The Neighborhood Cruiser. Your windows are already down. You’re in no hurry. After all, you know everyone, everyone knows you, and life’s just a long, vague daisy chain of non-committal near conversations that’re almost immediately lost to dusk. Other motorists can steer around you; after all, these streets are wide, and they’re plenty of room here for everyone to roll through.
The Lurkers. You’re one of several people sitting in a running car for an extended period of time for no apparent reason. None of you are visibly getting fucked up, and the radio’s way down.
The Random Parker. Curves, shoulders, and intersections belong to you; you casually transform function-free accidents of subdivision into temporary fiefdoms. You’re idling or parked, gazing into a cell phone, for indeterminate periods of time. Why? Only you know why. Are you waiting for a friend, a foe, or a fare? Are you pondering life’s deep questions? Are you trying to text your way out of the doghouse?
The Bumper Blocker. You’re an asshole who’s picking up someone but can’t be bothered to pull into a space, so you wind up blocking cars in or creating a dangerous traffic blockage. But you couldn’t care less, because it’s not like you live there, right?
The Monk. You’re the Random Parker, except that you’ve chosen an actual parking space. You remind me of a woman who was my neighbor, some years ago, in an apartment complex. She drove a blue Volvo, and it seemed like every time I saw her she was sitting her car, reading a Bible, crying and talking to herself. That was 15 years ago; I hope, by now, she’s figured it all out.