Symbols

by Jeff Baker

The man in the rumpled suit was standing in the parking lot next to an ancient camera on a tripod.

“Hey!” Kelly called out through the open driver’s side window. “That’s my spot! Move that, that thing!”

The man in the suit looked up. He had a grubby black beard and glasses.

“I am Malesco,” the man said in an indeterminate accent. “Beg pardon, but I must capture this before the light changes.”

The camera was pointing down at the parking space by the ivy-covered brick wall.

“Uh, that’s fine, but that’s my spot,” Kelly said. He wiggled the handicapped card hanging from the rear-view mirror.

Malesco stared for a moment and then returned to aiming his camera at the parking space.

“The insignia, the symbol. She is, how you say, perfect!”

“Yeah, that’s a handicapped parking spot and it’s where I’m supposed to park,” Kelly said.

“But this picture is perfect,” Malesco said. “It says so much without words.”

“Yeah, just hurry and get out of the way, will you? I have to…”

“But I must capture this before the light changes!”

“What light?” Kelly said. “It’s September and it’s cloudy.”

“In a minute, in a minute…” Malesco said, looking through his camera.

“Maybe more than a minute,” Kelly grumbled to himself.

“Oh, this is, how you say? Wow!” Malesco said, his voice rising. “The symbolism, the imagery is perfect!! I could never have found this moment in Paris or in Spain or even in Tokyo! It is, how do the natives say…”

Kelly didn’t stick around to hear how the natives said it, he drove off, found a parking space in the adjoining lot which fortunately was not any further than his office and walked towards the building with his cane, grumbling about the photographer. But when he reached the office door and saw himself reflected in the glass; a man in a long coat with a cane, walking along grumbling, it reminded him of Ebeneezer Scrooge.

And in the glass, the warm September ground looked like snow.

Kelly began to laugh as he opened the door.

—end—