He was tall and handsome in the Texas morning sun. Oozing taut energy, like his Italian sports car. He was aiming for the not so civil courthouse across the street -- it’s wide, impressive expanse of stairs leading to the Hells of Justice.
He must be a successful PI attorney, I thought. Business litigators don’t display that metro fashion flair. He displayed the confidence a Texas rising star super-lawyer. And he sure pulled a fast one on me.
There I was, old, fat, arthritic, and further crippled by the open, sometimes bleeding wounds on my feet. My stigmata. I got out of my car and walked in front of it. Standing between the blinking flashers and my handicapped plates, I maintained my distance but looked straight at him. I was fifteen feet away, on the far side of his car, but he could not avoid my eyes. And only after he stopped and looked at me, did I say, with whatever semblance of dignity I could muster: “That is not fair. I was here first and I was waiting for that parking space and I need it. That is not fair.”
My cousin, the beautiful Irene, had told me that was the most effective line she had when people tried to bully her. No explanations, no pejoratives, no blaming, accusing, or excusing. Not even asking for anything, because it’s obvious. Just a simple statement repeated until listened to. “That is not fair.” He had the grace to stammer: “I am so sorry. I’ll find another spot.” And he turned around to return to his car.
Suddenly two sheriffs’ cars screeched up and the officers jumped out and stormed and secured the scene. “Get back!” I am ordered in such a forceful way that my heart begins to race. Get back where? I wonder, “Get back! Get back to your car right now. Oh sir, everything’s all right now, you’re free to go. We’re taking care of this.”
“Excuse me.” I try to stammer out. “You get over there” and impelled by superior force I go to my driver’s door where two of the other sheriffs are already waiting for me. “Sir, please. you can leave. Everything’s all right now. We have this under control.”
And the movie star buff multi-millionaire-who-steals-parking-spots-from-crippled-old-ladies slinks off to Court as fast as he can go. I am left alone to the tender mercies of the sheriffs. My license is taken and one of the officers goes to check on my outstanding warrants. I am asked suspiciously about my weapons (I guess in Texas it’s not unreasonable to assume crippled old ladies in Volvo station wagons come fully loaded) and am angrily lectured about the disturbance I caused and dangers I am creating.
“What dangers?” I ask. “You are not allowed to confront people like that. You are creating a very dangerous situation. This is how people get killed.”
“What did I do that was threatening? I didn’t make any threats. I’m not going to kill anybody.”
“You told him he had to move his car and you had no right to go that. You were starting a confrontation and that is how people get killed. You had absolutely no right to tell him to move his car and disturb the peace. We can arrest you for disturbing the peace.”
“I never told him to move his car.”
“You didn’t? Don’t lie to me. That’s why you got out of your car.” Okay. They saw him cut rapidly and illegally across traffic and directly cut off my car to take the parking space I had been circling the block for over an hour to find.
“No. I never told him to move his car. I . . .”
“Yes you did! That’s why you got out of your car. You were going to confront him and make him move his car.” Actually, if I had that type of power, that I could “make” men move objects, I would not be wasting it on men who look like gigolos driving Italian sports cars,
“No. I never went up to him, I stayed by my car. I only told him that it wasn’t fair. I said that I had been waiting for that parking spot, that I needed it, and it wasn’t fair.” And they knew I was telling the truth because they had watched the whole thing. And they had been watching me, because I had stopped in the spacious loading zone in front of the courthouse because I was so tired of circling and seeing other’s luck into the precious spaces. Of course, none of the spaces next to the courthouse were marked handicapped. All the courthouse handicapped spaces were next to the elevator in a garage two blocks away from the courthouse’s main entry. But this was one of my one block is my ultimate limit days. And so I circled.
They were watching my suspicious behavior. They had seen me pull into the loading zone, wait a little while, and then return to circling. And the third time they saw me stop in the loading zone they came and questioned me. They were full of outrage that I was trying to game the system with my ultra-lame excuse . . . of being lame. And so, I had circled, going around and round, beginning to worry that the hour plus I had allotted for finding a parking space was insufficient.
For I had been circling the block for over an hour. I had found a space, or so I thought. There was no traffic at that moment, I put on my blinker, and moved over two lanes as the car pulled out freeing the space. But instantly there were lights and sirens and the angry sheriff, who had told me he was going to ticket me if I stopped in the loading zone again demanded to know what I was doing cutting across traffic like that.
“But there was no traffic . . .” was the wrong thing I said. It was the changing of two lanes, with my blinker on, when there was no traffic which was the illegal act that he was going to ticket me for. But because he was Such A Nice Guy! he magnanimously let me off with a stern warning as someone else parked in the space I had coveted.
And just when I thought I’m going to make it on time to court, when the car finished pulling out creating that glorious expanse of nothingness, an empty parking space, Mr. So-much-more-than-me he just cut in front of me and took it.
I wasn’t put in chains that day. Not yet. But the tale is long, and I am tired. I hope to come back to continue the story, and I hope that someone will listen.