Spring Break
Victim to the wrath of parking Nazis
Michelle Jew / Daily Managing editor
I was tired of parking at the Park and Ride lot only to try and remember to move my car before the buses stopped running. Because that means someone would have to give me a ride to the lot at midnight.
I was tired of circling the garages like a vulture, trying desperately to find a spot near the bottom floor, yet knowing that the only spots left were on the very top.
I was tired of trudging up five flights of stairs at the Fourth and Seventh street garages.
It’s much harder to make it up those stairs after about 12 hours of editing, and it’s even harder to keep my eyes open on the way home.
So I found another method.
Call me a crook. Call me a cheat. Call me a system beater.
Because that’s what I did — I beat the parking system.
I found, during my three semesters as a Daily staff member, that the public garages close at 11 p.m.
Well, they don’t close per se, because I can still access my car, but there’s nobody manning the tollbooth at the exit.
So, if I park my car in the public garage, which is oh-so-conveniently located across the street from campus, and there isn’t someone there at the end of my day to take my money, whose fault is it?
Not mine.
I would gladly pay to park in those facilities — yeah, right — but there’s nobody there.
Not my fault.
My system was working, so some of the other editors joined in. But something terrible happened about a month ago.
The garage people started asking me questions when I’d come to park in the morning.
It started out as a casual question.
“So … what time did you leave last night? I didn’t see you when my shift was over.”
So I’d make up some lame excuse, take my ticket-thing and park. No problem.
But then the garage people started asking the other editors questions. They got out quick and found another place to park where they aren’t bombarded with questions.
I should have done the same.
One day, the parking Nazis, as they’re now known, asked me if I paid when I left the night before.
“Of course,” was my reply.
He didn’t believe me.
I lied some more, saying that I didn’t know what time I left because I was sick the night before and didn’t look at my clock. He didn’t say anything.
I was seriously considering going somewhere else — that “I’m caught” feeling had wedged itself in the pit of my stomach.
But I stayed, and he gave me the dumb ticket-thing, and I parked my car.
When I got back at 11:30 p.m. that night, there was a present waiting for me.
A ticket, if you could call it that. There was no number for me to call, no address and no hint as to what I owed.
All it had was my license plate number, the kind of car I drive and that I had parked for two days without paying.
How would they know that unless they walked around the whole garage when it closed at night and wrote down all the license plate numbers? Nazis.
Why would they ask questions unless they actually counted how many unpaid tickets there were at the end of each night? Nazis. Why were they so impatient to get their $12 fee for the day?
Money-hungry Nazis.
I can’t do anything about the ticket.
There’s no number to call.
There’s no address to inquire to.
And there’s no indication of how much money I owe.
To deal with it, I’d have to deal with the parking attendants — which I have no intention of doing.
They’re Nazis.
Besides, I’ve already found another convenient place to park.
Michelle Jew is the Spartan
Daily Managing Editor.
“Spoiled” appears Wednesdays.
