29 North

The Bodo’s parking lot rises before you like a war zone. SUVs circle endlessly, their drivers clutching iced coffees and glaring with dead eyes. The asphalt is scarred from decades of failed parallel parking attempts.

A Toyota Highlander suddenly reverses without warning. A minivan blocks three spots at once “just for a second.” A Subaru with Vermont plates drifts diagonally across the lot like a wounded animal

And then — the BMW.

It swoops in from nowhere, ignoring every yield sign, every gesture of courtesy. The driver has not used a turn signal lever since the Bush administration. She wears mirrored sunglasses and a look of divine entitlement. You narrowly escape a collision by jerking into a space that is definitely not a space, half on the curb, half in reality.

Inside your car, you exhale. You are alive, but changed. The smell of bagels wafts faintly on the breeze, reminding you why you endure such trials.

Do you:

Persist and fight your way inside to order

Give up and flee to Chick-fil-A