I realized I left my wallet at home before I got to the bottom of the hill, but since I was just going to the bottom of the hill, I didn’t think it was a very big deal. When we decided to go to dinner, one of the guys said he had to run home quickly and meet Eric and I back at the restaurant in fifteen minutes, just enough time for me to get my wallet and come back.
Though I had just met Eric and didn’t really know him that well, he said he’d make the trip home with me because it was better than waiting for both of us to come back. At the time I dismissed the you’re-better-than-nothing comment, mostly because it’s true, but I still thought it was one of those things he could have thought and not said.
By the time we got to my truck, I realized I lost my parking ticket. The lost ticket fee is $24.00, and I have an emergency credit card in my truck for just such an occasion.
I pulled up to the little electronic booth at the exit and there was no lost ticket button, so I just shoved my credit card in there. It didn’t take it. Some guy came out of nowhere and asked me what I was doing. I told him I lost my ticket and was trying to pay. This is where the problem started. Because I had someone in the car, I was really trying to keep myself calm and respectful.
He told me I had to pay cash.
I told him I didn’t have any because I left my wallet at home, but I had a credit card and the sign on the machine says “no cash.”
He told me to take my credit card to an ATM.
I told him I couldn’t (which was true, as the pin to the credit card was at my house, with my wallet and the cash that made this exchange irrelevant).
He told me I could.
To me, the only thing worse than authority is perceived authority. Parking attendants, parking enforcement, and security guards are my personal albatross. Not being an advocate for the police due to some, shall we say, personal experiences that left me with low expectations for law enforcement, I have nothing but disdain for people who want to be cops, but can’t seem to meet the minimum qualifications capable of being achieved by a retarded monkey riding backwards on a unicycle.
So I’m sitting in my truck, with a guy I barely know named Eric, trying not to lose my cool as this parking attendant is telling me to give him cash and I’m refusing. As an aside, if you’re wondering why Eric isn’t reaching for his wallet by now, it’s because he didn’t have cash on him and his debit card was overcharged by a rental car company that day, which was why I offered to take him out to dinner in the first place, but first we have to stop by my house so I can grab my wallet.
The parking attendant tells me he’s taking my license plate number down and reporting me to the DMV and they’ll track me down and make me pay. I want to tell him that’s not how it works, but far be it from me to tell someone trying to give me a hard time how to actually give me a hard time.
He comes to my window and asks me for my license. I tell him it’s in my wallet, at home, with my cash. And because I can feel the heat rising within me, I even offer to give him my driver’s license number so I can get out of there.
He looks at me and says, “Why are you driving without your license, don’t you know that’s illegal?”
From an outsider’s perspective, my reaction to his question looks out of line, maybe even crazy and described later as an overreaction.
“That’s none of your fucking business!” I yelled.
“Hey man,” he said, “I’m just trying to do my job.”
“No, you’re not! You’re doing someone else’s job! Your job is to let me the fuck out of here, not ask me about my goddamn license! So why don’t you do your shitty little fucking job, and walk over to that box and push the button over there and open the gate?!”
I would have just run through the gate, but didn’t for two reasons. One, I saw someone do that once, and he looked like an asshole and probably had to pay for it later. And two, I had to be back there for dinner a few minutes later, so it’s not like I’d get away with it.
Eric looked uncomfortable, so to make it easier on him, I pretended he wasn’t there. In the back of my mind, I knew we’d have to talk about this eventually, and considering it wasn’t over and I had no control over myself at the moment, I thought the best thing to do was ignore him until we were out of there.
“Maybe I should call the police and tell them you’re trying to leave without paying and driving without a licen…”
“Then shut the fuck up and call them!”
“OK. I will.”
So he gets his cell phone and calls the police, which has happened to me often enough that I’ve learned to avoid confrontation at all costs. This time, I couldn’t walk away, I was trapped.
I can hear him talking to the police and telling them I was leaving without paying and driving without a license as he walks over to the box and hits the button to open the gate. Though part of me wanted to wait for the cops to get there, the other part of me remembered why I’m not so fond of the cops in the first place, they never show up when you need them.
I pull out of the garage and Eric and I are quiet. I ask him some question to make small talk, but no one’s fooled. The ride up the hill is awkward and only trumped by the suspense of having to go back to the garage. I pull in to the other side and we go to dinner, both anxious for the third guy to get there so we have a buffer.
After twenty minutes, the third guy isn’t coming and it’s the two of us. I attempt to diffuse the situation.
“Look Eric, that guy was a dick. I normally avoid those kinds of situations because the cops are always called in the end.”
“Really? Always?”
I told him the stories of when I almost was arrested at the strip club, the DMV, and the airport, and before you know it we’re laughing the whole thing off.
Leaving the restaurant, I made sure I had my ticket validated and in my hand. The sister machine to the one with the gate arm is the one who shouts to please insert my ticket with the stripe facing up and to the right before returning to my vehicle, which I do, and it stamps it paid. It shouts if I need a receipt, to hit the receipt button.
On the off chance the cops did show up, or a single DMV employee becomes even moderately useful when the parking attendant gives my plate number, I hit the receipt button with the intention of having a dated receipt in case this ever comes up again.
Later that night, I was sitting at home and decided to call my best friend, Alan, and see if I was in the wrong. Alan is always honest with me, generally in an insulting and blunt way, but he never realizes it until after he says it and his intentions are never mean, so I usually let it go.
Alan’s major concern was not my conduct (considering how he yells at people when he drives, would have been completely hypocritical), which he found to be appropriate (surprise). No, Alan’s concern was the ticket.
“What ticket?”
“The one you lost.”
“What about it?”
“Did you pay for it?”
“No. I tried, but he wouldn’t take my card. He wanted cash. And he couldn’t give me a receipt.”
OK, the truth is, I never asked if he could give me a receipt. So technically a receipt was never offered or mentioned, and therefore in my mind, not possible.
“Hmm. That sounds shady.”
“I know, right?”
“Well, you tried to pay.”
“Yeah.”
“So what if the DMV tells you to pay?”
“I have the receipt that says I paid that day.”
“So you’d steal.”
“Why can’t you just be my friend and be in my side?”
“I am on your side. I will gladly be your witness and say I saw the whole thing and you paid. But you would need to admit, to me, that you’re stealing.”
Alan knows I had a little stealing problem in my addict days. It bothers me and it’s something I’m a little sensitive about.
“Yeah, I’m stealing. Fuck them.”
But not all the time.
B
Though I had just met Eric and didn’t really know him that well, he said he’d make the trip home with me because it was better than waiting for both of us to come back. At the time I dismissed the you’re-better-than-nothing comment, mostly because it’s true, but I still thought it was one of those things he could have thought and not said.
By the time we got to my truck, I realized I lost my parking ticket. The lost ticket fee is $24.00, and I have an emergency credit card in my truck for just such an occasion.
I pulled up to the little electronic booth at the exit and there was no lost ticket button, so I just shoved my credit card in there. It didn’t take it. Some guy came out of nowhere and asked me what I was doing. I told him I lost my ticket and was trying to pay. This is where the problem started. Because I had someone in the car, I was really trying to keep myself calm and respectful.
He told me I had to pay cash.
I told him I didn’t have any because I left my wallet at home, but I had a credit card and the sign on the machine says “no cash.”
He told me to take my credit card to an ATM.
I told him I couldn’t (which was true, as the pin to the credit card was at my house, with my wallet and the cash that made this exchange irrelevant).
He told me I could.
To me, the only thing worse than authority is perceived authority. Parking attendants, parking enforcement, and security guards are my personal albatross. Not being an advocate for the police due to some, shall we say, personal experiences that left me with low expectations for law enforcement, I have nothing but disdain for people who want to be cops, but can’t seem to meet the minimum qualifications capable of being achieved by a retarded monkey riding backwards on a unicycle.
So I’m sitting in my truck, with a guy I barely know named Eric, trying not to lose my cool as this parking attendant is telling me to give him cash and I’m refusing. As an aside, if you’re wondering why Eric isn’t reaching for his wallet by now, it’s because he didn’t have cash on him and his debit card was overcharged by a rental car company that day, which was why I offered to take him out to dinner in the first place, but first we have to stop by my house so I can grab my wallet.
The parking attendant tells me he’s taking my license plate number down and reporting me to the DMV and they’ll track me down and make me pay. I want to tell him that’s not how it works, but far be it from me to tell someone trying to give me a hard time how to actually give me a hard time.
He comes to my window and asks me for my license. I tell him it’s in my wallet, at home, with my cash. And because I can feel the heat rising within me, I even offer to give him my driver’s license number so I can get out of there.
He looks at me and says, “Why are you driving without your license, don’t you know that’s illegal?”
From an outsider’s perspective, my reaction to his question looks out of line, maybe even crazy and described later as an overreaction.
“That’s none of your fucking business!” I yelled.
“Hey man,” he said, “I’m just trying to do my job.”
“No, you’re not! You’re doing someone else’s job! Your job is to let me the fuck out of here, not ask me about my goddamn license! So why don’t you do your shitty little fucking job, and walk over to that box and push the button over there and open the gate?!”
I would have just run through the gate, but didn’t for two reasons. One, I saw someone do that once, and he looked like an asshole and probably had to pay for it later. And two, I had to be back there for dinner a few minutes later, so it’s not like I’d get away with it.
Eric looked uncomfortable, so to make it easier on him, I pretended he wasn’t there. In the back of my mind, I knew we’d have to talk about this eventually, and considering it wasn’t over and I had no control over myself at the moment, I thought the best thing to do was ignore him until we were out of there.
“Maybe I should call the police and tell them you’re trying to leave without paying and driving without a licen…”
“Then shut the fuck up and call them!”
“OK. I will.”
So he gets his cell phone and calls the police, which has happened to me often enough that I’ve learned to avoid confrontation at all costs. This time, I couldn’t walk away, I was trapped.
I can hear him talking to the police and telling them I was leaving without paying and driving without a license as he walks over to the box and hits the button to open the gate. Though part of me wanted to wait for the cops to get there, the other part of me remembered why I’m not so fond of the cops in the first place, they never show up when you need them.
I pull out of the garage and Eric and I are quiet. I ask him some question to make small talk, but no one’s fooled. The ride up the hill is awkward and only trumped by the suspense of having to go back to the garage. I pull in to the other side and we go to dinner, both anxious for the third guy to get there so we have a buffer.
After twenty minutes, the third guy isn’t coming and it’s the two of us. I attempt to diffuse the situation.
“Look Eric, that guy was a dick. I normally avoid those kinds of situations because the cops are always called in the end.”
“Really? Always?”
I told him the stories of when I almost was arrested at the strip club, the DMV, and the airport, and before you know it we’re laughing the whole thing off.
Leaving the restaurant, I made sure I had my ticket validated and in my hand. The sister machine to the one with the gate arm is the one who shouts to please insert my ticket with the stripe facing up and to the right before returning to my vehicle, which I do, and it stamps it paid. It shouts if I need a receipt, to hit the receipt button.
On the off chance the cops did show up, or a single DMV employee becomes even moderately useful when the parking attendant gives my plate number, I hit the receipt button with the intention of having a dated receipt in case this ever comes up again.
Later that night, I was sitting at home and decided to call my best friend, Alan, and see if I was in the wrong. Alan is always honest with me, generally in an insulting and blunt way, but he never realizes it until after he says it and his intentions are never mean, so I usually let it go.
Alan’s major concern was not my conduct (considering how he yells at people when he drives, would have been completely hypocritical), which he found to be appropriate (surprise). No, Alan’s concern was the ticket.
“What ticket?”
“The one you lost.”
“What about it?”
“Did you pay for it?”
“No. I tried, but he wouldn’t take my card. He wanted cash. And he couldn’t give me a receipt.”
OK, the truth is, I never asked if he could give me a receipt. So technically a receipt was never offered or mentioned, and therefore in my mind, not possible.
“Hmm. That sounds shady.”
“I know, right?”
“Well, you tried to pay.”
“Yeah.”
“So what if the DMV tells you to pay?”
“I have the receipt that says I paid that day.”
“So you’d steal.”
“Why can’t you just be my friend and be in my side?”
“I am on your side. I will gladly be your witness and say I saw the whole thing and you paid. But you would need to admit, to me, that you’re stealing.”
Alan knows I had a little stealing problem in my addict days. It bothers me and it’s something I’m a little sensitive about.
“Yeah, I’m stealing. Fuck them.”
But not all the time.
B
Posted by Peanut Butter And Jealous
