The Parking Chronicles, Part I

If I continue this way, I’ll have to invest in a black, hooded sweat suit and a mask, like the ones in “Scream” or “A Clockwork Orange.”

Don’t misunderstand. I want to handle the issue head-on (to wit: catch the perps red-handed). I’ve simply been denied the opportunity. Parkers claiming two spaces are as elusive as a faint whiff of dog shit under a pile of leaves. And so, yes. I’ve become “that person.”

A handful of times, I’ve left unsavory notes under a bad parker’s windshield wiper.

Here’s my defense. One, I have 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 track of license plates.

This is how VKF 521 came to my attention.

VKF 521 arrived early Friday afternoons, when there were spaces to be had, and parked smack-dab in the middle of two. There his car remained, unmoved, until late Monday mornings.

From this pattern I gleaned that VKF was a weekend visitor. Which meant that 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, lurching past VKF’s car, it was more than I could bear. I stopped, dropped my bags and groped for a scrap of paper. Surreptitiously looking left and right, I scrawled, “Please park more considerately!!” and tucked the note securely 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.

I wonder if Macy’s sells cute hoods and masks.