A few months back I had chalked the tires of a vehicle parked in a non-metered space. I recorded the time and a short while later, when I returned, I saw a kid trying to break into the car. He had slid a metal coat hanger through the side window, and was, unsuccessfully, trying to unlock it.
I walked up beside him and watched. He was perhaps thirteen or fourteen, definitely not driving age. I knew what he was after, as I had scoped it out before: a brand new Yamaha five-disc car stereo, with two-hundred-watt speakers and subwoofers that were powerful enough to shake this car and the ones around it.
The kid was sweating and he was becoming impatient. He would slide the hanger down the window slit and fish it up and down. When he wouldn’t get the desired result he would pull it out and curse.
The kid wasn’t even looking up. He was focused on the task at hand. After a few long minutes he had the door unlocked. I could tell he was glad. So was I.
I placed my hand on his shoulder and spun him around.
“All right, son,” I said imitating my father’s voice. “You’re under arrest.”
He didn’t wait. He darted. I went after him. We raced, maybe a block and a half before I finally caught him.
“Why bother running?” I said out of breath. “I saw you break into the car.”
The kid just shrugged.
“Let’s go,” I said.
During our walk the kid kept his head down.
When we got back I saw the car’s door open and the stereo, speakers, and everything else of value missing.
The kid looked at me and said, “I didn’t take nothing.”
I had been duped.
The kid was a decoy and I was the bait. While I was running after the kid his buddies cleaned the car.
Obviously, I didn’t see the kid take anything, so the Judge gave him some community time. He and his buddies got away with thousands of dollars worth of goods.
Even now I laugh when I think about it.
It goes to show no matter how smart you think you are, someone is always smarter.
It was almost the end of my shift and close to rush hour. I drove to a tag-and-tow street. I stopped behind a gray Plymouth Voyager and wrote a ticket.
“Hey, wait. Stop,” said a voice further away.
I turned and saw a man in a robe running towards me. He stopped and caught his breath.
How do people know I’m about to give them a ticket?
“Hey, please. Don’t give me a ticket?” he said.
“You’re not supposed to be parked here. Rush hour,” I said.
“I know,” he pleaded. “I’m having a bad day. My girlfriend left me. I was up all night. I didn’t even go to work…”
People tell me their life’s history hoping I’ll change my mind, and in certain situations I do.
“I’m sorry, sir,” I said.
I placed the ticket on the windshield.
“Haven’t you ever had a bad day?”
“Every day,” I said and moved to my cruiser.
“Haven’t you ever been too busy to move your car?”
That stopped me.
He said, “Come on, can’t you give me a break?”
“I did,” I said. “You’re lucky I didn’t have your car towed.”
I headed back to headquarters with forty-seven tickets and two tows.
After my shift I took the subway to Joe’s Towing. Inside the impound shed, mighty Joe Coultier sat behind the counter.
Behind Joe was a huge sign that read: WE DID NOT DRIVE YOUR CAR, WE DID NOT PARK YOUR CAR, WE DID NOT TAG YOUR CAR, WE DID TOW YOUR CAR, SO WE DESERVE ONLY? OF THE ABUSE.
“License plate?” Joe asked a gentleman in front of me.
The man gave him the plate number, paid, and left.
“Next,” Joe yelled.
There was no one else in the impound shed.
“Jonny,” he said in a deep voice. Joe is massive; he has big hands, big chest, big feet, even a big head.
“Hello, Joe,” I said, embarrassed.
“License plate?” he asked
“Come on,” I snapped. “You know my car. I’ve been here many times.”
“Too many times,” he said, clearly enjoying this.
“Yeah, all right,” I said and gave him my license plate number.
He looked through his records as if it were a technicality. “The usual spot.”
Something was different. “What happened to Marcie?” I asked.
“She got tired of the yelling and swearing-”
“-From you?”
“Funny guy,” said Joe.
“I always liked her,” I said. “She had a beautiful smile.”
“Yeah, well,” he shrugged. “There’s a vacancy if you’re interested.”
“Funny guy,” I said imitating him. “How much?”
“The usual. Forty-nine dollars.”
“Come on,” I said. “I’m your best customer. You must have a super-customer rate.”
“Sorry, I don’t.”
“You know what you need?” I said, getting excited. “Those coupons like in the grocery stores. After five tows the next tow is free.”
“Not interested,” Joe said.
“How’re you supposed to attract customers?”
“I don’t need to.”
I leaned closer. “You know they’ll go elsewhere.”
“No, they won’t. I have the contract to this district for another three years. They have no choice but to come to me.”
I stood up and waved my finger, “That’s monopolization and that’s illegal.”
“Go fight the system.”
“I intend to,” I said. I pulled out my chequebook, ready to pay and get out of this place.
“No cheques from you,” Joe said, shaking his head.
“Since when?” I asked.
“Since the last time your chequebounced.”
“I had to pay my cable bill.”
“I don’t care.” He pointed to a piece of paper, stuck on the wall, behind him. It read: DO NOT ACCEPT CHEQUES FROM THIS PERSON. Underneath was a smiling picture of me.
“Where’d you get that?” I exploded.
“From your driver’s license,” he said, laughing.
“All right, you giant clown, take it down.” After paying, I said, “I’m going to be back in three years and Marcie and I are going to open our own little towing company. And we’re going to offer discounts to our loyal customers.”
I went to the back end of the lot to where my car was, in the dark corner.
I patted my baby. “Sorry you have to come to this awful place,” I whispered. “Daddy will be more responsible from now on.”
For a brief moment I thought my car sighed. It had been a very long day.
I got in my car and drove into the sunset.
I drove to my landlady’s son’s house. He came out as he saw me ease my car into the driveway.
“Jon,” he said. “Mom told me your car was towed.”
“How did she know?” I was certain she was sleeping when the towing occurred.
“She saw you standing on the street, waiting for the streetcar.”
“Yeah, well,” I shrugged.
“You should’ve parked it here,” he said.
“Just too tired, I guess.”
My landlord’s family was from the Philippines and some of the nicest people I knew.
I walked the block to my house and with the key opened the main door. As I was walking up the stairs my landlady appeared behind her door.
“Jonny,” she said in her native Tagalog accent. “I was so worried. You get your car back?”
“Yes, I did,” I said. Whenever something happened to me she got worried. “It’s okay; I parked it at David’s.”
“You should do that every day. Okay?”
“Yes, every day,” I said in resignation.
I unlocked my front door and entered.
I was greeted by a life-size cut-out of Michael Jordan, wearing his No. 23 Bulls jersey, hands clasped to his sides and smiling radiantly.
“Hi, Mike,” I said, in customary greeting.
To this day Mike has never answered back, but his smile always reassures me that he is listening.
I had arrived in my one-bedroom castle. The king had returned from giving parking tickets to those who chose to break the municipal parking by-laws.