I was sitting in Starbucks this morning, working diligently on this brilliant rag that you're reading when I witnessed justice being served. Looking up from my work I saw one of Hercules’ finest writing out a ticket for a truck parked in one of the two handicapped spots in front of the shop. There was no placard and the truck did not have a disabled plate. The truck’s owner was in line waiting to be served and went outside to confront the situation. As it turned out there was no confrontation, only a short discussion in which the driver apparently had to give in to the inevitable (at least for the time being pending a dispute), at which point she returned to the coffee queue. Now on a Saturday morning Starbucks can generate a lot of traffic in this little strip mall, but barring some sort of special event the parking lot is never full. Sometimes you might have to walk 50 yards to get your coffee.
Lately I’ve taken a new found interest in cars parked in those blue zones, taking note as to whether the car is there legally or not. The reason behind my interest is that, having broken my ankle two months ago I’ve gained some appreciation of their value to those who really need them. I would have qualified for a temporary placard but I decided against that figuring I might be dancing with the stars before the DMV would get around to processing my application and secondly being in pretty good shape I can clop, clop on crutches a few extra feet and save the spot for someone who needs it more than I do. Having said that, take it from me, hobbling across the lot or a mere ten yards is not a real easy thing to, particularly if I’m carrying something. Just getting out of the car and gathering my things have become cumbersome chores that take more time and effort than I'm used to. Beyond that what I’ve also learned is a sense of vulnerability that goes with limited movement. When I’m moving clumsily through a parking lot while motorists distractedly look for a spot, driving like it’s a Grand Prix circuit, I’m given one hell of a dose of pause. And for the first time in my life, and call me paranoid, I’ve wondered if maybe I present an opportunity for some criminal entrepreneur. How much worse for someone with a real disability?
I’ve heard the excuse, “Oh I’m only going to be here for a minute.” Well the woman in question this morning was there for many minutes because the Starbucks line was nearly to the door. And that minute might just happen to be the one when someone who legitimately needs that spot cruises by to see his rightful spot taken by someone who is both lazy and inconsiderate.
I suppose that this is just another symptom of sedentary, can’t haul my lazy self across the lot, America. Or maybe it’s our rush, rush, I’m running late, don’t have time, society. Or could it be just more evidence that we have a growing me, me, me, oh my God it’s all about me culture, like one of my wife’s former co-workers. This was a perfectly healthy, fit young woman in her twenties who learned that if she took the placard from her grandmother’s car she could park in the blue zone and not be inconvenienced. Is there anyone out there who can explain to me the rationalization of that behavior?
