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The parking lot at El Matador was packed—it’s a popular place on a Friday night. Circling, I finally saw a behemoth of a truck backing out of a space. I was in a good position to swoop in on the spot, when I saw another car waiting. Who was there first? He shrugged. I shrugged. I glared at him. He glared at me—a Mexican stand-off.

I gave him the universal sign, I raised my hand, clenched my fist, and set it into my open palm—the sign for Rochambeau—rock-paper-scissor. He nodded in agreement. 1-2-3. He played paper. I played scissors.

Victory, sweet victory!

I smiled and waved, a gesture of camaraderie and acknowledgment of a battle well fought. He waved back and continued his search.

There are plenty of ways to solve conflicts; sometimes a good game of rock-paper-scissors does the trick.

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