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February 13, 2005
varlet parking
I am a rational person. I am easygoing. I am low-key. I am centered, balanced, and humming in harmony to mother earth's resonance. Or I was until last Friday evening.
My son was at my parents' apartment, and I went to pick him up. They invited us to stay for dinner and I accepted. This was around 5:45pm.
My mom, freshly returned from the dentist, sat and conversed with me, while my dad disappeared into the kitchen to put dinner together. After a while I got up and went to see how my dad was doing. He had out an Indian cookbook, and had just finished dusting the talapia with tumeric. I chatted with him for a bit, and then left him to his labors.
We had an outstanding Indian dish: talapia with Bengalese Fish Sauce. It was accompanied by a vegetable stir-fry on Bismati rice and some stuff called dal which was made with salmon lentils. Simply a delightful meal.
At about 8:20pm, as my son and I got ready to leave, I suddenly realized things were about to go not-so-well. "Oh, shoot!" I exclaimed, "my car!" I rushed to the window of my parents' eighth story apartment and looked out into the darkened parking lot. My car was gone. We had stayed past 7pm without a visitors permit, and thus the building managers' lackey had come skulking around the nearly empty parking lot with his truck, and had come upon my hapless chariot lounging in heedless violation of the most assinine parking stricture in the history of Western law.
My dad offered us a ride to auto-hades, to challenge the devil for my vehicular freedom. As we pulled out of the parking garage, we paused to read the posted notice which gave the address and phone number of those heathen car snatchers, and outlined the soul-crushing penence I would be obliged to pay. "Ninety dollars," the sign pontificated. "Twelve dollars per day for storage as well," it added sternly.
"But you've only had my car for an hour and a half," I protested. The sign said nothing more. And so I set aside my zen.
I pulled out my cell phone and dialed the number for Hades or Cerberus or whoever.
"This is Auto-tow, how can I help you?"
"Where is my car." My voice was edged, brusque and slightly too loud. There was no question mark in my sentence, as question marks are curvy instead of edged or pointy, and therefore useless for my purposes.
"Ah, what kind of car is it?"
"Taurus, 2001."
"Yeah, that just came in."
"Where are you," I announced crisply.
The man on the other end of the line was starting to be a little rattled. As he gave me directions, his voice carried a desire to calm me, to smooth things over.
"I'll be there momentarily."
He finished by giving me the total, and a few other details I was too angry to notice. I slapped my phone shut and fell silent.
As my dad drove us to Auto-Tow, I began working on my frame of mind. This was aggrivating, and a waste of my money. And the building managers were fascist money-grubbing idiots, but still...why should I let them spoil my frame of mind?
And so, by the time we found Auto-Tow, I had mostly succeeded in calming myself down. As I walked into the ramshackle trailer which was Auto-Tow's office, I was quiet, grave and determined to just pay the devil and get out of there with my car and my temper.
The man at the desk took my drivers' license (presumably this helped him prove I owned my car, but I can't see how), filled out an invoice, and then gave me the total due, which included, perversely enough, a sizeable chunk of state sales tax. The total was around $110 dollars. I handed him my credit card and he said, "oh, sorry, it's cash only. I told you that on the phone."
I said nothing. I stared at him. Silently. For several seconds. Then I collected my credit card, turned on my heel and walked to the door as he tried to explain where the nearest ATM was located. I listened without turning to face him, but couldn't hear or comprehend what he said, because I was furious.
As I walked back to my dad's SUV, I pulled out my car keys and pressed the key fob's car alarm button repeatedly. I thought to turn on the alarm and leave for the ATM, my car's flashing lights and honking horn fading into the falling snow behind us. I was bitterly dissappointed; my car was apparently out of range.
On the way back from the ATM I began again to work on my frame of mind. I didn't, I couldn't and I won't tell myself silly things like "that man is just doing his job." No, I thought to myself, that man is either one sick puppy, or his job sucks. But I did take some comfort from the fact that stuff like this often happens for a reason. This was a distraction, nothing more. Pay the ax-man, move on and don't lose your dignity in the process, I mused.
When I walked back into the trailer, I found I wasn't completely over my anger. I stood off a few feet from the man's desk at the full height of my bulky six foot two inch frame, utterly still and completely silent. I let the man behind the desk talk away his nervousness. I gave him his money, accepted the change and followed his associate out the door all without saying anything. But I noticed, as he was handing me my change, that his hand was shaking. And as I drove home that night, I decided he wasn't a sick puppy, but that his job well and truly sucks eggs. I hope he gets free of it someday and goes on to do something more enjoyable than dealing with the likes of me on an angry February evening.
Posted by joel at February 13, 2005 11:33 PM
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Comments
Indian meal with family: zero dollars.
Valet parking: 110 dollars.
Getting your cool back so you can have an enjoyable conversation with your son on the way home: Priceless.
Somethings, money can't buy. For everything else, there's Visa. No wait, you'll have to use the ATM over on Madison...
Posted by: joel at February 13, 2005 11:34 PM
Uugh. I've been there, misunderstanding a parking sign while on vacation. Was your parking carma perhaps out of alignment?
Posted by: Worldgineer at February 14, 2005 12:15 AM
Sometimes I think life throws us this kind of a curve to keep us from becoming too boundy in our delight over Indian food and consultant/ contractor fees. ;-)
Okay, not really. I'm sorry you had to go through this, though. Boy, when you wrote this you spared not for their cryings, didn't you. That's a whole lot of human nature on display. Good stuff.
Posted by: Honest + Popular at February 14, 2005 12:31 PM
It should be called varlet parking.
Posted by: Dabu Heebly at February 14, 2005 09:20 PM
"...varlet parking."
I agree. Yesterday when I picked a title, I was vaguely dissatisfied with it, but I just couldn't think of a better one.
Posted by: joel at February 14, 2005 09:58 PM
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