I am sitting in my room, watching the people passing by my windows in the parking lot. The parking lot is a straight single row of 12 spots, framed by bushes and flowers around three sides, and a road along the fourth side. From where I am on the left there is a pale cream building behind the bushes with the road on the right. The lines painted on the pavement are old, missing in some places where it has worn away, and are almost gray in other places. There is the ritualistic oil stain in the middle of each space, some worse than others. Strewn along the first three spots closest to me are pieces of wood, roofing materials, and metal piping.

I see a roofer in a dingy red shirt drag a bag of shingles to the large garbage bin that has been set there in the fourth spot. He is an elderly man, or perhaps just had his hair go white at an early age. His hair is greasy, and he looks like he has not had a shower in a week, although it could have come from working all day on the roofs. His jeans are torn in places and there is a battered tool belt slung around his waist.

The garbage bin is dented and bent in places, and is almost full with bits of wood, plastic, sandpaper, and twisted metal pieces. Next to it is a white car, a Taurus Sho, which is now gray from dust and grime. There is a dog with a bobbing head in its’ back windshield that gives the car a comical air in it’s rather dull demeanor. The 6th spot is empty except for a black and white cat lazing in the sun and watching everyone go back and forth with the attitude of a king watching his subjects.

In the seventh spot is a rich looking Rolls Royce of some sort, with plush-looking blue velvet upholstery inside. It is black in color and looks newly cleaned. Spots eight through 9 are empty. In space ten, a small red convertible with a flashing light on the headboard sits. It’s license plate reads "Brat" and suits it very well. There is a stone path that cuts between ten and eleven, leading off to other houses.

In spot eleven is a dark red family van. The door opens and a harried looking woman steps out. She is in her mid-thirties and of Asian origin. She is wearing a well-pressed light pink suit and her hair is well coifed. I see the reasons for her looking so tired as two little girls, both dressed in red spotted white print dresses with pigtails run around the side of the car. They seem to be twins. The family of three move down the path and are screened by the trees and corner of the cream building from my view. Spot twelve is empty.

The cat has been scared off by an elderly man walking his dog. The man is slightly stooped and is wearing a gray-blue v-neck sweater with a powder blue shirt held closed by a dark blue tie underneath. His face is long and thin, his hair a perfect white. His pants are long dark blue slacks that have been pressed into folds at the front and back. He shuffles along like his dog, his brown shoes looking scuffed in places. His dog waddles in a quick-step besides him, his dark black fur gone mostly gray. He looks like a Scottie, with a red collar and a red leash. They walk up the brick path and towards the pond and out of my sight.

The cat comes back, sneaking along the underbrush of the bushes and trees. He pounces down on a leaf and then skitters across the road and under a large rhodedendrum bush that has no flowers.

Venture home.