV show. It was a project she'd been working toward for over a year, and she was thrilled. She was also preparing for a performance with her dance artist friends that she was really excited about.

She'd just moved into a new house, and after months of upheaval, life was finally settling in. For the first time in a while, she felt ready to dive back into her creative work. But not long after, all of these projects were put on hold.

The story I'm about to tell is one where I played a surprising role—about how Sandy's imagination took her somewhere unexpected, and how her questions led her to an obsession that blurred the line between fiction and reality.

Jeremy (the boyfriend):

It started with the parking lot. When Sandy moved into the new house, she set up her desk in this oversized bathroom overlooking the museum's lot. She loved the light, the view of the trees, the river, and the distance. It felt inspiring to her at first.

One night, we were lying in bed—windows open because of this weirdly warm fall—and she kept hearing bass thumping from somewhere. It drove her nuts. She kept getting up to check the window, looking out into the dark parking lot, but there was nothing.

That's when she started talking about this character in her head: a guy sitting in a parking lot, blasting music to escape his life. She described him in detail—a guy living with his overbearing mom, working a dead-end job selling stereo equipment, retreating to his car at night to feel like a prince in his little kingdom.

That's how her writing works. Characters just show up in her head fully formed. At the time, I thought it was just another story idea. But looking back, I think the parking lot had already started pulling her in.

Bethany (the best friend):

Sandy told me about her idea for this story early on—maybe in November. She was like, "There's this guy in the parking lot who pees on his wheel and just sits there all day."

I remember her saying how weird it was how normal he looked. So at first, I thought it was just one of her usual creative tangents. You know, a guy escaping his life by hanging out in a parking lot.

I mean, Sandy can spin a story out of anything. She can make the most mundane things sound exciting. Even when we were back in college as roommates, she would tell these elaborate bedtime stories to me—just one chapter every night. By the end, we had all our neighbors in the apartment building coming over to listen.

One really drunk night, the narrative just went too far off the rails, and we had to stop. But that's Sandy for you—she takes things to the end.

But she couldn't stop talking about the guy in the parking lot. "He's always there," she said. "You’d pass him on the street, and you'd never think twice about him. Ordinary beige windbreaker, maybe dyed hair, a nondescript gray car."

There's nothing about him that stands out. I had things going on in my own life, so I kept trying to change the subject. I didn't want to talk about "Mr. Beige Windbreaker Gray Car Guy."

In the end, though, we always ended up coming back to it. And that's when I realized this wasn't just another start to one of her stories. The record was skipping.

Leo (the son):

At first, I thought it was kind of funny. We watched the guy together once. He was peeing on his wheel, which was so gross. I was like, why doesn’t he just go on a tree? It got super stinky over there.

And the way he kept looking over his shoulder—like checking everywhere except back at us. But no one even looks towards our house. We can see them, but they can’t see us.

After a while, though, I didn’t get why she cared so much. It’s just some random grandpa in a parking lot. What’s so interesting about that?

Jeremy:

Eventually, she started keeping notes. I suggested it. I said, why not write down when he comes and goes and see if there’s a pattern? I even joked about getting binoculars so she could see more clearly.

Her observations got sharper. She noticed the man had started collecting branches, stripping them of smaller twigs, smoothing them with precision, then carefully leaning them against his car—always near the hubcap.

He was also placing small white stones near the driver’s side door. It became a ritual for her—charting his every move, trying to figure out what he was up to, why he was doing it, and what he might be making.

At the time, I said, maybe there’s a story in it. I wished I hadn’t.

Scott:

When Sandy called me about the guy, it seemed like another creative tangent. But she couldn’t stop asking questions. Why was he there only during the day? Where did he go at night?

She said he left newspaper confetti behind, neatly shredded like it meant something. I tried grounding her with a practical explanation. Maybe he sleeps in a shelter at night and uses the lot during the day.

That calmed her down for a while. But then she called again, and she sounded... off. She wasn’t just observing anymore. She was fixated.

Jeremy:

The turning point was the notebook. I found it one evening. I FaceTimed Bethany to show her.

At first, it looked like one of Sandy’s usual journals—doodles in the margins with abstract vines and neurons. But as I flipped through, it got unsettling.

There were pages of detailed notes: arrival times, departure times, even diagrams showing the exact angles of the sticks he arranged by his car.

Bethany tried to brush it off. "She’s an artist," she said. "Maybe this is just part of her process." But after I showed her the graffiti, even she started to worry.

Bethany:

So then Jeremy sent me a picture of the graffiti on the wall across from where Mr. Parking Lot sits. It said, Hello, why are you here? Are you okay?

The style—the curling vines, all those delicate lines—it was definitely Sandy’s.

But what made it even stranger was that she denied everything. I was like, "So did you spray-paint a little message to that guy?" And she shot back like, "No way. Do you think I’ve lost my mind?"

And I mean, she lied to me. I was like, you tell me.

I called Leo to see if everything was okay at home. Even though he’s a sophomore in high school, he’s a pretty independent kid. He mentioned that he was doing the cooking and the grocery shopping, which I thought was weird.

But I really started to worry when he said the last time he tried to get groceries, the credit card didn’t work. So I went over there with a big bag of groceries to see it for myself.

The house was a total wreck. It was a total sty. I did the dishes and asked Leo if he needed any help with his homework, but he seemed to be doing pretty well at school, and he didn’t seem really anxious.

Still, I left feeling really worried about both of them.

I looked out of her bathroom window at that graffiti. And it was just staring back: Are you okay?

In her handwriting. And here I am asking the same thing.

Jeremy:

The graffiti unsettled me. It was like a boundary had been crossed. She wasn’t just writing about the guy anymore; she was interacting with him.

That might have been fine if she’d just tried to talk to him directly. But the way she approached it felt strange—like she thought she was part of some surreal story. Something out of Black Mirror.

It wasn’t just writing anymore. She’d convinced herself he was part of her life.

One morning, she said, "He showed up right as I was opening the blinds. It’s like we’re connected."

Things escalated quickly. I hadn’t seen her for a couple of days—not unusual since we don’t live together.

But she wasn’t answering her phone. And when I went over to check on her, her house was freezing because the front door was wide open.

Inside, it was a mess. There was broken glass on the floor, a mug still full of cold coffee, and dirty dishes piled up in the sink. The whole place smelled like garbage.

Her desk was covered with pages and pages of handwritten notes, and she was in the corner, furiously typing out another story about parking lots.

She’d missed a deadline for her TV show script—a huge deal since that contract was how she paid her rent. She also bailed on the gallery performance without a word. No calls, no texts. It was so unlike her.

I tried talking to her, but she barely looked up.

Scott:

I told Jeremy this: It’s like her sense of self, so used to solitude, swallowed the parking lot.

Psychologically, it blurred the lines between her inner world and the outside. And this man—he became a part of her.

But what unhinged her? He was unreachable, hermetic, a black hole her imagination couldn’t penetrate.

But it wasn’t just out there. It was inside her too. The more she circled it, the more it seemed to grow.

Leo:

She stopped doing everything. No dishes, no walking the dog, no workshops. She just kept writing these weird stories about other people in parking lots and then spent hours sitting by the window watching him.

One day, I said, "Why don’t you just write about him already?"

She snapped. "That’s the one thing I can’t do."

That’s when I realized she wasn’t just obsessed anymore. She was stuck—like her brain had totally short-circuited or something.

I got a little, I don’t know, worried about her. I’m not even sure she was showering. Like, what if she just stopped doing everything and sat there forever?

I didn’t know what else to do, so I called my uncle and talked to Jeremy about it.

Jeremy:

We all talked—me, Bethany, Leo, and Scott—and decided I’d go talk to the guy.

I’d bring him a coffee and politely ask if he could park somewhere else. I was going to say something like, "We can see you from our window, and it feels like we’re invading your space. There’s another lot just down the way. Maybe you could go somewhere more private."

That morning, I checked to make sure he was there. He was adjusting one of his sticks on his car.

But by the time I got to the lot, he was gone.

And here’s the weirdest part: He never came back. Not that day. Not ever.

Bethany:

And after that—after Mr. Parking Lot Guy was gone—she finally wrote this story.

It was definitely a strange, unsettling story, and she managed to write something from his point of view. But somehow, it worked. Somehow it freed her.

Suddenly she was herself again. The bubble burst. It was like she’d finally unlocked whatever had been stuck in her head—whatever that record skipping was.

The last time I went over there, the subject we couldn’t get off of was her new literary zine and all the authors she was gushing about working with.

It was just such a relief to have her talking about something else and to seem like herself again.

Jeremy:

She’s back to normal now. She’s got all the projects and new characters in her head. She’s been working on a new piece that has her tearing her hair out.

Luckily, she was able to secure that TV contract despite missing deadlines, and her artist friends have forgiven her.

Every time I pass the parking lot, I see that graffiti: Hello, why are you here? Are you okay?

It’s getting overgrown now, but it still feels like Sandy left a piece of herself out there.

The other day, I noticed the open notebook on her desk and glanced through it to make sure the guy hadn’t returned. He hadn’t.

The final entry sat there, staring back at me like a blinking cursor. I closed the notebook gently and slid it into the drawer. I didn’t mean to invade her privacy, but it just felt right—to turn the page.

Scott:

When we talked recently, Sandy didn’t say it outright, but I could tell she believes she wrote the guy out of existence, as if he was only ever there for her.

The graffiti’s still there, though: Are you okay?

Now it feels like it’s asking her those questions, turning her own curiosity back on herself.

What do you think, listeners? Was he just a manifestation? Where do you think he went at night? And what could he have been doing with those branches?

Have you ever gotten stuck on an obsession? Something that caught your eye and wouldn’t let go, no matter how hard you tried to look away?

Obsession, creativity, and the blurry line between them. It’s a fine balance, isn’t it?

Until next time, keep looking closer—but not too close.

To read the piece that was Sandy’s catharsis, click here:

In the Inversion Field
NothingleftbuttheFord
Read more

To read another of her pieces about her parking lot obsession, click here:

In the Inversion Field
“Hello, Hello, Hello”
Read more

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