Tepper wakes with a start. He has to move the car this morning, before the street cleaners and their attendant Cushmen arrive. He hurries up the hill, buffeted by winds. He joins the community of groggy, pre-coffee sweatpants wearers, climbing into their dew-soaked vehicles. I won't be picky about my spot right now, he thinks, since I have to drive my car to the office in a couple hours so I can get to an appointment this afternoon. He ponders taking MUNI for a moment, but quickly dismisses the thought, knowing that MUNI can't get him there on time. He finds an OK spot, not bad, not great, and heads back down the hill for his coffee.
On his way to work later that morning, Tepper remembers that he likes driving his car. He hasn't driven it very much since gas went over $3 a gallon some months back, but he does enjoy driving it. It's just parking that he doesn't like. Approaching the office, he finds an OK spot, not bad, not great, but it's not a big deal because he won't be there long: he has to go to an appointment that afternoon.
Around 12:30, Tepper puts on his hat and heads back to his car. As he approaches, he sees his old friend, who has gotten pretty beaten up over the past decade, but it still runs true, despite all the squeaks and squeals. As he head up and down another hill, taking curve after curve, he remembers again that he likes driving his car. He arrives at his appointment on time, and as he pulls up, he sees a Great Spot, in a four-hour zone just across the street. It is one o'clock, and he is pleased.
Three hours later, he emerges from his appointment, tired but satisfied that he has done good work. He walks across the street to his car, and gets himself comfortably seated. And then he sees it. The envelope. The DPT logo flapping in the wind. How can this be?, he asks himself perplexedly. He gets out and looks at the parking sign. "Four-hour parking," the sign proclaims magnanimously. Puzzled, Tepper removes the citation from the windshield.
"Time car checked: 9:51 AM. Time citation issued: 2:45 PM. $50."
He cannot muster up indignation any more, much less anger. This has happened too many times. He thinks back to the time he sat in the DPT hearing office with multiple affidavits in hand proving that he could not have been where the citation said he was at the time his car was purportedly checked, and relives the disbelief upon hearing the arbiter say that the only acceptable proof would have been a garage receipt that covered that precise moment. He considers the fact that his $50 will go to subsidize a dysfunctional MUNI system that is run by the second-highest paid employee in the city, a system he would have used himself that day had it been reliable enough to get him to his appointment on time.
He puts on his hat and climbs back into the car.
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