Parting Gift

The city of Asheville will give you a warning before you are given your first parking ticket. Everyone is granted one warning. That’s what I’d heard. I found it hard to believe. When my husband came home with an orange slip without a fine amount or violation number, I knew it to be true.

Remarkable. Charming. Genteel, even. How could it be that these words were popping into my head regarding a parking violation? The kindness was so foreign to me, it made me a little nervous and I looked out the front window to see if anyone had tailed my husband home.

No. Not so. A slap on the wrist, and enjoy your day.

New Jersey is another animal entirely. Jersey City, (the city with the most embarrassing name) sent a piece of threatening orange colored mail this week, informing me that my license has been revoked by a judge, and that if I didn’t pay my outstanding parking ticket, the state could issue a warrant for my arrest.

(Yes, I still have a Jersey license. There is a reason. I won’t go into it here. Thankfully that will change soon.)

My blood boiled as I recalled the event that set this threat in motion. This past autumn I drove the eleven hours north to attend some family and friend events over several days. I was having a lovely time visiting, hopping between guest rooms and pull out sofas, when I arrived at Cousin’s flat. I know the term “flat” doesn’t belong to us Americans, but it seems fitting to describe the tree-lined street filled with brownstones and iron gates on one of the most coveted streets in the neighborhood, The Heights. It’s a strange sprawling city, haunted by ghosts of industry days gone by. The buzz words, up and coming are often heard in descriptions of it, yet it seems that that’s been the news for quite some time now. There are hip areas, but still others exist where one might come across a billboard reading, “Please Don’t Abandon Your Baby” followed by a hotline phone number. But here on Ogden Avenue, which runs along the ridge of the palisades overlooking the Hudson River and Manhattan, Cousin’s flat is on the best street in town.

I arrived in the early evening, parked far down the block, and witnessed a stream of commuters walking up the Avenue. It had been awhile since I had been amidst a throng of commuters. It was something I used to move through. Belong to. The feeling of camaraderie between fellow worker bees. Sometimes it feels good to belong to something, even when you don’t like what you belong to. Standing there, I felt a longing for it, although I didn’t miss it. Baggy eyes passed me on their way home to burdening mortgages and overpriced cars. I thought about where I could’ve ended up had I kept on the tricky corporate path. I felt lucky, but alone.

Cousin too, seated on chocolate leather, fluffy sage bathroom towels, office with a garden view, seems wanting for something more. She does quite well in the home fashion industry. Her home sits on the second floor overlooking the street. The interior is done with her tasteful eye. Sleek and modern, but with warmth and color in just the right places. Hard wood floors and exposed brick walls. We drank Pinot Grigio and ate wonderful, delivered sushi. (There is no sushi delivery in the mountains of Appalachia…not that that is in the budget)

In the morning I was awakened by two small triangle noses touching the bottom of my feet. Angus and Matilda. Two Ferrell cats that now, after years of house living, are an old, curious blind couple. It was 8am and Cousin had already left for work. It was the first day after a series of events where I didn’t need to rush out of the house. I had carefully read the parking signs on the street: 2 hour parking without a city permit, 8am – 6pm. That meant my current spot was good until 10am. I could leave Jersey City for my next destination, or have a leisurely morning, move the car to a new spot, and leave when I was ready. I opted for second choice. Stupid girl.

I enjoyed coffee, played with the kitties, made phone calls. Even did some yoga and stretching for about 30 minutes in the sun drenched living room. At 9:50am, I went to the car to find a new spot. I found one easily. New spot would be good for two more hours, which I surely wouldn’t need. I was really having a great morning. Went back up, took a hot shower, bid adieu to the kitties and headed to the car at 11am.

The sight of the large orange envelope tucked into the windshield wiper made the mussels in my neck feel as if they’d been starched. I looked up and down for the parking official. Nowhere. This was a mistake! I had 2 hours! I had moved to a new spot! I stood for several minutes. Stunned. I felt humiliated in front of dog walkers and got into my car to read the violation. I was so angry and confused, that the words on the page were not making sense. “Do Not Attempt To Move Your Vehicle.” Do not move my vehicle? “Vehicle first spotted at 9am.” Ok, but in the other parking spot! Where was the dollar amount of the fine? Why can’t I read this fucking ticket? I stopped. Took a breath. Read it again. “Do Not Attempt To Move Your Vehicle,” followed by instructions to call the number at the bottom for payment. I sat. A trickle of sweat crept out of my temple. Oh no. Oh no no no no no. I got out of the car and walked around to the street side. There it fucking was. A lock on my back wheel.

I got back in the car to make the call. They have all the power, I told myself. My tone of voice, right now, could determine how long they will make me wait. I conjured up sugar in my speech without a trace of resentment. After a $125 charge was made to my Visa, I was told that someone would show up within the hour to unlock my wheel, and issue me my parking ticket.

“My parking ticket?” I asked.

“Yes ma’am. This $125 charge is just to have them come unlock the wheel.”

Motherfuckers. “Okay. Thank you. Sir.”




A miserable, worn down city worker showed up to release my wheel. I could tell by his authoritative swagger that he was the dick who did this to me. Spreading his misery, filling his quota, and pretty much blatantly robbing me. He unlocked the wheel. Handed me a parking ticket for $40. I smile through closed teeth and drive away.

The ticket states that I have the option to show up in court. It gives me a date. I know I could fight it and probably win, even though there is no way to prove that I moved my car to a new spot. But the date is three weeks away. I’ll be back in North Carolina by then. I can’t drive 11 hours each way for a court date. I can’t fight it, but of course by paying it, it’s an admission of guilt. So I stew over it, and then…I forget about it. It gets lost in a pile.

That brings us back to the current piece of orange mail. Because of the lateness, the $40 ticket has now doubled to $80. I pay it online. Then I am told that to reinstate my license, I need to pay New Jersey $100. Plus $2.50 processing fees.

Grand total for Jersey City robbing me:
$125.00
$80.00
$100.00
$2.50
-----------
$307.50


That, my friends, is no southern hospitality.