Meter Maids Are From Medford

I overpark sometimes. It's a problem, but not a big one. A parking ticket is my small way of rebelling against the tyranny of time. The moon and stars give no parking tickets. An old car left in the rain, all to itself, will collect nothing more than rust. Parking tickets are things of man, a sign that the dark, satanic mills described by Blake are yet turning centuries later, though more quietly, with digital gears destroying our peace of mind.

There's even something a little fun about paying a small fine. For a long time I felt like I was tipping the City for having a nice parking lot and indulging my desire to have a longer coffee break than any human should be permitted. I was raised Mexican Catholic, and nothing is for free that is worth having. However, I hate to be gouged even for a luxury item.
Last Thursday I was snapped out of my cozy daydream, my fond belief that my little habit of civic naughtiness, this leaving-my-car-too-long-in-one-place addiction, was a mere innocent indulgence. I had parked in a hurry, but happy to find a two-hour place open on the narrow slice of Third Street that runs behind the Astro station downtown. Just the day before I’d been slammed for two tickets in a green fifteen-minute zone right next to the two-hour spot I’d just nabbed. I ran in to meet Brad the carpet guy, and his lovely wife Jennifer. After we measured the new AFP location for carpet and discussed the details, I sauntered on down to Dave’s coffee place above Bloomsbury, met with a friend, and had a cup of coffee before sauntering back to my parking spot. Damned if I didn’t have a ticket. Make that two tickets.

One ticket was for the standard, claiming I’d overparked my two hour limit, but it was the second that caught my eye. Fifty-five dollars! What the hell for? Because it was my “fifth ticket in a year.” Oh, and here I thought I was doing them a favor, throwing them a little loot in exchange for the nice parking lot, smiling at the meter maids, and all along they were keeping score, waiting to get bonus points! So I scrutinized the “fifth ticket” carefully, and realized that it had been issued less than two hours after my arrival, when I still had time left in the spot. But how to prove it? I called Brad and asked when I arrived. He answered and said he could help me out, because he’d made a cell phone call at 1:05 on the way to the meeting, arrived five minutes later at Third Street, and then had to wait for another five minutes for me to arrive. That made my arrival time 1:15 pm, and this vicious, unwarranted ticket had been issued unlawfully at 14:55, aka 2:55 p.m. for those of you who don’t sprachen sie digital.

So I called up Linda at “Parking Enforcement” in Medford, and told her the whole scandalous story, and that third party testimony and cell phone records were available to back it up. Linda was polite, but confessed amazement, since the number has to be logged in to the computer before the ticket can be issued. Well then, I explained, it would be Brad’s cell phone against their handheld machine, and may the best computer win. She suggested I write a letter to them and they’d get it to a judge, who could decide on my claim. Sure, I'll do that.

Suffice it to say, my romance with meter maids is off. I always thought they were local gals taking my money. It’s just no fun anymore.

Anonymouse