He was standing a few cars down when I came out of the government building, wearing a standard issue yellow slicker and not-so-complementary orange hat. I could see the envelope on my windshield from fifty paces and looked around for a sign I’d violated. I saw no sign, no meter, no paint on the curb. Pulling the card out from under my wiper I debated about if I wanted to pay the $25, or if I wanted to invest the energy to contest it. My camera in my bag, a few minutes to spare and fully prepared to document the conditions, the good witch in me spoke up and told the rest of me to ask first.
“Excuse me” I started to inquire about the love note but before I could get any further his weathered voice shot back “I’m just waiting on the tow truck for your car.” My heart rate shot up, and I felt my face turn to lava. What is this? I’m a good kid! A tow truck?
“For…?” , because if corporate America has taught me anything it’s to say very little in a bad situation.
He pointed at a sign across the street which I acknowledged, and another at the end of the block which I acknowledged, then pointed to one above his head.
I don’t know if it was the grey that got him or the hair pulled back into a nub or the frumpy outfit or the goo in my eye that may have made it appear as though I was about to cry or my pointing out that the sign wasn’t clearly visible from the turn lane I was in or the street itself, but he finally mumbled “okay, forget about it”, tore the evidence out of his book and handed it to me.
I stood dumfounded until he said “have a nice day” which I took to mean “get the hell out of here before I change my mind”, scurried to Jack and fled the scene.
Ironically, I didn’t finish what I needed to and have to go back. I probably won’t park on that street again though. Probably.
What troubles me more than anything though, is that I may have just pissed away some perfectly good karma that I should have saved for a ranier day.
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