Paved Paradise

by Scott MacLeod

Visual 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

It was a big day for Giggsy. Like in Bama rush when co-eds from Mobile to Phenix City learned which sorority was theirs. Or match day for med students when they discovered where they would be sleeping on cots like paratroopers and butchering Medicaid patients like Dahmer through overwork and ineptitude. Newly made guys like Giggsy were given a work assignment to start their career in the business. Giggsy wanted parking.

Was it because his old man was rumored to have been buried beneath the car park blacktop adjacent to the Javits Center after a deal gone sour during its construction in 1985? It was not.

Oh, it was a good business alright. A cash cow. Blushingly high prices. Gouging really. Opportunity to swipe the occasional Saab. Small time cons like siphoning gas. Shake-downs of local merchants for a monthly “maintenance” charge for the “services” made available to their customers. But that’s not what drove Giggsy. He didn’t visualize full lots cranking out simoleons. In his head danced empty lots. Space. Opportunity.

The emptiness. That was no metaphor for any hole in his soul. He was not unhappy in a general sense. No more than any of us. He’d been born to this life. Like the circus. He didn’t know anything else. Didn’t know any better to complain or dream. Other than his dreams about parking. He did not dream of full lots, that was a given. His reveries leaned towards a car lot bereft of cars. He saw there potential. Upside. Gravy. Like an Airbnb. Or a jet share. He saw that even the most robust parking operation lies fallow and unused for anywhere from a third to two thirds of every 24-hour day.

And he had a plan for those nocturnal vacancies. A blank canvas.

He had a friend at NYU. A science professor. Tree hugger but also a greedy SOB. Had a plan he wanted to commercialize in the alternative energy space. Lunar power. He’d constructed prototype cells that turned moon rays into electric juice. Like solar power after dark. The prof couldn’t test it out on the campus building rooftops down in the village. Didn’t trust his cutthroat fellow academics not to tamper or steal his thunder. Couldn’t do it in larger public places like Central Park. No control or security. When you think about it there are not a lot of unimpeded open private spaces in Gotham offering controlled access to moonbeams. A vacant parking lot was one. Giggsy planned to soak the bloated college coffers for premium fees to park their experiment overnight. Doubled revenues. Pure extra profit. He would rocket through the outfit like one of Elon’s projectiles.

But he didn’t get his wish. Boss had been listening to some business management podcasts. About something called conscious withholding. Not getting what you want is apparently good for you. Builds character. Giggsy was given something the boss knew he didn’t want to run. A nightclub.

Boy was he right that was not what Giggsy wanted. What could he do with a nightclub? He was a homebody. A thinker. No impresario. His tenure went about as expected. He’d brought his trusted childhood pal Coolie to help run the operation. Coolie was good with a wrench. Both as a handyman tool and a skullsplitter. He handled the physical plant while Giggsy supplied the gray matter. But Coolie could see the job sucking the life out of his friend. It wasn’t Giggsy’s calling.

After close of business when all the barbacks and hostesses had long gone, Coolie completed his regular rounds. Checking the circuits. The vents. Adjusting the gas heater. Fiddling with its seals. He’d enjoyed his usual late-night cigar before heading home. Previous nights he was scrupulous about tamping out the stick when finished. Usually soaking it in water or carrying it outside to ensure secure disposal. To be ultra safe. Previous nights.

Giggsy stood at dawn overseeing the rubble that had been his place of employ. His little kingdom. His tormentor. Now only the ghost of a building blown sky high. All that was left was a flattened smoking plot the size of half a city block.

Giggsy and Coolie looked out over the wide plain of cinders and powder. They both frowned but Coolie was smiling on the inside.

“Well boss, you’ve finally got your wish.”

“How’s that?” All Giggsy could think about was his next unwelcome assignment. And any repercussions from this demolition.

Then Coolie opened a door. “Now it’s a freakin’ parking lot.”