Yesterday there was no parking at the bus stop. I parked in the lot of a breakfast joint next door instead. I've never done it before. The decision to leave my Volvo amidst Early Bird Special Loving Monte Carlos and Lincolns was an unfortunate byproduct of being extraordinarily late. Trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, I took a spot at the edge of the pavement, next to a dumpster that smelled like congealed maple syrup and paper place mats.
When I returned that night, there was a MS Word document stuck under my windshield wiper. The piece of paper read, "THIS IS A PRIVATE LOT. VEHICLES MAY BE TOWED AT THE OWNERS EXPENSE. THANK YOU FOR YOUR COOPERATION." Cooperation wasn't really the right word, as it described a willing negotiator, as opposed to a bullied participant. I was thankful for the curt warning until I noticed my driver's side window. Someone had reiterated the message on the glass in wipe-off marker. The handwriting had a loopy quality reminiscent of an preteen girl. Hand drawn doodle stars garnished the bottom of the sill, along with a curly underline. Why the person felt it necessary to tag my vehicle with a neon run-d0wn of my discrepancy, I'll never know. The vandalism felt like a graffitied Scarlet A, meant to shame me in front of the upstanding, proper patron crowd.
Similar to the Hawthorne version, the mark was not easily removed. Even after an aggressive rub down courtesy of my sleeve and spit, the statement remained. I was pissed. I was also very tired. I ended up driving home as is. Each time I stopped at a sign or light, passerbys would stare, mouthing the words to themselves. I kept my eyes fixed on the road. By the time I pulled into my driveway, my anger had morphed into an activist stance. How wrong. How dare she, power-hungry Preteen Hostess Girl, touch my personal property? I even went so far as to take a picture of the window the next day in the hopes of having evidence to file a complaint with the Better Business Bureau. In all honesty, I probably won't do anything. My moral fire has been doused by residual laziness. Sitting here, looking at the photo, I am no longer perturbed...more like moderately amused. Is apathy bad if it lets you laugh later?
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