If I continue this way, I might have to invest in a black, hooded sweat suit and even a mask, one from “Scream” or “A Clockwork Orange.” I want to handle the issue head-on (catch someone red-handed), but have generally been denied the opportunity. Parkers taking up two spaces are as elusive as a faint whiff of persimmons, or–dare I say it?–a heap of dog shit under some leaves. So yes, I’ve been reduced to “that person.”
A handful of times, I’ve left cranky notes under a bad parker’s windshield wiper.
Here’s my defense. One, I’ve been given no other recourse. Two, I limit my notes to chronic offenders. Three, I limit my notes to chronic offenders. Defenses two and three coalesce, creating the necessity to keep close track of license plates.
This is how VKF 521 came to my attention.
VKF 521 arrived early Friday afternoons, when parking spaces were abundant. He claimed two prime spots as his own, and his car remained there until Monday evening. As the pattern became came clear, I established that he was solely a weekend visitor. While I was lugging my handbag, overnight bag, gym bag, briefcase, groceries, and laundry a block and a half to my apartment, he was probably getting laid.
One day as I lurched past VKF’s car, I began twitching with agitation. I stopped, dropped my bags and groped for a scrap of paper. Surreptitiously looking left and right (I don’t want to be this person!) I scrawled, “Please park more considerately,” and tucked the note under his windshield wiper. This was a trial; my wrist was still numb from the weight of a cat litter bag. But I wanted to be proactive–even if it was in a low-down, sneaky way.
As I left the scene of my crime, pride and shame asserted themselves in equal measure. I’d done a dirty job, one calling for misguided assertiveness skills, a prickly disposition, and a ready scrap of paper. However I chose to feel about it, I’d been perfectly suited to the job. My performance had been stellar.
I wonder if Macy’s sells cute hoods and masks.