The Great Unassigned Parking Spot Olympics (Featuring My Spot, Apparently)

After 20 years at the same company, you’d think I’d have earned something meaningful. A corner office, perhaps. A plaque. Maybe even one of those ergonomic chairs that doesn’t feel like it was designed during a medieval torture experiment.

But no. What I have is far more prestigious:
An unofficial, completely unassigned, yet universally acknowledged parking spot.

Sixteen years. Sixteen. That’s longer than some marriages, most smartphones, and easily the lifespan of every office coffee maker we’ve collectively murdered. And yet, somehow, this sacred piece of asphalt still manages to become a daily game of corporate musical chairs.

Let me paint the scene.

I arrive early. I park in my spot—the one nobody has ever formally assigned to me, yet everyone somehow knows is mine. It’s not written down anywhere. There’s no sign. No ceremony ever took place. But we all feel it in our souls: that spot? Mine.

Everything is as it should be.

Then, inevitably, something happens. I make the fateful decision to leave the building. Maybe I’ll run to the post office. Maybe I’ll grab lunch. Maybe I briefly attempt to remember what sunlight looks like. The duration is irrelevant, let’s say 30 minutes, give or take.

And when I return?

Chaos. Absolute chaos.

My spot, the one that has loyally held my car like a trusted companion for over a decade, is occupied. Not casually occupied—oh no. Conquered. Claimed. As if someone planted a tiny flag and whispered, “Finders keepers, sucker.”

But that’s not even the best part.

What truly amazes me is the apparent coordinated ambush that occurs the moment I leave. I swear there must be an internal alert system.

“Attention employees: The spot is empty. I repeat, THE SPOT IS EMPTY. Initiate Protocol Asphalt.”

People who have never shown urgency for anything—not deadlines, not meetings, not free donuts—suddenly transform into Olympic athletes.

From desks.
From hallways.
From breakrooms.

They emerge.

You can almost picture it: employees peeking through blinds, clutching coffee mugs, quietly monitoring my vehicle like wildlife photographers tracking an elusive species.

“Ohhh… look at that… he’s backing out… WAIT FOR IT… WAIT FOR IT…”

And then—

GO TIME.

Keys are grabbed. Chairs fly backward. Someone probably trips over a recycling bin. There’s a stampede toward the parking lot that would make a Black Friday sale look like a polite gathering of library enthusiasts.

And what awaits outside is nothing short of legendary:

• A lineup of cars
• A standoff
• Engines idling like a scene from a low-budget action movie

I can only assume there’s at least one person yelling, “I was here first!” while another insists, “I had my blinker on!” as if that somehow grants diplomatic immunity.

And in my mind, it escalates further:

Two employees step out.
They lock eyes.
Someone dramatically cracks their neck.

“Rock, paper, scissors,” one of them says.

Best two out of three, because this is a civilized workplace.

Meanwhile, my parking spot—my loyal, dependable patch of pavement—is sitting there silently, probably wondering how it became the company’s most contested piece of real estate.

And eventually, someone wins. Someone always wins.

They park.
They walk inside.
And I imagine they feel a sense of pride. A quiet triumph. Like they’ve achieved something meaningful that day.

“Good morning,” they’ll say, as if they didn’t just participate in an unhinged asphalt showdown.

Fast forward to my return.

I pull in, full of hope. Maybe, just maybe, the universe has restored order.

Nope.

There it is. A stranger in my spot. Sitting there like they pay rent.

So I drive around aimlessly for a minute, contemplating life choices, wondering how I’ve committed to a job for two decades but still can’t secure a rectangle of pavement.

Eventually, I settle for some “far away but technically still the same company zip code” parking space. I walk in. I see the culprit.

And the best part?

They know.

Oh, they know.

There’s a brief moment of eye contact. A flicker of recognition. Maybe even a hint of guilt. But neither of us says anything, because we both understand the rules of this completely unwritten, mildly savage system:

• There are no assigned spots.
• There are only understandings.

And apparently, those understandings last exactly until I leave the building.

After 16 years, I’ve come to accept it. This isn’t just parking. This is culture. This is tradition. This is office bonding at its finest.

Some companies do team-building exercises.
We do parking spot survival games.

And honestly?

I wouldn’t have it any other way.

…okay, I would. I’d like my spot back.