Princess Parking

In his final years, riding in a car with Dad as he drove became a somewhat risky proposition. During what was to be my last drive with our father, I distinctly remember firmly planting both feet onto non-existent passenger side “air” brakes as he sped along a boulevard, craning his neck fully to the left for a better view of a building that had caught his attention – not once looking at the road ahead of us; it probably lasted no more than five seconds but it may as well have been an eternity. Eventually returning his attention to the road and then to me, he became aware of my manifest fear; letting loose with the heartiest of laughs, he assured me, “Don’t worry! My reflexes are fine!”

As antithetical as it may seem, however, family members might argue that driving a car – while Dad assumed the role of “back seat driver” – may have represented an even worse fate.

With the probable exception of Vespa scooters, men demonstrate an oddly primal need to hold dominion over automobiles and motorcycles.

Dad was certainly no exception.

Regardless of age or pecking order within the family, any unfortunate who drove a car with Dad as passenger was subject to his continuous scrutiny and counsel. End of story.

Our Mother didn’t much like travelling this road alone; I was never sure if she needed one of us along simply for support, to share her misery with company, or to bear witness to any potential breach of the First Commandment.

Dad was not only in charge of every aspect of a moving vehicle but also parking. Our Mother could pull into a parking lot devoid of cars – a thousand spaces from which to chose – and Dad would reflexively insist, “Park right here, Mylla!” While she maneuvered into the sacrosanct space, it became my job to lock eyes with hers in the rear view mirror, offering silent commiseration (and prayer).

Handicapped Parking

I have never been one to waste time or fuel seeking out premium parking spaces. I would also add that I am not a happy passenger when others do the same. My preference is to park as far away from other cars as possible no matter what weather condition might prevail. This surely has something to do with a touch of OCD in addition to a well grounded contempt for thoughtless (possibly intentional) door “dings” and such.

Given that I am also not opposed to walking, I always seek sanctuary at the outer reaches of the lots provided by the massive Mega Stores ubiquitous to most communities. Once parked and confident in the safety of my car, I begin the long trek to the front doors – crossing county lines and the occasional time-zone or weather change along the way.

Long walks seem to be a good time for reflection. As I recently made my way closer to one of these monolithic storefronts, it dawned on me that civility seems to be inversely proportional to proximity to the entrances.

Shopping cart ethics is a good example.

It seems to me that people who park a distance from stores generally seem to make more of a good faith effort to dispense of their emptied cart in a proscribed manner. On a recent trip to Wal-Mart, inching ever closer to the store on foot, I witnessed incredible displays of laziness and disregard for fellow shoppers. Apparently not caring that cars were more densely packed or that one of the receptacles for carts was within spitting distance, I spied more than one shopper expending a good deal of energy shoving empty carts away from their cars with absolute disregard for a final destination (which would have been the side of my car).

While that behavior is wholly unacceptable, I am convinced that the single greatest breach of storefront civility comes with the (ab)use of Handicapped Parking spaces.

I have probably written no more than five scripts in my life for individuals seeking a government issued placard which authorizes a driver to legally use a handicapped space when parking; two of those permits were for patients who had previously undergone limb amputations. It isn’t as though other patients – or even friends – haven’t asked, but amazingly few infirmities actually meet the criteria for this privilege.

Agree with me or not, my bottom line is this: If I authorize a placard for a disabled individual, the script is written with the clear understanding that it will be used only when the patient is physically within a car; being in possession of a valid permit does not represent a blanket license for unwarranted handicapped parking by non-disabled family and friends. From my experience, more often than not, this unfortunately seems to be the rule rather than the exception.

Over the last few years, I began to take a few moments to stop whenever seeing someone take up one of these rare and valuable parking spaces (for a parking lot of 500, the government requires only nine designated handicapped spaces). Almost without exception, the driver (and sole passenger) will quickly abandon the car fairly jogging to the store entrance – their time being valuable, after all.

I know I probably shouldn’t become overly concerned by this, but my blood boils with disgust at the incredible gall of these individuals.

A few months ago I was in a particularly disgruntled frame of mind when I happened onto one of these hapless abusers of a handicapped parking space. Spotting a government issued Princess Parking Permit on the dashboard of her car, I was taken aback by the incontrovertible fact that this “disabled” woman in a trendy jogging suit had somehow managed to juggle multiple bags of groceries while simultaneously devouring a Snickers Bar and guzzling a Diet Coke (offsetting penalties). Sardonically, I asked if she needed any help, to which she replied, “No, thanks, I’ve got it covered.” Really?

Out of a base desire to humiliate her, my immediate inclination was to get down on my knees and pray out loud to Jesus in thanksgiving for the “Miracle” which had clearly been visited upon her. Fortunately for this woman, there was not a large enough audience; what good is an act of embarrassment, after all, absent witnesses who might applaud or cast stones thereby multiplying her shame.

Instead, I simply asked her about the permit:

RUDE WOMAN: Oh, that is for my grandmother; she has all kinds of problems.

RDMMD: Oh, so she is with you?

RUDE WOMAN: No! I see her every couple of weeks. I got the permit because she has some trouble walking; she doesn’t drive.

RDMMD: I see. Sooooo, why are you using the permit today?

RUDE WOMAN: Because it’s mine! They gave it to me to use!

RDMMD: When you are driving with your Grandmother, right?

RUDE WOMAN: (Becoming indignant) Well, I was pretty damned busy today and didn’t have time to mess around finding an f’ing parking spot!

Abruptly terminating the conversation and closing her car door, I was able to clearly make out her “farewell offer” to me.

In parting, I turned her down with a heartfelt, “Thanks, but no thanks!”

People are quick to offer any number of explanations; my favorite is, “My time is valuable!” As my Grandfather once said, "Explanations are offered absent an appropriate excuse."

I am certain she wouldn’t agree, but I would like to believe all of us feel our time is of equal importance and value. The difference between this woman and the rest of society is that most of us don't take advantage of a special privilege thereby depriving the truly needy appropriate access to stores or other buildings in the name of "our time."

As I began the long walk back to my car, I was amazed at how angry I had become at the audacity of this woman. I couldn't help but think that in an ideal world, all of us would surely enjoy benefiting from such perks. But how could someone not see as contemptible, an inappropriate exercise of her free will for the sake of shaving a few milliseconds of time from an unwanted chore? Each of us has the right to equally regard our time as valuable because it is an illusory commodity; none of us is guaranteed even a moment let alone a life long-lived. The arrogance and selfishness is astounding.

In the end, I was most disheartened by the realization that people such as this woman simply don't get it -- or possible don't even care to understand; life is all about them.

I soon realized I didn't feel great about having confronted her ..... and Kharma can be a real bitch:

I arrived to find my car – parked in the middle of nowhere – surrounded by two cars and an empty shopping cart!

“Ding” and all.

I can hear Dad laughing now.