That was before I stepped out of the elevator on level A3 and realized I had no idea where I parked. The three-lane exit I spotted was nothing like the one-lane entrance I'd used at 6:12 a.m. But before I could panic, I spotted two yellow-vested Metro employees on golf carts.
"Can't find your car?" the older one asked, in what sounded like a Greek accent.
"No," I said.
"No one can," he said. "Jump in. I'll help you find it."
For the next ten minutes we trundled around the garage, and he regaled me with stories of car misplacements. "Many people think they parked here but actually parked in the other garage," he said, shaking his head. Maybe he was making this up, but it made me feel better. At least I was in the right garage.
Aren't these spots for hybrid cars?" I asked when we were on the highest level, A1. "No rules now," he said. "This like Wild West."
A few more loops of the garage and there was the car, right where I left it — on Level A3 of the Wild West. It was a wild ride.
(W.H.D. Koerner, Cattle Stampede)