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In the early ’90s, I was a university student in a Midwestern city. I had worked a few years to save cash and avoid going too deep into debt. I also had part-time jobs between classes, which led to compromises, including my living accommodations during the last couple of years of obtaining my engineering degree.

In my third year, I lived in one of those three-story, nine-plex low-cost rentals to make ends meet. There was a single mom and her toddler living above me, and I often heard the thump-thump of little feet early, especially on a sleep-in Sunday. I didn’t mind, as they had to live their lives, and I needed to get up and at ’em anyway.

I had an old truck rather than taking transit

Image credits: Hans Herrington (not the actual photo)

Even though I was a student, because I had a part-time job 45 miles out of town, and school labs sometimes ran late. The engine in the old truck failed on me the year before, and I installed a wrecker replacement in a buddy’s driveway. The old engine, sans heads, was in the back of the truck for winter traction.

On several occasions, I came home to find a car in my assigned parking spot

Image credits: Jorgina Nkosi (not the actual photo)

I assumed this was a visitor of my neighbor directly above me, as I would sometimes come home for lunch and see that most other cars were gone for work, leaving their spaces open for visitors, whereas her space had a car with flat tires. Initially, I tolerated the behavior, as I could sometimes take a visitor’s spot or park on the street. However, as the season grew colder, it became annoying. One day, the same parking bandit took my space and even plugged their engine block heater into my (charged to my power bill) outlet.

I pulled my truck up behind the bandit’s car, unloaded my old 351 V8 directly behind the plugged-in car, then parked on the street and waited.

About an hour later, I watched as a woman in her 50s walked to her car from the apartment building and saw the obstruction

Image credits: Arno Senoner (not the actual photo)

She tried to maneuver but could not get past the engine block. She then tried to move it but made no progress, with her dollar store shoes sliding in the snow. Finally, she looked at the assigned number on the spot and went back inside. Knock-knock—I answered. She was mad, but I didn’t engage until she could speak politely and somewhat coherently. She admitted to being the mother of my neighbor above. I tried explaining to her that the parking space is part of the tenant’s rent and is not public. She responded with “Yeah, yeah,” so I made her repeat it back until she got it right. The blood vessels in her neck were popping, but she did it. The best part was the look on her face when I one-kneed the engine into the bed of my truck.

No issues for the rest of the semester, and I rented elsewhere for my final year.

Moderator’s note:

Please note that the images included in this article are for illustrative purposes only and do not represent the actual individuals or items discussed in the story.

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