No, the email spammers never emailed me back. Neither did the library people. Which, when I think about it, I'm quite grateful for: it was a pretty trivial email, and I really don't want to know what they thought. I admit it: I'm a coward. I'd much rather voice my opinions anonymously, but I usually force myself to put my name on stuff. Wear it proudly, right?
Oh, but they did read my email: the last time I walked past the shadow box, there was a sticker over "Barack Obama" on the author field of the propaganda poem that said "By Cherita Banton. Published 2008." Looks like even they can't stand incorrect citation, eh?
I have another confession.
So there's this nice, brand-new, always clean black Toyota Camry that's always parked near our apartment. For months, though, the guy who drove it (a fruity guy who wears tangerine-colored button-downs, as we later found out) would park, very obnoxiously, across two parking spots. And it drove me nuts. But more than that, it made Jay mad. And so, between the two of us, we began to space our cars out in the parking lot in such a way as to make it impossible for Black Camry to double park. On the days when we were too late and he was already sprawled across his two spots, Jay would straddle the line himself and park dangerously close to him. We hoped he’d take a hint, but like most inconsiderate jerks, he was either oblivious or indifferent. “Who does this gold 2005 Sonata guy think he is?” I can just imagine him musing to himself, “Parking so close to the greatness that is my car! And doesn’t he know he’s double parked?”
The thing is, there’s a string of covered parking spaces that are right next to where he was parking. To get a covered space, you have to pay an extra $25 a month. Since most people living in apartment complexes are trying to save money so they can get out of apartment complexes, those spots are empty. A lone FJ Cruiser inhabits the space on the end. If Black Camry was that concerned about door dings, I figured the extra 25 bucks a month was a small price to pay for peace of mind.
But the months went by, and the double parking continued. I seriously considered leaving a nasty anonymous note on his windshield. I also seriously considered calling management. Because, really, sometimes I just can’t take it anymore.
In a twist that only irony can produce, Jay went out one Saturday morning a few weeks ago to find a large, bright orange sticker on his car window. “WARNING,” it read, “Your car is double parked. If you do not move it, it will be towed.” It had the date and time at the bottom. Jay had, of course, double parked in order to be cozy with Black Camry who, in turn, had apparently left and then come back later. Upon his return, he took advantage of Jay’s double parking job by parking a half-space away, effectively giving himself a buffer. His car was on the line, but since he was no longer double parked, Jay was the one with the orange sticker.
I was steamed. I folded the big orange sticker in half and threw it away. I wanted to call the towing company to demand a recount because, of course, by that afternoon he was double parked again. And now Jay didn’t dare park next to him, lest he get towed.
That night, I dug the warning sticker out of the trashcan. I tried to unfold it, but the sides were stuck together. Under cover of darkness, I went outside and approached that blasted double parked Black Camry. I slipped the folded-up orange sticker with yesterday’s date under his windshield wiper.
He hasn’t double parked since.