As the Sox-Angels game began this evening, I remembered that I hadn’t taken the dog out for a walk, and so snapped on her leash and zipped outside for a quickie. As we rounded a corner onto Beacon Street, I saw a disaster in the making: A car was leaving its parallel-parked spot, and two cars were waiting to take the opening: one in front of the exiting car, and one behind it. Sure enough, as soon as the parked car left, both made a move for it. One honked, both came to an abrupt stop, and then the driver of the front car rolled down her window, shouted, “No fucking way,” and got out.

I stopped walking. With apologies to the Red Sox, this contest was better.

Front Girl – petite, wearing a tight grey shirt, I’d guess around 25 years old – walked with a huff over to the car in the back, which was driven by Back Woman, a pretty woman in her mid-30s, with long brown hair and what sounded like a Spanish accent. They argued for a bit, with nobody offering a greater claim to the spot: Back Woman said she didn’t see Front Girl, and Front Girl said she should have the spot because, when parallel parking, you enter a spot by backing up. With nobody moved by these arguments, they went to Plan B: Get crazy.

Front Girl walked into the middle of the open spot and announced, “I’m not moving.” Back Woman said she’d better move, and pulled her car forward, so she could begin backing into the spot. Then the two remained, motionless and silent, for a good two minutes. They were clogging one of Beacon Street’s three lanes, and traffic started backing up. Some passing drivers honked. ”Move!” shouted Front Girl. “You’re causing traffic.” Back Woman was not moved, and made that known.

It was at this time that I realized two things: One, this would be a lengthy stand-off. And two, because I was about 20 feet from the action, both women will eventually notice I’m there, and it might help to have some explanation for myself (in addition to the truth, which is that I’m unapologetically nosy.) As if on cue, a passer-by joked to me, “There are two witnesses: You, and the dog.” That’s it! I thought. I’m a witness, in case one of these women gets hurt.

Another few minutes went by, and about every 90 seconds, the women would assure the other that, yes, they are each bitches. “You’re a fucking bitch,” Front Girl would screech. Or perhaps Back Woman would say, ”Get out of the spot, you bitch.” Front Girl would be doing no such thing; she intended to stay put. Back Woman seemed to have less of a plan. She looked at Front Girl standing in the spot, and would then stare straight ahead, as if in thought. More minutes passed.

At about the eight or nine minute mark, Back Woman came up with a plan: Move the car. It began rolling, first away from the spot, and then, to my and Front Girl’s surprise, backwards, into the spot. “Are you fucking crazy?” Front Girl shouted. “Are you going to run me over?”

Back Woman kept going.

“I’m not moving,” Front Girl said.

Back Woman, however, was moving. And then, because she was at a pretty bad angle, she pulled out of the spot a bit, cut the wheel, and started driving in again. Front Girl was having none of it. She stood at the back of the car, inching herself backwards with every bit the car rolled back. “You’re fucking crazy!” she shouted.

No, honey: You’re fucking crazy. The both of you are.

Back Woman was insistent. She kept backing into the spot. Front Girl put her back against the car and braced herself, as if to physically stop it from moving. That didn’t work. Then she jumped up and sat on the hood, and banged on it. To nobody’s surprise, this also failed to stop a 2,000-pound vehicle from rolling backwards. “Fuck you!” Front Girl shouted, defeated.

But the car was parked. The space was taken. There was nothing more for Front Girl to do than release a few more expletives, get into her car, and drive away. Which is what she did. Back Woman, victorious, sat in her car for about two minutes before getting out. (I don’t know what she was doing; from my angle, I couldn’t see.) When she did get out, she exited slowly, cautiously, and then walked down the street, looking back every few steps. I watched for a minute or two more, expecting, as Back Woman did, for Front Girl to return with a vengeance. But she didn’t.

That’d be too obvious, anyway. There were witnesses, me and the dog. No, Front Girl knows better. She’ll hunt Back Woman down, and kill her in her sleep.