Parking Lot Personality Test

You can take a personality inventory online if you want. Forty questions, five-point scale, three cheerful charts at the end, maybe a paragraph that calls you “collaborative but independently motivated,” which is corporate astrology wearing slacks. Fine. Take it. Print the report. Highlight a sentence. Bring it to an offsite.

Or just watch someone in a grocery store parking lot on a wet Saturday around 11:17 a.m., when the bagged salad is on sale, one minivan is half out of its space, a man with mulch has lost control of his cart, and a woman in a navy Subaru is trying to decide whether the painted arrow applies to her specifically.

That will tell you plenty. The lot is not neutral ground. It looks neutral because it is mostly asphalt, stripes, cart corrals, rubber stops, oil freckles, and those little islands of mulch where one exhausted ornamental pear tree is being asked to provide beauty, shade, stormwater management, and emotional support for a strip mall. But the place has teeth. It removes costume. Nobody has a title in the turning lane. Nobody gets to hide behind a slide deck near the cart return. There is no polished bio between you and the person trying to back out with a trunk full of seltzer.

A parking lot asks one question in several dozen accents: can you share space without making your convenience everyone else's emergency?

Some people can. Some people cannot. Some people are still negotiating the question with their bumper. The courtesy wave is the smallest sacrament in the asphalt church. Not a big theatrical wave. Not pageant waving. Just two fingers off the wheel, or a palm lifted near the windshield, quick and decent. I see you. You let me through. We are not animals today.

The wave matters because it is unnecessary in the narrow legal sense. No statute requires gratitude after being allowed into the lane by the liquor store. No magistrate is waiting beside the cart corral to issue citations for failure to acknowledge another person's mercy. That is why it counts. It is voluntary. Tiny. Almost nothing. Also, not nothing.

The non-waver is usually not a monster. Let us not build gallows beside the pharmacy because somebody forgot to lift a hand. People have headaches. People are late. People are driving home after hard phone calls, dental work, parent-teacher conferences, or a truly haunted visit to customer service. Still, when a person accepts your pause, slides into the opening you made, and continues forward as though the lane simply arranged itself in their honor, the lot gets a little colder.

Courtesy needs witnesses. Not applause, witnesses. The wave says the favor came from a person, not from weather. Then there is the cart question, which has been over-memed and is still correct. A loose cart tells a whole short story: groceries loaded, errand finished, final step abandoned. There it sits, angled by the curb, one front wheel trembling in the breeze, a small metal confession. Somebody looked at the corral, looked at the cart, looked at their own capacity, and decided the rest of us could absorb the difference.

Of course there are exceptions. A bad knee. A sleeping baby. Icy pavement. Migraine. Injury. Age. Panic. We are not forming the Church of Cart Return Purity. The useful observation lives in the ordinary case, the able-bodied Tuesday, the clear weather, the cart corral twelve steps away. That is where character gets lazy enough to be visible. Returning the cart does not make a person noble. It makes them cooperative. That should not sound like a miracle, but look around.

The fire lane is where entitlement puts on blinking lights and tries to pass as logistics. “Just running in” may be the most abused phrase in retail America. Just running in for coffee. Just running in for prescriptions. Just running in while the hazards tick-tick-tick like a tiny amber crown. The door is right there, so the rule becomes negotiable. The errand is quick, so the shared system can bend around one person's momentum.

Nobody parks in the fire lane because they have carefully studied municipal design. They do it because the space is empty and close. That is the whole seduction. Empty and close has ruined many decent people. So has “just this once.” So has a person in the passenger seat saying, “I'll stay with the car,” as if that transforms the whole operation into emergency management.

A society is not only tested by how it handles catastrophe. It is tested by how many people invent exceptions during errands.

Watch the spot vulture. You know the car. Signal on. Creeping. Following a shopper down the lane with documentary-predator focus. The driver has identified prey: a likely departure. Maybe the shopper is walking toward a Honda. Maybe not. Maybe the shopper forgot where they parked and is about to lead this poor circling sedan through three rows, past the garden center, and into the moral wilderness.

Waiting for a good space is not a sin. Stalking a stranger while they load yogurt, paper towels, and one nervous fern is different. You can feel the pressure coming off the hood. Are you leaving? Is this your car? Why are you arranging those bags so slowly? Do you understand my need to be twenty feet closer to the entrance?

The spot vulture struggles with randomness. A full lot should be endured like weather: annoying, temporary, not personally authored by your enemies. The vulture cannot bear that. The vulture wants certainty, and if certainty is unavailable, mild intimidation will do.

The painted-line denier has a quieter pathology. The lines are right there. Fresh ones, sometimes. Bright white, yellow, blue, occasionally crooked because even the paving contractor had a day, but legible. This person parks over them anyway. One wheel here, the back end swung out there, enough angle to make the next driver enter sideways like a contortionist at a county fair.

Weather can hide lines. Big vehicles need room. Mobility accommodations matter. A person may park badly because the person before them parked badly, and now everyone is inheriting one original sin near the entrance to Target. Fair. But the clean version of this behavior is still revealing: I am comfortable making my imprecision portable. That sentence applies in more places than parking.

There is also the diagonal walker, a dreamy little comet with reusable bags. The diagonal walker travels across the lane as if protected by narration. Not exactly careless, not exactly malicious, just elsewhere. Texting, maybe. Looking for the car. Thinking about whether they bought dishwasher pods. Moving through the lot on a private geometry the rest of us must suddenly honor.

Drivers do this too, of course. They cut across empty spaces because empty spaces appear to invite lawlessness. They create a lane where the township, God, and the insurance adjuster did not intend one. These are cousins in the same family: people who see unused space and mistake it for permission. Unused space is not always available space. Sometimes it is the buffer that keeps everyone from becoming a claim number.

The four-way stop inside a parking lot is a chamber drama. Four cars arrive. Nobody knows who was first. One driver waves, another starts, a third flinches, the fourth has decided to become dead still in the hope that the problem resolves through time. Then all four move one inch. Then all four stop. Somewhere in the distance, a cart rattles with the laugh of an old god.

The hesitator means well. Often. The hesitator does not want to be pushy, so they become unreadable. A cloudy hand motion. A brake tap. A half-roll. A second wave that contradicts the first wave. This is politeness without structure, and politeness without structure can be more dangerous than rudeness because at least rudeness has a direction.

Go clearly. Stop clearly. Yield clearly. Take your turn when it is your turn. This is not aggression. This is mercy with a steering column.

The space thief is worse because the space thief knows. There are accidents: two cars approach, signals are missed, visibility is bad, confusion blooms. That is normal lot weather. The thief sees the blinker. Sees the waiting car. Sees the little contract forming between strangers. Then darts in anyway and suddenly becomes fascinated by something in the cup holder.

The stolen space itself is usually not the tragedy. It is twelve feet of asphalt outside a pet store. The ugly part is the philosophy: if I occupy the opening first, the question is settled. This thinking has escaped parking lots and infected offices, families, inboxes, conference rooms, and committees. Possession becomes argument. Speed becomes entitlement. The person who got there first acts as though arrival erased conduct.

It did not.

This is why the parking lot feels bigger than it is. The lot is a pocket version of every shared system we live inside. Work has lanes. Families have lanes. Friendships have lanes. Projects have lanes, even when nobody bothered to paint them. The waver is the coworker who says thank you before help becomes invisible. The cart-returner closes the loop. The fire-lane parker makes their urgency everyone else's constraint. The spot vulture is the stakeholder hovering over unfinished work because anxiety has mistaken itself for management. The hesitator is the meeting that will not decide until the deadline grows teeth. The painted-line denier is the person whose sloppy handoff becomes someone else's afternoon.

Nobody is perfect in the lot. I have wandered. I have misjudged. I have parked, stepped out, looked down, and thought, well, that's not my finest geometry. I have done the awkward half-wave, the unnecessary apology grimace, the full-body “sorry” through glass. I have been the problem and then driven home with frozen peas. That is part of the point. The test is not asking for sainthood. It is asking for awareness.

The best people in a lot understand the mercy gap. The rule says one thing; the moment asks for a little more. You may have the right of way, but the older man with the cane is halfway through the crossing and carrying a bag that is clearly too heavy. You may be next, but the parent beside the SUV is trying to load a toddler, a cart, a backpack, and the last scrap of human composure. You may not owe anyone a pause, technically. Still, the pause is available.

Mercy is not weakness. It is advanced spatial intelligence. It is the ability to notice that rules keep the shape, but grace keeps the people from bruising against it.

So here is the parking lot personality test, stripped down enough to fit on the back of a receipt. Wave when someone makes room. Return the cart when you can. Do not park in the fire lane unless something is actually on fire, preferably not your need for convenience. Stop like you mean it. Go like you mean it. Ambiguity is where fender benders hatch. Do not steal the space. You know when you are stealing it. The painted line is not tyranny. It is civilization in cheap reflective paint. And if your shortcut requires six strangers to improvise around you, it is not efficiency. It is a small tax you have charged the public without approval.

That may be the whole thing. Not the whole of morality, obviously. Just one portable chapter. The parking lot reveals how we behave when nobody is rewarding decency, when the rules are present but not loudly enforced, when the stakes are low enough to expose our habits. Can we be delayed without becoming nasty? Can we accept help without treating it as scenery? Can we finish the small task after the benefit is ours? Can we leave the shared place a little less annoying than we found it?

The lot does not need us to be heroes. It needs us to be slightly less feral with machines. That is a modest request. Some days, apparently, still ambitious.