I took a tiny numbered ticket from the red dispenser and then took a seat. When my number was called, I followed a path worn in the beige-and-blue carpet from the waiting area to one of the hearing rooms, where a magistrate in a shirt and tie peered down at me. I decided to leave out the details of my karaoke glory and cut to the chase.
I think the meter was broken, I said. It wouldn't accept money past 10 p.m.
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Public Works has added stickers to meters in an attempt to clear up confusion.
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Matt Wager and Cindy Patton of the city's Department of Public Works helped craft the overnight parking system.
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I didn't explain that I hadn't tried to feed it past 10 p.m. Because of the two-hour time restriction, I should have returned two hours later, moved my car the requisite one hundred feet and paid for overnight parking. At the time, I didn't realize my mistake.
The magistrate, however, took my word for it. If the meter truly wouldn't accept any money, he said, it may have indeed been broken. He promised to send someone out to investigate and had me fill out a form that asked for my license plate number, ticket number and address. In the section labeled "Citizen's Statement," I wrote my side of the story. He explained that I would receive a decision in the mail within thirty days.
Thirty days came and went with no response. After another thirty days, I returned to the magistrate to investigate. The woman at the counter looked up my ticket in the system. "Hmmm," she said, and tapped at her keyboard. She couldn't explain what had happened with my ticket or why I hadn't received a decision. As such, she decided to dismiss it. After a few more taps, she reduced the fine to zero.
Victory! I shouted in my head. "Thank you," I said out loud.
But my feeling of triumph over the system, my conquest of The Man, lasted only a few sweet seconds, thanks to more tapping of the woman's keyboard. "It looks like you have another ticket," she said. I did, in fact. And this time, I knew I was guilty. A few days earlier, I had returned to Star Bar, unable to resist the taste of canned beer, the feel of sticky karaoke songbooks and the sound of dozens of people cheering.
As luck would have it, I snagged another prime parking spot in front of the bar. It was 8 p.m., which I now knew meant that the two-hour parking restriction was still in effect. I would have to pay for two hours, return to my car, move it one hundred feet and then pay a different meter $6 to park overnight. As I swiped my credit card, I thought, "Remember to come back at 10 and MOVE YOUR CAR AND PAY THE METER!" But several White Rascals and a performance of Salt-N-Pepa's "Shoop" later, that reminder turned into "Remember to stay here and SING QUEEN'S 'FAT BOTTOMED GIRLS'!"
I took a cab home that night. When I returned at 7:30 a.m. the next morning to pick up my car, I was greeted by another yellow envelope.
Later that day, I told my tale of woe to one of my co-workers, who had witnessed (and participated in!) my karaoke splendor. "You know that Star Bar has a parking lot, right?" he said.
No, I answered. I did not know that.
