The Lot

One night, having finished parking his car, Charles closed the door and turned around to find the olive-skinned boy looking at him, both curious and silent, like some little fawn with big brown eyes. He was, what? Latino? Armenian? Indian? Middle Eastern? Asian-Pacific? But no, probably a light-skinned African American, of course. Of course? Well, there was no ‘of course.’ The child was some puzzling, inexact mixture, a sort of ethnic kaleidoscope.

Whatever the case, Charles averted his eyes, feigning distraction with his Chinese take-out, his briefcase, and the gym bag he juggled in his arms. No doubt the boy was simply bored. It was the cars, the cars that fascinated him. He’s a boy after all.

A few days later the child dashed into view once again, dribbling the red ball with a sort of bored lack of enthusiasm. However, once again, when Charles turned to head toward the stairs leading up to the back gate, the boy stopped bouncing the ball and again stared at him with sad, plaintive eyes, and this time their eyes met. Charles found the boy’s expression odd, but chose to say nothing. He merely went about his business, offering nothing more than a gentle smile.

It’s my silver Honda, he told himself. He’s fascinated by it.

However, the very next day at the same time, the boy not only stared, but tossed the red ball to Charles, then acted as if he had only done so by accident.

Oh, now I get it, Charles thought. He’s lonely. He needs a playmate.

And so he caught the ball and tossed it back with a good-natured smile, at which point the boy, who had the feisty energy of an eight or nine year old, emitted a little whoop of delight.

Charles found himself feeling sorry for the boy. Where are his friends? Why does he hang out in this drab parking lot? Do his parents know he’s here? Does he even have parents?

He thought nothing more of the boy for a day or two until he pulled into the lot on a Friday after work, relieved to escape the teeming rush hour traffic. Later, he was to pick up a female friend for dinner at Zen Restaurant before catching a movie.

By now, he was hardly surprised to see the boy, but was nevertheless startled he was standing much closer to his parking space, but a few feet away. The boy stared at him as intently as ever, then bounced the ball a few times, and Charles felt certain the boy was all but pleading for him to again engage in a little parking lot play.

I should’ve never encouraged him, he thought, sighing with vague irritation. But then the child abruptly dropped the red ball, lifted his baggy Spider Man T-shirt up, and revealed his little belly and chest. Now there was a flash of fiery defiance in the boy’s eyes, followed by a shadow of mistrust, and then, just as suddenly as he’d lifted the shirt up he pulled it back down and retrieved the red ball as if nothing had happened.

Charles blinked at the boy, baffled, and a sense of unease came over him. He turned around, scanning the apartment windows facing the lot, and thought he saw someone’s nose and the fluttering of a yellow curtain. The unease turned to something bordering on paranoia. Was someone watching them?