This story is taken from my upcoming book of surreal anecdotes and flash fiction fairy tales for adults called "The Mundane Uses of Magical Objects"
There are many objects and concepts that require specific gods to oversee their life and use. But nothing has ever needed a god as badly as parking lots. At least, that is what the God of Parking Lots kept repeating to himself, to make up for a generally ignored existence.
The reason people didn't think he was really real is because of all the confusion. There actually was a separate God of Confusion but people had a hard time making the distinction and ascribed many of the functions of the God of Confusion to the God of Parking Lots. Which was very unfair as far as he was concerned. He had a lot under his jurisdiction. For instance, there was no separate God Of Low Ceilings That Will Be First To Fall On Your Head Come A Slight Earthquake or God Of Screeching Tires On Rubber-Like Surfaces (although you'd think there would be). He had to do all that work by himself. And it wasn't his fault that people had such a hard time within his domain. Parking lots always had a greater function that just storing people's cars while shopping. They were meant to provide entrances and exits into experiences and as such were designed to consume people's time when they wandered hopelessly for hours around mislabeled and maze-like floors. By having this extra time, people were given an opportunity to process the experiences they just had, making buying some new plaid shirts or unusually flavored yogurts not just instantly bursting bubbles in the boiling kettle of time, but separated and profound tableaux of memory that were like files of their lives. How could he get the people to understand this and stop the whining?
But, honestly, he didn't try very hard either. He was pre-occupied with his unrequited love for old Buicks. They were beautiful machines which unfortunately loved only amongst their own kind and did not tolerate any gods on account of the general wishywashiness of divine beings. This was a sad love, an impossible desire of spirit for matter. And at some point, it became the source of further confusion -- this time a pre-mediated and desperate attempt by our poor God to prevent his love, the old Buicks, from being taken out of service on account of worldwide economic spats. The God decided to fight this by creating within his lots even more impossible twists and turns, more surreal jumbles of levels and signs in dead languages of antiquity. This way, he thought -- no one would get out.
But alas they did get out, motivated by the ever dangerous will to progress. And the God of Parking Lots could never love again, growing completely apathetic for a decade until he was mercifully fired after the buildup of complaints reached higher above. He is much happier now, grilling kebabs on the side of the road by the ruins of a great old tower -- a major tourist destination.
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