Archive of Our Own

It had been a week from hell, and the two morning coffees, the lunchtime espresso, the mid-afternoon double espresso and the Pepsi at dinner were waning fast.

Lothíriel squinted into the thickly falling snow as she clutched the steering wheel – finally warm. The light took its time turning green.

Her head was heavy and her eyes were dry. On the radio, Ed Sheeran called her beautiful and wished her a Merry Christmas as Elton John raised a toast to the ones who were gone. Lothíriel dearly wished that she could be the one who was gone, or at least buried deep under her covers at home.

The green light came on, like Gatsby’s beacon across the water. Lothíriel pressed the gas, and the engine purred, stirring out of eco-mode.

Yes, this week was the worst. Categorically. Top ten worst. Maybe even top five.

It all began with her getting a promotion. At least, among the junior editorial staff, it was an undeniable rise. She was to work on the team of the acclaimed Cora Nisilë, who was one of the publishing house’s star authors. As her boss was fond of saying, it was Nisilë’s adventurous lifestyle, bon mots on Instagram, and larger than life persona that paid the publisher’s bills, and her prose was not half-bad, either.

Unfortunately, Nisilë thought herself a second coming of Hemingway, except female, and fought every editorial suggestion tooth and nail. Editors often resorted to speaking to her husband, who was also her first reader, and making her think it was his idea all along. This triangular communication occupied Lothíriel for the better part of the week, until Nisile appeared in person on Friday, without warning.

Nisilë’s prose and lifestyle were not the only things that resembled Hemingway. Nisile liked to pick fights, and when she ran into another author who had written an unflattering editorial about her, i

The staff tried everything to keep the two apart, resorting to every art and distraction to keep them from setting foot in the same room. Eventually, however, the other author could not be kept from the lounge with the good espresso machine, where Nisilë saw her and broke from her handler. The conversation devolved to verbal blows within a minute, and the lambasting carried across panes of glass and concrete walls alike. ⁽¹⁾

It was Lothíriel’s unhappy lot to try and outshout the titans, and then to threaten them with security. Everyone else made themselves scarce, simply because that was the way of things in the office. The lowest ranking staff always got the thankless tasks, and were expected to have no ego about it.

That was the work week. And then, once Lothíriel tottered out on Friday evening, her hands shaking and hunger sucking on her ribs, she drove to the hospital to pay respects to her mother.

Her mother was a well-manicured, particular woman of fifty-five (but really sixty-two) and was recovering from surgery. She had lived in the West for decades, but she wielded filial piety like a crowbar, and she trotted out this talent when especially distressed.

She lay in the VIP suite of the hospital’s fifth floor surrounded by flowers, cards, and heating pads, and Lothíriel unloaded all her favorite dainties and six or seven things she needed from home. She then took a seat and nodded sleepily along, agreeing that it was terrible that Elphir and her father had brawled over politics again, and the nurses were awful for only wanting to get their shifts done.

Then, after an hour was up, she excused herself with many apologies and some guilt, for it was time for dinner and chitchat with girlfriends. But even here there little joy, since everyone complained about the holiday tedium, and the only highlight of the meal was the melon soda that went superbly with the strips of barbecued meat.

The wipers swished over the windshield, and as Ed Sheeran and Elton John brought their song to its jazzy, albeit predictable finale, Lothíriel’s street came into view.

There was no better balm for the day’s misfortunes.

The red brick houses huddled in the dark, their large bay windows looking out over stately front steps. The lights were few and low, and the sky came down, fleck by fluffy fleck.

It was a one-way street in the heart of the old center city that had existed since the days of horse drawn carriages. Even now, there was little space – all of one traffic lane and one parking lane, and the speed limit was a glacial twenty miles per hour.

Lothíriel eased her foot onto the break, rolling toward her house. The headlights cast long yellow cones in front of her. The tree that marked her unofficial parking spot came into view, and then she saw it.

The monstrosity.

Again. For the third time that week.

Lothíriel hit the breaks, just shy of hard enough to skid.

She gritted her teeth, digging her fingers into the wheel. On the radio, another Christmas song came on, but she could not discern the words.

The gall of that man. She was sure it was him. The blonde ponytail-sporting, tight T-shirt wearing, wide-cheekboned, smug-mouthed finance bro who had just moved into the unit below hers. At least, she assumed he was a finance bro. They were all finance bros, the men who lived in that part of town and were older than college aged and did not yet have paunches. They wore identical blue suits and expensive analog watches and were constantly glued to their identical, skinny, black phones. The occasional tattoo or man bun was simply a red herring.

The car came to a halting stop, and she saw the intruder up close.

Sure enough.

Definitely the same car. Huge and hulking, “sleek and sporty” with the tricolored “M” and the wheels and hubcaps that faded, together with the body, into the darkness. The license plate was custom (of course!) and read FIREFT.

It looked like an enormous black roach – ugly, oversized – and she wanted to crush it.

Only that morning, she had hauled two chairs and a sheet out of her apartment, risking blisters in her new high-heeled booties. The snow was already falling, and the stairs were slick; twice she nearly fell. But she planted the chairs in her spot, tied one end of the sheet to each one, and affixed a cardboard sign that read “Reserved!!!” to the middle of the sheet.

It was the last resort per the neighborhood code – after the notes, each progressively more terse than the last.

You did not move The Chairs.

And yet here it was, and the chairs and the sheet had been moved to the sidewalk. Which only meant one thing.

She cut the lights and got out, leaving her car double parked just behind the offender. Hell, these shoes were impractical. Skidding and with her toes turning cold, she strode over to the monstrosity and glared at it – its surface polished like a large, ugly paperweight.

She pulled her keys out of her pocket and made a fist with a key sticking out the end.

He had only himself to blame.

Maybe she would have a little trouble – a day in court, a few calls to insurance, a few hundred dollars’ settlement. But it was well worth it. 

She stepped toward the car, squinting into the inky blackness of the tinted window. The street was deserted. The lights were low.

She brought the key to the spot just above the handle, ready to make it slide with a squeak.

And then she heard a step behind her.

“What are you doing?”

Oh, fuck, shit, damn it all to bitching hell…

She spun around, pocketing the key.

There he was. What hole he had crawled out of, what demon had made the earth open up and spit him out she could not say.

But it was him – incontrovertibly. With his wide, round-cheeked face and his dark blonde mustache and his insolent ponytail.

He pressed a button on his phone, lighting it up like a torch.

“N-nothing.” She jutted out her chin. “Who are you?”

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“I’m nobody. What are you doing here?”

“That is my car. So the question ‘what are you doing here’ is my line.”

Lothíriel thrust her other hand into her pocket and scowled, lowering her head. There was a silence, and in the light from the phone, he observed her with downturned lips.

“Oh, so you admit it,” she finally said.

“Admit what?”

“That you’re the bitch who’s been parking in my spot all week, even though I’ve left very polite notes, and even though I put my chairs out? You are not supposed to move the chairs! It said ‘reserved’!”

“Reserved?” The man chuckled, his lips playing hide and seek with his mustache. “With a cardboard sign? This isn’t a restaurant. The parking lane, last I heard, was the city’s property.”

He squinted, appraising her from head to toe, and Lothíriel exhaled a hard snort.

“Look, sir,” she said, “you may be new here, and it might not have been this way wherever you came from, but here, there are rules. Maybe not laws, but rules. Everyone has their designated parking spot, and others do not park there. If there’s not enough spots overall and you’re new, then you find somewhere else to park – in one of those parking structures that are everywhere around here, and yes, they charge usurious rates, but that’s the way it goes and if you live here I’m sure you can afford it!”

The man smirked.

“And who are you to say what I can and can’t afford?” 

Lothíriel’s chest heaved against the cold, and she balled her hands inside her pockets.

“Well, I’m sure you can!” she cried, spinning around and gasping for viscous air. Her cheeks blazed hot, and she kicked the car’s tire. “And if you can afford an M8, but you can’t afford a place to park it, that’s your problem! Who gets a souped-up Bimmer and doesn’t plan for a parking spot? Do you want it vandalized and dented?!”

“Alriiiiight, bar’s closed for ad hominem attacks today,” said the man, stepping toward her.

Lothíriel huffed, the air rising from her mouth in puffs. He raised his arm but stopped just short of grasping her.

“And step away from Firefoot, please.”

“Firefoot?! What’s a Firefoot?”

“My car, of course.”

“You named your car?!”

“Yes, is that a problem?”

“What adult names their car?!”

Lothíriel’s last words were almost a shriek, and she stamped her foot, but she did step away.

The man lowered his arms and extinguished the phone’s flashlight.

He hid it in his pocket and they both fell silent. Lothíriel looked away, at the snow coming down in clumps.

“Alright, so where does that leave us?” the man said quietly. “As a matter of fact, I don’t owe you an explanation, but I did have a parking spot lined up in one of those usurious parking structures, as you call them. But then they had a water main burst, so right now it’s flooded, and it’s not going to be fixed tonight.”

Lothíriel huffed, crossing her arms, and returned a vile-faced look.

“Then what you do,” she said, “is move your gas-guzzling monstrosity to another usurious parking structure, one that charges by the night, and never park here again, do you understand? Do that, or I will key your precious Firefoot.”

She took her fist from her pocket and showed him the bundle of keys.

The man scoffed.

“Ah, so that’s what you were doing. Mystery solved.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you’re capable.”

“Maybe I am, and maybe I’m not. But you better move your car, or else…”

“Or what?”

She glared as he tented his eyebrows. He had nice, thick, dark-blond eyebrows.

“Or I will make your life a living hell,” she said. “I’ll stomp around all night. I’ll run the hot water all day. I’ll subscribe you to something terrible.”

She hardened her jaw, and the man gazed at her without much expression.

His features were round and calm, and another silence fell.

“That’s a lot of anger over a parking spot,” he remarked at last.

“Well, it’s not just the parking spot.” 

“Well, what else is there?”

“Not any of your business.”

She tucked her hands behind her elbows and bit her lip, staring at a point just above his chest.

Why was she always like this? Too many people and too many problems, and suddenly she hated everything and everyone in the world.

“What does a woman like you have to be angry about?” he said. “You live in a fine place. You drive a good car. You’re good-looking.”

Lothíriel scoffed.

“Don’t you psychoanalyze me, you Wall Street leech. Just move the damn car.”

She imagined kicking Firefoot again, but refrained with some effort.

The man sniffed.

“Again you assume.”

“Well, so do you. Feeling good and being a nice person isn’t about material things.”

“Of course not. So why are you so angry?”

A pain rose behind her eyes, and she did not answer. The snow fluttered downwards.

“I’ll move the car,” he said at length. “But frankly, it seems there’s more going on here, and it’s not a me-problem.”

Lothíriel stepped away, glowering and blinking her eyes.

Why did her throat feel like sandpaper?

She put her key into her pocket and turned away, folding her arms.

The man reached into his pocket, pressing a button. Firefoot responded with a whistle and a click.

“How about this,” he said, “I am going to move Firefoot, and you can put your car in the spot, and then, all three of us can take a ride a few blocks south to a piano bar that makes excellent frozen daiquiris, hmm?”

He looked at her with his almond eyes, wrinkled affectionately in the corners.

“Then you can tell me all about what’s bothering you.”

Lothíriel’s throat grew tight, and she wanted to mutter, “sleaze.”

But her nose was boggy and her chest was tight, and she felt as heavy as she did when she received another lengthy email, or was handed another stack of proofs.

The man gazed at her, standing there with his big, round shoulders that looked so solid and so strong. Then he walked around to the other side of the car.

“The offer stands,” he said.

Lothíriel watched him pull out, and as he drove away, she sank onto the cold stone steps.

She had not wanted to cry, she really hadn’t.

But as Firefoot’s tail lights disappeared behind the corner, she covered her face in her hands and the tears came all by themselves. She cried, and she wanted to cry about everything in the world.

The fact that she was so stupid, and picked a fight over something so petty. The fact that she hated her friends for complaining and her mother for her childishness. She had been so warm and wise when she and her brothers were little, but grew more spoiled every year, as if aging backwards. And that ridiculous Nisilë who wrote so well and made it look so easy, and who was probably using the day’s incident as another feather in her cap while she, Lothíriel, would always be the lowly assistant editor, and would never write anything worth anything.

She cried, and she only stopped when another car drove up the narrow street and honked at her double parked vehicle.

Lothíriel grabbed her keys and hurried down the steps, wiping her eyes, cheeks, and chin. She pulled her car into her spot, and the other car maneuvered around her.

She sat inside and was too spent to cry, but her insides hurt too much to move. She rested her elbows and forehead on the steering wheel.

It was quiet, except for the long, droning hum of a train.

Living in an oasis in the city was pleasant, no question.

Steps echoed down the street, and Lothíriel lifted her heavy head.

The man was coming back in her direction, his elbows angled out and his hands tucked into his pockets.

He approached, getting bigger and bigger, with his wide, heavy shoulders and his big-on-top shape. When he saw her, he took one of his hands out of his pocket and waved.

He approached and tapped the glass, and Lothíriel lowered the window.

“Well, how are you doing, neighbor?” he said. 

Lothíriel blinked, her cheeks growing hot.

“You alright? Can I get you anything? A bourbon? Medical attention?”

He was so nice. With his bright, winking almond eyes and his cold-reddened cheeks. What business, what reason did he have to be so nice?

And yet…

Maybe it was not so bad to be like him. She couldn’t imagine him crying on a stoop at the end of a day. He did not seem like he had any problems, maybe because he solved them up front by being so confident and forthright. And choosing to say, “maybe this is not a me problem” and walking away – that took some guts. So maybe…

“You know, I think I’ll take you up on that offer,” she said.

She tried to smile, but was not very successful.

The man grinned, extending a hand through the window.

“Éomer Éorlingas, Esquire,” he said, winking. His hand was clad in smooth gray leather, heavy and definite like the rest of him. “Got an immigration problem? Call me. But even if you don’t, at least I’m not nobody anymore.”

Lothíriel examined the hand and cautiously extended her own, placing it in his and allowing it to be clasped. They looked comically different in size, hers almost disappearing.

“Lothíriel Dol Amroth,” she said. “I guess – so I’m not nobody either.”

She smiled, and this time was more successful.

Éomer Éorlingas, Esquire, shook her hand firmly.

“Good, we’ll be neighbors, then,” he said, “and friends. And maybe then we’ll see. Now, maybe since we’re going to a bar, it’s better to take a cab instead of Firefoot, or even this beauty here?”

(1) I am, obviously, lampooning myself here. I do have literary aspirations, and for better or for worse, I do count Hemingway among my influences. If nothing else, Papa taught me to write shorter and more straightforward sentences over time. But I don’t pick fights, nor do I have a popular Instagram or a large-than-life persona (though sometimes I wish I did).

The incident detailed here is based on something that Hemingway actually did. A critic named Max Eastman wrote that Hemingway’s macho persona was all an act, and Hemingway famously hit him with a book in his publisher’s office. In today’s world, I do not think such conduct would have been tolerated even from a star author, so I kept the characters’ altercation verbal. Back