Nothing came close to the parking lot of KPO that explained wealth in such a understandable way to my children.
Every day we walked by this tiny little cafe/bar attached to a post office. It is unnoticeable during the day. The parking lot looks like any post office parking lot, small and plain, good for less than a dozen cars.
But when the sun sets you’ll notice it, alright, because the fanciest cars come to show.
“Let’s count cars above Porsche,” said the kids. Above Porsche? Hell, I don’t know what cars are above Porsche. They do. Advertisement works.
There they were, they said, Lamborghinis, Aston Martins, Ferraris in bright yellow, red, and lime green, parked so close without wincing about their shinning paint. Every night, it seems, there was always one car that came one parking space too late. It pulled in and parked squarely in the middle, blocking the way of all the rest.
We never saw how they dislodge themselves out of there, but we heard them leave. The second the light turned green, they shot the blasting noise as if they were rockets lifting into the space. We turned to see cars scurry to make way. No, they didn’t.
I felt viciously happy, just because they made my kids feel they are poor. Heavens, how fast I sink low!