The Metermaid

     “You people have nothing better to do?”

   “I’m only three minutes late. Three minutes.”

   He stepped around me and tried to get into my line of sight.

   “You could have given me a warning.”

   “Lady, are you even listening to me? Unbelievable!”

   After placing the ticket I had been writing on the window of the car, I finally gave the man the eye contact he’d been trying so hard to get while following me for the last half block. A quick casual smile from me was all he got. I treated him as if I hadn't heard a word of his angry tirade, just irritate him more. After the subtle glance I looked right past him up the block ignoring him completely. He huffed as he walked away unsatisfied and embarrassed. 

   It was my first hater of the day.

   I walked a route in the Cherry District of Old Town. From 20th to 27th, between Waterfront and Civic Plaza Road. The business leaders and residents had fought hard to keep the digital parking meters out of this district and had succeeded so far. All the surrounding districts had cameras and attendants that scanned plates and cars to make sure you paid through the app. No app? And you park anyway? Towed, and a three-hundred-dollar fee to get out. 

   The Cherry District was different; it’s a large collection of historical apartment buildings that housed a few nice restaurants, and where the coffee houses stayed packed all day. Some refer to it as the Arts District because of the number of galleries and theaters lining both sides of 20th Ave. Coming back up 21st Street, it was an eclectic mix of shopping, from indie bookstores to vintage shops, anchored by two music venues, one at each end. The rest only got overflow parking when there were large sporting events in the waterfront district to the north, but it was usually just a quiet walk through the residential district. Three residential blocks were laid out the same way, with a local pub tucked away between the tall apartments and the small corner stores that had everything one could need at each end. An area where buy local was more than a bumper sticker; it was daily life.

   Trí’s Little Grocery on the 24th is where I do most of my shopping. He’s been there for over thirty years and raised a family in the back of the shop, the same as he had grown up in Vietnam. His oldest daughter was in med school. He was a truly honest man, a rarity for me to come across. 

   “Good morning, Jane,” Trí said. He was standing outside the propped-open door. He held out a small steaming paper cup for me to take as I approached. 

   “How’s fishing cars today?” he asked.

   “Good so far. I made a couple of saves. Wrote half a dozen tickets. Two tows. Steady morning.”

   I took the cup from his hand. “Thank you for the coffee.”

   He lifted his own cup in a salute and nodded once with a smile.

   “You want to get lunch with me today and the Deli? I was going to ask Cappy to come.”

   “I have no help today, Miss Jane. Maybe next time. I did not see Mrs Sadie last time I went in. You say hi for me.”

   “I will, Tri. Thank you for the coffee.”

   “Be safe today, Miss Jane.”

   “Thank you, my friend. I will see you tomorrow.”

   He took my hand and shook it as he bowed. All he required to be happy in his day was for simple interactions. Trí never let me pay for the coffee and honestly appreciated it when I stopped trying, without ever having to say so. 

   Up the block, the street was filled with smooth jazz coming from an open door of the pottery studio tucked between the apartments. A white sedan just beyond it was giving off the slightest glow from above it. As I got closer, I could see the meter had gone red. Walking up behind the car, I read the plate to dispatch so they could send a tow truck. When I placed my hand on the metal, it was cold to the touch like every haloed car. 

   There was no owner. No one was ever going to claim it. Some were stolen long ago and had no history, but most often their owners had died. The city towed them in and sold them at auction after no one claimed them within the first 60 days. I put the orange sticker on the window and dated it from two days ago so they could take it right away. 

   As I turned to leave, the meter in front of the next car ticked to red. It was an old beige-and-rust-blended Toyota Corolla. I placed my hands on the hood and looked inside. Carseat in the middle back, surrounded by bedding and pillows. Toys scattered on the seat next to a tattered copy of Goodnight Moon. Single mom. Abused. Tries too hard to please others. Never got the encouragement she always needed to get ahead in life and likely never would. I pulled out the roll of quarters and added an hour and a half. There would be another reader by here in the next hour, then no one until after three.

   Working in parking enforcement is about as easy a job as you can get as long as you enjoy walking. If the meter’s red, you leave a ticket. If it’s stickered, you check it and call it in if it’s still there after the removal date. The catch was you had to have thick skin. Nobody likes the “Parking Police.”

   The apartment I lived in was on 23rd St. At the end of the street lived a retired policeman, whom everyone called Cap. He spent his mornings outside his daughter’s bakery sipping coffee and talking to everybody who passed with the local collection bucket. He was the type of guy who enjoyed making people happy. If he saw you with anything but a smile, he went to work with a joke or a compliment in an effort to lift you up, or he did with me anyway.

   When I reached the corner of 23rd, I saw Cap sitting at the small table holding his bucket. On the front it read: “Locals Park Free.”

   “Good morning, Cap. How’s business today?”

   “Miss Jane, it’s always a great morning to see you. Still had a little over $10 from yesterday.” He shook the bucket and showed off the coins before continuing. “That sub, Gary, told me he’s not going to walk our street anymore after I told him it was a waste of his time.”

   “He’s a nice kid but doesn't write enough tickets on any street for the department to keep him on. He is about an hour behind me, maybe less by now.”

   “I get it. When I had to arrest people for petty crimes of necessity, I hated it, but, well, you know. How are you for coins today?”

   “I still have about ten dollars in quarters. I’m all good for the morning.”

   I gave the block a quick scan and saw nothing out of the ordinary parked. 

   “Any strays today?”

   “There was one earlier, but he came out of the Mason building ten minutes ago. I didn’t know the car, so I never paid for him. Might be new.”

   “So many new faces around here; most don’t even know the tradition. You had lunch? I was going to Sadie’s in about an hour. She’s in the deli today. Can you meet me there?”

   “I appreciate you askin’, but my daughter is taking me over to Bedford Field for a day game. How about tomorrow at the newsstand? I will buy the gyros.”

   “Sounds good. Tell Jayla hi for me.”

   “One love, Miss Jane. Tell Sadie I said hello.”

   My morning walk down Civic Plaza Road between 23rd and 20th was where I usually wrote the most tickets. The next building I passed held a Chinese takeout place facing the street at ground level next to a small butcher shop. Both were busy with customers before the lunch hour even began. 

   Looking down the length of the meters lining the street, I could see red expired flags up for half the block. Day after day from ten am through two pm, this stretch was never paid. I had heard from people who genuinely seemed to think the meters sat there for a nostalgic look or as an art project, and couldn’t find us on the app. Depending on how I was treated, I usually showed grace. Those who chose to berate me about an app I have no authority over were often handed a $50 ticket. It was my job to do after all.

   I ran my fingers along the side of the detailed car sitting in front of the expired meter. Black Lexus, dark tint. Young lawyer, debt up to his eyeballs. Kids he never sees by two women who hate him. The charming cheater—deadbeat dad. He parked there to save fifteen bucks for the all-day pass in the plaza garage on the other side. I placed the ticket signed with a smiley face under the wiper blade. 

   The once bright red Camry in front of the Lexus had years of wear that was obvious just looking at the faded paint. As I rounded the back, I could see the student driver sticker along with a collage of school-related bumper stickers from over the years. I touched the glass with my hands to see through the glare. The seats and carpet were stained and soiled from years of hard use, but clean otherwise. This was the family car and had been for a long time. A close-knit family who just made it by every week and worked hard for every bit of what little they had. Their daughter had rolled a stop sign, and someone was here to pay the ticket. I dropped six quarters in the meter. 

   The next was a cable company truck. The same one that had still been charging me for service long after I cut the cord. After writing the ticket, I noticed the man in the driver’s seat. He sat there staring at his phone, oblivious to anything around him. He reminded me of the slot-machine zombies I used to cater to before I found the parking enforcement job through the local paper. I slipped the ticket on the window and smiled while walking away. 

   After a few more tickets, I hit a streak of green that led me to Sadie’s without stopping. It was packed as usual. Being the locals’ favorite spot and being visible from the courthouse had given her a steady flow of customers for over fifty years. She had a crack staff who turned around soup-and-sandwich orders quickly, so even a long line moved faster than anywhere nearby. She saw me come in the door and came from off her perch near the register to greet me. I had known her since my first day on this job. I ate here twice a week. She had been home ill the last few times I had been in. It was good to see her. She had begun to move carefully over the past year so as not to fall when she walked. 

   She hit a little twirl as she got close just for me and sang “Do you love me Mary Jane?” in her best Rick James impersonation. She had always wanted to be a backup singer to be a part of the show but not the feature. I slipped beside the counter and hugged her like always. Her touch had always been like an exchange of energy that brought us both to the same level. It reminded me of embracing my mom, and she knew it even though I never told her. Today I could feel all her love as usual, but the energy between us was not the same.

   “Sadie! So good to see you.”

   “You too, love.” She turned and called out number 42 to the crew, and was handed a to-go bag.

   “I got a table for two just for us, Janie.”

   Once I took the bag from her, I held out my elbow to help her along. She took it with her right hand and placed her left on my shoulder as I led her through the parting crowd waiting in line. We went into the small courtyard between the buildings where the staff had a few tables and chairs for lunch and smoke breaks. She patted my back as I helped her into the steel-cushioned chair. I took a seat across from her, and she pulled out a sandwich for us.

   “Turkey salad with almonds and craisins on rye.”

   “You know me all too well, Mrs Sadie.” She patted my hand and smiled.

   “It was Joe’s favorite as well, but you know that as much as I do.”

   The more she treated me like a genuine friend over the years, the more I actually began to like the taste of rye bread. A bit of an acquired taste.

   I smiled at her. “How is your grandson? Did he pass the bar?”

   Once I asked, I picked up my sandwich and began to eat. Ask Sadie about anyone in her family, and she would brighten instantly. A natural storyteller who had the ability to make the mundane seem interesting. By far, one of my favorite people I had ever known personally. It had always been hard for me to make friends, but Sadie was different; she enjoyed my company as much as I enjoyed hers. She had led such an interesting life, and her darkest secret had helped so many people over the years; it was hard to fault her for it.

   Sadie and her late husband Joe met working in restaurants in their early twenties. When the property where the deli is located came up for sale fifty-some years ago, she overheard a businessman talk about its potential to investors at a dinner while she was waiting tables. He went on about how huge the opportunity would be if someone were selling food there across from the courthouse. It was a small two-story building with four tenants upstairs and a former tailor shop below. The neighborhood was in full decay. The investors were not sold on the idea, but Sadie was.

   She and Joe got married, applied for a loan, but were denied. Everyone they turned to refused to buy into the idea. In the end, Sadie was so sure of its potential that she convinced Joe to go upstate and to rob a bank with her. They handed the teller a note, then walked out with enough for a down payment on the property and just enough leftover to start the deli. Neither of them ever told anyone the truth. She let Joe tell people they still owed a loanshark interest.

   It took ten years of getting by, but once the city began rebuilding the area, money flowed in, and the deli took off. She runs a women’s shelter on the top floor and employs those who had a hard time finding work because of a criminal background in the deli. She quietly funded a dozen former employees' dreams to start their own restaurants, and was known to feed anyone who was hungry and in need, without explanation.

   I finished my sandwich and wiped my mouth. “Are you not eating with me?”

   I regretted it instantly. My brain just slipped into casual conversation like we always had. It was fully evident when the light in her eyes dimmed, and her posture sank her back into her frail body.

   “No, honey. I haven’t been hungry for days now.”

   She stood and held herself back from the table.

   “I’m really glad you came today. I was afraid I might miss you.”

   “I knew I needed to come.”

   “You always seem to know, Miss Jane.”

   One of the staff came out with the phone for Sadie, so I stood up and hugged her for a beat longer than normal. She patted my back as I kissed her on the cheek. 

   “Love you, Mrs. Sadie.”

   “Love you too, Mary Jane.”

   She took the young lady’s arm and told the person on the phone to hold on. She turned and looked at me, then reached into her apron and pulled out a roll of quarters and handed it to me with a wink. After she had gone back in, I took a moment to collect myself in the privacy between the buildings. 

   When I stepped out of the alley back onto the street, I saw a man running my way, with a ticket in his hand.

   “I have a picture I took of the meter showing the time I parked; there was no way it had expired when you wrote this.”

   Walking past the shouting man, I checked the next row.

   “You’re just going to ignore me? I can’t wait for this district to get on the app and take your job away. You are worthless, lady.”

   The second hater of my day. In certain moments, thick skin was just enough to hold me together.

   As I reached the next set of meters, they were all green. I touched the cars anyway, just for the distraction.