Mike parks

Mike sez:

April,

Little sis. I prefer trains and buses to go to work. I am a fan of the mass transit system. When I went to work from our old apartment, I used to I walk to the corner every morning and catch the 7 am bus to Glenn Ave. then hop the train into the city. It might be the influence of watching dad play with his trains for hours on end when I was growing up and just yesterday, but there's something about trains that makes one relax, turn inward, and think.

After my visit with Josef Weeder and Lovey Saltzman, I realized that one of the really nice things about riding on a train to work is you don’t have to deal with corrupt parking lot attendants. Since the fire, I have had to drive to work from Milborough, and most times I get there early enough so I don’t have any problems with unshaven, unbathed, unkempt, undesirable parking lot employees who illegally fill any empty spots which are rented, in order to make extra money for themselves over and above what the person renting the spot has paid. On the day after my visit with Weed and Lovey, I went to work and arrived later than usual at the parking lot, and instead of getting to enjoy the voluptuous advertisement of the girl in the red one-piece swim suit advertising Martini Vodka, on a backdrop of what must be the world’s largest building using aluminum siding; I had to concentrate on the vile, little, orange-haired, obese, rank-smelling, pretentious-sunglasses-wearing attendant telling me “This parking lot is full, buddy.” I explained to him, “But…I have space number 12.” You would think that the word of a Patterson and my mention of a space by an actual number would make him realize he was incorrect about the parking lot being full, but he just stared at me blankly as if he were expecting me to back down and back up.

So I had to explain to him further. I said, “Look. I’m renting that space from a guy called Chuck Haskins.” I said, “called” instead of “named”, because technically his name is Charles Haskins, but the parking lot attendant seemed to be a person with about as much intelligence as a special needs flea, so I didn’t want to confuse him with both names. It seemed to work, because he recognized Chuck’s name, and said, “He never told me nothing.” Let me tell you little sis, the clear indication of gross stupidity is someone who uses a double-negative. Of course, “He never told me nothing” really means, “he told me something” but I was not about to explain a double-negative to a person who could neither appreciate nor understand it.

Instead I got out of my car, walked around the barrier and pointed directly to space 12 and said, “That’s my space! I’m paying for it!” I was sure my physical presence would intimidate the man, but instead he came out of his parking lot attendant booth, to accost me. He said, “Sorry. I’ll need something on paper.”

Little sis. I have been parking in Chuck Haskins’ space ever since the fire, but this is the first time I had to park there some other time than early in the morning, and it was the first time I needed to have something on paper. I was tempted to have a go at this filthy, disgusting, rancid, canker sore of a greedy, parking attendant; but I was reminded of the Patterson credo of passive aggression. So, I opened up my wallet and took out one of my $50 bills and I said, “50 bucks is ‘something on paper.’ and handed it to him. At last we had found a common language, the language of greed. He immediately reacted and pointed to the other man in the parking lot attendant booth and told him, “Hey! Move that car outta space 12!!!” And so he did.

After I was finally parked, I went inside my building and a found a kindred spirit standing by the elevators. He had his hands in his pockets and said to me, “Man! Parking is expensive on this street!” I had to chime in with “You’re telling me!” Which is true, because that’s exactly what he was telling me. I had to grin and bear it, even though I was seething with thoughts of revenge. Fortunately, my weekly column is due soon and I have this sense that a certain parking lot attendant will find himself compared to a carrion bird, feeding on the carcasses of empty, already-rented, parking spaces.

Revenge can be sweet, little sis. There are some columnists, who might take advantage of such an incident to write about Toronto Mayor David Miller and his desire to consider parking lot surcharges to help cut down on the number of cars being used and pollution being generated in the city. But such a writer as that is not Michael Patterson. Politics just muddies the waters. When you want to take someone down, you have to be much more specific.

Little sis, I can tell you that the rest of my day after that also did not go very well, but I am not certain I can tell you it now, without ruining your day for you out of sympathy for me, so I will stop right here, and perhaps continue tomorrow.

Love,
Michael Patterson

Hm, I wish I were so poor I cd throw around $50 like that, eh?

Apes