The Ghost Who Stole My Parking Space

How it begins

Rhea had towed cars belonging to judges, smugglers, and a man who claimed the yellow lines were merely a suggestion. She had never towed one that vanished when she touched it.

She tried again.

The hook passed through the rear bumper and struck the road.

“Please don't scratch it,” said a voice behind her.

The man wore a dark coat and stood inside the parking meter. Rhea looked at the meter, then at the ticket machine, then at the coffee she had bought from the new van.

“What's in the coffee?” she asked.

“I wouldn't know.”

“You're standing in public infrastructure.”

He stepped aside. Through his shoulder she could read the hourly rate.

Rhea sat on the truck's step.

The man waited, politely enough to make the situation worse.

“I need this bay clear,” she said.

“So do I.”

“Then move your car.”

“I can't.”

“Lost the keys?”

“Died.”

A gull landed on the truck roof and inspected them both without interest.

Rhea had grown up with a grandmother who left an extra chair for absent relatives. She had considered this a family habit. Apparently it had been professional preparation.

“Who are you waiting for?”

“Someone I promised to collect.”

“When?”

“Thursday.”

“It is Thursday.”

He looked toward the station. His expression changed so slightly that she almost missed it.

“Which year?” she asked.

He gave her one from before the new sea wall.

Rhea took out her notebook. The council paid by the vehicle, not by the existential complication, and she had three collections before lunch.

Still, the man had been waiting in the rain for a very long time.

“Name?”

“Jonas Bell.”

“Not yours. The person who never came.”

For the first time, he moved away from the bay.

“I don't think,” he said, “anyone has asked me that before.”