Apparently, I am missing the psychic gene. Or, rather, this is the gist of conversation that resulted from a conversation with the Medford parking clerk last night.
Due to an unfortunate event of neighbor-driveway claimstaking (into which I do not wish to get), I had to leave my poor, newly 75,000 miled, power steering belt-squeaking car on Boston Avenue overnight on Friday. I am not an indulgent schlub against walking a few blocks, nor do I mind leaving my car on the street, but I was already angry about the driveway situation (“my friend who parked here during the day is now too drunk to move her car, tough shit”), so leaving my car out was a bother. Regardless, taking a paranoid amount of time and a second opinion to check the street signs - parking regulations in effect April 1-Dec 1 only, it said - I deemed the spot fine to rest Ophelia. (I named her when I was sixteen, precocious, and bored - let it go.)
Naturally, I was not thrilled to return to the veichle the following day to see a parking ticket. If you’re keeping score, “livid” would actually be the optimal word. The ticket said “Odd/Even Parking Violation.” That’s it.
After a swift dial to the parking clerk - a number that was insanely difficult to find, mind you - a very grumpy police officer picked up the phone. I kindly explained that I didn’t understand what the violation meant, nor how I was supposed to know such rules were in effect if there were no signs.
“You walk across the street. You check the numbers. You don’t park there.”
“Kind sir,” I replied, “There are no numbers on that stretch of Boston Avenue, nor any signs. How do I know which day is which side, and how was I supposed to know this was in effect?”
“Everyone else knows,” he replied curtly.
Naturally, I began to seethe. I again, repeated my question, which he continued to not answer, so I repeated it again, and all he came up with was, “Go fight it in traffic court.”
When he began another self-important diatribe, I interrupted with “Thank you for your time, sir,” and hung up on him. I loathe cell phones; it makes the dramatic gesture far less Hollywood. Sigh.
I am still seething, but at least the bright red parking violation envelope currently on my desk is acting acting as a stellar home for my rotting apple core.
M
