You know how some people just think that their lives are the most important?
I think they call it ‘main character syndrome.’
Like everything they do is the only thing that matters…
Like, they’re so convinced of their own unique importance that they have zero consideration for others.
Especially if ‘others’ are strangers.
But, a little bit of karma ‘bit’ one of those ‘main characters’ when I was in college back in the 80’s.
And, I’ve never forgotten it.
The revenge was sweet…and frankly, hilarious.
Here’s what happened.
Dorm Life in the 80’s
It was the fall of my freshman year at a state university about 40 years ago, and let me tell you—dorm life back then was a glorious mess.
We were a mix of personalities—some figuring out college, others pretending we already had it all together.
Testosterone was practically seeping through the walls, and having a few football players in the dorm only made things rowdier.
Our dorm’s parking lot was absurdly small—just five tight spaces, always occupied.
If you were lucky enough to claim one, you treated it like sacred ground.
And one Saturday afternoon, some clueless visitor committed a parking sin none of us would ever forget.
He left his car parked horizontally across three of those precious spots, trapping everyone inside.
That was his first—and biggest—mistake.
Parking Lot Politics
The day started normally enough. A bunch of us were hanging around the dorm, enjoying a rare sunny afternoon.
A football was being tossed lazily between a couple of guys, while the rest of us chilled on the steps, watching the world go by.
That’s when someone pointed it out: the bright blue car, sitting sideways in the parking lot, blocking three cars in like it owned the place.
It was a sight to behold—like something out of a bad sitcom.
No note, no explanation, just a car parked as if the rules of physics and courtesy didn’t apply to it.
“Whose genius idea was this?” one of the trapped car owners muttered, kicking his tire in frustration. A few people chuckled, but as minutes passed, the laughter gave way to irritation.
One of the trapped drivers—a linebacker with forearms the size of tree trunks—checked his watch and cursed. “I’ve got to be at work in 30 minutes.” His car wasn’t going anywhere until that blue blockade was gone.
At first, people threw out suggestions.
“Call campus security,” someone said. “Leave a note,” another offered.
But the longer we stood there, staring at that obnoxiously blue car, the more the mood shifted.
Practical solutions weren’t going to cut it.
Then one of the football players cracked a grin. “We could just… move it somewhere good.”
Lifting Solutions
The suggestion hung in the air, half-joke, half-challenge.
I wasn’t about to join in—at 5’8” and 125 pounds soaking wet, I was better suited to spectating.
But the big guys? They were already in.
One of the linemen, looking entirely too pleased with himself, clapped his hands together. “Come on. It’s small—we’ve got this.”
A group of eight football players huddled around the car like it was a fumbled ball on the field. Two took each side, and one posted up at each corner.
It was literally like the Mentos’ commercial.
“Alright,” one of them said, grinning like a kid on Christmas morning. “On three.”
They squatted, gripped the car’s edges, and heaved.
The first attempt was wobbly, but after some adjusting, they got the rhythm down. Lift, shuffle, lift, shuffle.
I couldn’t believe what I was seeing—eight guys carrying a car across the lot like it was a particularly stubborn sofa.
Their target?
A small grassy patch just a few feet away from the lot, bordered by two sturdy trees that stood close enough together to make life very difficult for the car’s owner.
The Perfect Parking Spot
With one final grunt, the group maneuvered the car onto the grass and wedged it perfectly between the two trees.
The fit was so tight, it looked like the trees had conspired to trap the car. Each bumper had about a foot of clearance, just enough for the driver to wiggle out—if he had the patience of a saint.
The football players stood back, surveying their handiwork like sculptors admiring a finished statue.
“There,” one of them said, dusting off his hands. “Now it’s parked properly.”
The rest of us were doubled over in laughter.
It was the kind of prank that wasn’t mean-spirited—just inconvenient enough to make a point.
No harm done, just a little real-world lesson in not parking like a jerk.
Karma in Park
A few hours later, the moment we’d all been waiting for arrived. From our dorm windows and balconies, we spotted the visitor returning to the parking lot.
He was easy to recognize—a guy in his mid-20s, carrying an armful of takeout bags, looking like he didn’t have a care in the world.
That carefree attitude evaporated the moment he saw that his bright blue car wasn’t where he left it, double parked.
He stood there for a second, blinking in confusion, scanning the lot like he’d misplaced a set of keys.
When his eyes landed on his car, now snugly nestled between two trees, his jaw practically hit the ground. He walked around it, hands on his hips, muttering to himself in disbelief.
Then came the best part.
He climbed inside and began the most awkward, painstaking three-point turn imaginable.
Forward an inch, reverse an inch. Turn the wheel, and try again.
It was excruciatingly slow—like watching someone try to solve a Rubik’s cube with mittens on.
From the windows, we watched the whole ordeal, laughing uproariously as the driver grew more frustrated with each failed attempt.
He was banging his fists on the wheel, getting madder and madder.
Every scrape of the tires on the grass made it clear: this was not going to be a quick getaway.
After what felt like an eternity, he finally managed to shimmy the car-free, his patience—and likely his pride—completely spent.
He didn’t look back as he drove off in a huff, probably swearing under his breath the entire way. But for us, the show was over, and it was everything we’d hoped it would be.
Even now, more than four decades later, I can still picture the scene—the football players hoisting that car, the driver’s stunned expression, and the painfully slow extraction from the tree-trap parking job.
It’s the kind of story that gets better with time.
And every time I think about it, I can’t help but smile.
Because sometimes, karma doesn’t hit you hard—it just parks itself exactly where it needs to be.