On second street, the parking sign was very confusing: "Zone 1 Permit Parking. 8AM - 10AM and 3PM - 5PM, weekdays." Nate and I puzzled over it for a while. On one hand, this was the neighborhood where we were looking for housing and for jobs for connections in general. "On the other hand," Nate said, "I don't want to get a ticket." And it was his car.
We were about to risk it. Having received a parking ticket in every municipality in which I parked during my high school years (total of four, accumulated in a two-week stretch), I consider myself somewhat learned in the arcane meanings of ambiguously worded signs with white, red, and/or green writing.
An authority more venerable than I sat across the street. I had seen him, out of the corner of my eye, on our approach. Old guys sitting on stoops are no rarity around town. "Let's ask that guy," said Nate.
He had an eye patch, a Hawaiian shirt, and a white captain's hat. His hair was also white. He did not, expectations to the contrary, have a pipe.
"Excuse me, uh, sir, do you know about parking regulations around here?" Nate asked from across the street. He didn't respond, except, maybe, to smile slightly, so we crossed three lanes of fast-moving traffic. We were committed.
"Do you know, if we park here now, will we get a ticket?"
"I'm a little hard of hearing."
Nate stepped right up on the stoop and repeated his question.
"Ah," said the man. His remaining eye glinted. "You're fine now, but once the time comes, they'll getcha." He gestured to his watchless wrist. "Right on the dot." His words were hard to understand. Any dialogue transcribed is mostly based on guesswork, except for the following: "They's a bitch."
We nodded, laughing along with him at the unfairness (or, perhaps, the all-too-fairness) of it all, and made sure that we were back before Zone 1 Permit Parking began at 3PM.
We were about to risk it. Having received a parking ticket in every municipality in which I parked during my high school years (total of four, accumulated in a two-week stretch), I consider myself somewhat learned in the arcane meanings of ambiguously worded signs with white, red, and/or green writing.
An authority more venerable than I sat across the street. I had seen him, out of the corner of my eye, on our approach. Old guys sitting on stoops are no rarity around town. "Let's ask that guy," said Nate.
He had an eye patch, a Hawaiian shirt, and a white captain's hat. His hair was also white. He did not, expectations to the contrary, have a pipe.
"Excuse me, uh, sir, do you know about parking regulations around here?" Nate asked from across the street. He didn't respond, except, maybe, to smile slightly, so we crossed three lanes of fast-moving traffic. We were committed.
"Do you know, if we park here now, will we get a ticket?"
"I'm a little hard of hearing."
Nate stepped right up on the stoop and repeated his question.
"Ah," said the man. His remaining eye glinted. "You're fine now, but once the time comes, they'll getcha." He gestured to his watchless wrist. "Right on the dot." His words were hard to understand. Any dialogue transcribed is mostly based on guesswork, except for the following: "They's a bitch."
We nodded, laughing along with him at the unfairness (or, perhaps, the all-too-fairness) of it all, and made sure that we were back before Zone 1 Permit Parking began at 3PM.
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