They say James Brown was the hardest working man in Show business before he died; well I’ve found the hardest working group of folk in the Twin Cities: meter maids!
I paid more last month in parking meter fine violations than I spent on my car note and insurance combined.
I have more parking tickets than I know what to do with. I didn’t even cash my payroll check this week from the Spokesman Recorder, I just signed the back of it, made it payable to the City of Minneapolis, and mailed it in.
And I understand they are just doing their job, but some of ‘em are a tad overzealous. I think they hide behind concrete pillarsand watch while you pretend to put quarters in the meter (when you’re actually inserting Canadian nickels). Then when you dart off to pick up dry cleaning or pay for take-out lunch, they swoop in, fine in hand, and put that damn ticket on your windshield. Now, if I didn’t have 50-cent to pay for parking, how in the hell am I going to afford a $35 parking fine?
And it ain’t always that I ran out time in my met—the last ticket I got was because my license tags had expired. When I came out of the beauty salon in downtown Minneapolis two weeks ago, I saw the lady sticking a ticket on my windshield. I was livid when I looked at my watch and realized that I still had four minutes to spare. “Hey Ms. Lady,” I yelled out, “you shouldn’t be giving me a ticket. By my calculations, I’m still on my last quarter.”
“That may be true,” she yelled back, “but your license tag expired last month, and that’s a $75 fine!”
Again, back to my point: if I had $75, I could get my tags renewed!
Are these people working on commission or something? Do they get an extra five dollars in their pay check for every ticket they write? Because if that’s the case, I sent a few of ‘em into a new tax bracket last month with all the fines I paid!
And with summer being peak construction season, things are getting pretty hairy. Roads that normally have meters are red-flagged for “No Parking”, secret alleyways where you used to be able to park are now blocked off ‘cause they’re fixing potholes!
And the meter maids are walking around, in the heat, looking for violators. Now that takes dedication and a very strong work ethic. Because if it were me, I would be sitting in Starbucks drinking a cup of ice coffee until my shift was over and it was time for me to clock out. My boss would ask, “Brundidge, you couldn’t find any violators on 11th and Hennepin today?” I’d tell him, “No sir boss, everyone was in compliance. There was a little angel with quarters in her wings and every time someone’s meter would run out, she’d bless ‘em with 15 more minutes. It was amazing. I guess prayer really does change things.”
‘Cause I be praying y’all. While I’m downtown getting my hair done—that the meter maid assigned to my area is break. Or her baby’s daddy’s got sick on the job and she had to go pick him up. But my prayers are bouncing off the beauty shop walls, cause the ones on my block are on every corner, around every turn, standing on the sidewalk, crossing the street—they are more visible than police officers in downtown Minneapolis. I wish someone would give them a badge and a gun so that I can feel safe from the crackheads that call downtown “home”.
