Throat Punch Thursday- The Power Hungry

Every Monday I drive downtown to meet my tribe of Austin Sketchers at various locations in the city. Finding The Tea Embassy, I rode around the block to scope out parking and had the good fortune to pull my Ford Flex right up in front of the historic Victorian building.

I took care to fit right into the spot so there would be a good space left for any of my classmates.
Whipping my credit card through the meter, I programmed the time I wanted and printed out the sticker. Walking back to my car, I stuck it in the windshield.

I pulled out my bag with my art supplies, tucked my purse partially under the drivers seat and locked her up tight.

 I stood out on the sidewalk with the other ladies, looking around trying to decide if I would like to draw that day. We were on a quiet tree lined street that was a mix of residential and businesses, with lots of interesting subjects for sketching.

I noticed the meter reader  checking out the car in front of mine, but didn’t give him much thought since I was confident I had taken care of all that business. We all chatted  like a bunch of hens and I watched the meter guy begin to circle my car with his hand held computer. It was hot and he was wearing his uniform shorts with black socks and I felt bad for his skinny chicken legs in the baggy shorts.

It occurred to me he was really giving my car a thorough inspection. He was punching buttons like mad on his computer, peering in my windows, inspecting my license plate. I thought, he probably thinks I’m an idiot for leaving my purse in the car. Then, what is his deal, did my sticker fall off of my license plate?
wondered, is that guy looking to jack my car?

Breaking away from my group, I walked down the block a bit and cheerfully hollered, “ I hope you’re not thinking of stealing my car”. The little man looked up at me sharply and I could see right away, there was no humor in him at all. “Is there a problem with how I am parked”? I inquired as pleasantly as I could.

With tightly pursed lips and a furrowed brow he stared at the screen of his little computer. He began tapping his foot and emphatically said, “ yes, as a matter of fact there is”.  Ot oh, major attitude.

He tipped his head back and peered down his nose at me, obviously satisfied that he had wiped the smile off of my face.

Oh, shit.

Meter Maid: “My records indicate that you have already had two warnings”? He said with a sense of severity.

Me:  “I don’t know what you mean, a warning for what”? I truly didn’t know what he was talking about.

Meter Maid: Looking at me like I’m lying through my teeth. “ Your sticker is not affixed to the windshield properly”.

Me: “Oh, you’re right, I did get a warning once because I just laid the receipt on my dashboard, like we do in Chicago. But I peeled the paper and stuck it on the window. Did it fall off”?

Meter Maid: “It’s on the wrong side! It clearly instructs you to affix to the curb side of the windshield”.

At this point my art instructor and a few of the ladies have gathered to see what this fellow was so worked up about.

Me: I’m thinking, seriously? Is this dude jerking me around? But I said, “Sorry, I didn’t realize that”.

Meter Maid: “It’s clearly written on the sticker (in teensy weensy lettering). You don’t expect me to have to walk on the street to do my job”.

Enlarged for your enjoyment

Wait one hot second. He had circled my car at least 4 times. We weren’t exactly on a bustling street. Plus, if you’ve ever been to the Austin area...these people are crazy! I see people riding their bikes ON THE FREEWAYS here. I never thought for a minute they’d be worried about walking by a parked car  on the street.

Seeing that I’m beginning to get exasperated, my friend decided to intervene in her soft gentle way. “This is my friend from Michigan, she’s new here. She just didn’t know she was supposed to do that”.

Meter Maid: Stabbing his bony finger frantically at his small computer, “ Our records state she has been warned twice in the last 4 months, it’s very simple to read the directions”.

This guy was like a dog with a bone, he just would not let it go. While I had thought he looked like a dork in his dress shorts and black socks, now that I had met him up close I thought he looked like a constipated, dried up bastard. Hydrate buddy, hydrate. And fiber. These are your friends.

Me: “Can’t I just move it to the other side right now”?

Meter Maid: He looked up and saw my whole tribe gathered around (they actually include some rather formidable and well known Austinites). “Welllllll, I guess you could this time, unless you want a $20 ticket”.

So, I did. I moved it. And he made more notes in his computer and then scurried off like the weak little rat bastard he was.

I joined my group and one of the sweet proper older ladies, a life long Texan, leaned over and said, “don’t worry honey, you know what they say about men who behave like that. They usually are lacking in that department” pointing to the area below the waist.

Then another of my lovelies chimed in using her deep Texan drawl, “That poor little bastard was just as sour as he could be. He was just trying to feel powerful at your expense”. Another one put in her two cents, “ we got your back sweetie. We know where a woman’s place really is” and we all just busted out laughing.

The week before we were sketching at the capital building and one of these retired Texas blue blood gals had said, “ Ann always said a woman’s place was in the house...the Big House (referring to Ann Richards, the former  governor of Texas). This Meter Maid probably had no idea that he was tangling with  a gang of women who were old and seasoned enough to have pushed Ann Richards straight into her position in the ”Big House“ years ago.

I am among some of the younger members of the group.

It’s nice to know they have this petite little conservative Republican’s back.

I have no issue with this guy doing his job. And I wouldn't want his job. No one needs to be quite so condescending or downright nasty when dealing with people. A simple wave and, "did you know you're supposed to put the sticker on the curb side"? would have been a nice gesture, still within the bounds of doing his job.

So, I do declare on this day that box checking monkeys like my meter reader deserve the Throat Punch award.



Underbelly of the Beast

 We arrived in Chicago along with the remnants of Hurricane Ike bringing along that weirdly vaporous blanket of ick that hung all over the tall buildings in the city. Added to that was the obscenely warm drizzle that fell and left me feeling like a Golden Retriever whose fur never quite gets dry all summer because it won’t stay out of the lake.I was not about to let wet weather spoil my weekend in the city. It’s not often I get to pretend I am a sophisticated urban business woman except when I am visiting my overachieving firstborn. I pulled up in the loading zone in front of the sleek high rise building and follow my obsessive impulse to unload all of our stuff right away.

I  circled the block and found a metered spot.With nerves of steel I back up and drop it like it’s hot right into the slot on the first try. “It” being my silver Ford Edge with chrome hubcaps, gigantic sunroof, black leather interior and  Sirius radio. Dutifully, I deposited 2 hours worth of quarters into the meter and noted the time. You see I am too cheap to pay $35 a day to park my car especially when there is all this lovely street parking available. My August trip netted me a $60 ticket (which I’m contesting) for parking on the street  during “rush hour”. There was absolutely no sign acknowledging that on this particular block.  May I just tell you the parking signage in Chicago SUCKS big time. So here I am on my September trip and as far as I am concerned GAME ON  for this parking challenge.

A few hours later we decided to go out for a stroll along the river walk. I smiled as we walked up the street where my car was parked thinking I will move it later to one of the “free” spots since the weekend has arrived. The only problem is my car is not where I left it, even though I still have 3 minutes left on the meter! HOLY SHIT BATMAN SOMEONE STOLE MY CAR. My daughter rolls her eyes, accusing me of not remembering exactly where I parked. I retrace my steps in my mind, nope this is exactly where I parked, I even noted the address of the building when I got out of my car earlier. Then my tall friend from Sweden notices the sign partially hidden behind a tree branch about 5 spaces behind my (now vacant) spot. It says, “TOW ZONE BETWEEN 4-6 p.m.” Blast it all, don’t you hate getting screwed up on a technicality when you think you are being so smart?

Well, I pitched a small fit right there on the sidewalk. But I got over it in the next instant because I am practical like that. I resolved to deal with those sneaky car towing devils in the morning and proceeded to have a great night out at Carnival, which we could walk to by the way. I enjoyed the food, except we over ordered on the plantains (didn't know you could cook those little dudes so many ways.) It's amazing I could look this serene (could it have been several mojitos?) after the tumultuous day that I had:

Tucked back into the cozy apartment I do a phone search for my car. I get a recorded message asking me to enter my vehicle ID number or my license plate number. Thwarted again! All those numbers are IN THE CAR. I call back home to and ask the prince to look in the insurance file and get  my VIN number. I punch that in the system but it’s a no go. Then my 13 year old suggests, “ let's look through our vacation photos from North Carolina” remembering the pictures of my car we took at all the look out spots on the Blue Ridge Parkway. We found the perfect shot of the rear of the car and crop the picture to zoom in on the license plate and hit the jack pot. Thank you CSI.

The next morning we head over to the car impound. The pitted road is lined with vulture like tow trucks salivating over the thought of being dispatched upon the unsuspecting public. It’s about 5 miles west of the city, in a very sketchy industrial looking area. The rain continues and it is wet and muddy in the yard. The floor inside is a disgusting mess. While waiting I observe just about every kind of person you can imagine engaging in various activities related to getting their cars back. There were warnings all over the walls (no photos, no recording devices, instructions for the line, etc). Warnings that we were being recorded and under surveillance. There were also some peculiar looking couples in line.

 Now I always carry my small camera in my purse and I smelled a good story here. I slipped my tiny camera into Raymondo’s pocket and softly suggested he go stand back by the door and snap a few pictures of the place. I stayed in line (see window #3) trying to determine how to get my car out of there. I quickly learn that if you don’t have the means to find your license plate number they are not finding your car, so all that CSI watching was paying off. Ray  goes to the door and tries to take some inconspicuous pictures, but the Juicy Girl’s pimp boyfriend started screaming, “ NO CAMERAS IN HERE.” “THIS IS BEING RECORDED, THE POLICE WILL BE ALL OVER Y’ALL IN A MINUTE.” I pretended that I didn’t know who my husband was, I was just praying they wouldn’t get my camera away from him. I could of understood if it were the employees who were yelling at him, but it was another customer who pitched such a fit!

They found my car, but we were at the wrong pound. I try to summon my bodyguards - let’s go! I see my non-confrontational  husband still being harassed about the camera. Finally, we get the heck out of there. Our Swedish friend Nicholas is laughing like a hyena by now, so this is what crazy Americans do on the weekend. We punch the new pound address in the GPS and ride around back into the actual city. Back on Wacker Drive and in the middle of a bridge the GPS lady says “you have arrived at your destination.” Um, I don’t think so. It took quite a bit of sleuthing to figure we had to get out of the car and climb down into the underbelly of the beast. There in the bowels of a hotel was another impound lot, resembling a scene from the 1990’s movie The Babysitter . In it the young innocent looking Elizabeth Shue has to search for her family’s car which has been towed to the steaming, dripping underground lot where thugs are lurking, waiting to pounce on her.  After handing them $170 I quickly drove my car (with a $60 parking during rush hour ticket stuck to the windshield) out of that place feeling like I have been chewed up and spit out by this nasty monster of a bureaucracy.  Looks like I am going to have to find a new parking strategy before the next trip but believe me when I say this game is not over.