“The Creekside Planning Commission is now open for public comment.”
Feeling proud of my civic-mindedness, I stepped up to the microphone. While my topic wasn’t as critical as reducing taxes or preventing crime, it was something I believed deserved attention.
“Name?” the city secretary asked tersely. Seated with the commissioners in front, it was clear she relished her role.
“Jerry Hatfield,” I said.
“State your business.”
“Members of the Commission, I’d like to propose that the city consider revising its parking ordinance. Perhaps we can reduce the number of restricted parking signs for customer pick-ups. I don’t see those spots being used very much, and with all the other restricted parking—”
“You mean, like special parking for individuals with disabilities?” another commissioner asked, a cane rested casually against his chair. “You’re opposed to giving disabled persons a helping hand?”
A soft buzz of murmurs emerged from the back of the room.
“Not at all. I’m all for disabled people. I mean, I’m sorry they’re disabled, and some spaces should be reserved—”
“Some? You think it’s easy walking on a bone-on-bone hip joint?”
“I didn’t mean to imply that, but that’s not what I came to talk about.”
“Just what the hell did you come here for?” the secretary demanded, her expression stern. “Are you also against the reserved parking for veterans? My father served in the Big One. Do you think the Greatest Generation doesn’t deserve our nation’s gratitude? Do you really believe that a small gesture like preferred parking is too much to give to those who were willing to give all?”
“They have my deepest respect, of course, but….”
“USA!” someone shouted, fervently emphasizing each letter.
Before a chant could begin, I said, “We’re getting a bit off-track. It’s hard to find an open parking space. The hardware store just added Pro Customer Parking and in the same shopping center, the coffee shop has a spot reserved for Barista of the Month.”
“Wendy makes a wonderful Hawaiian Latte,” someone seated behind me said. “Real coconut cream and shaved mango.”
“I’m sure it’s delightful,” I replied, although I couldn’t see mixing tropical fruit with coffee. “Shouldn’t we be concerned about the cumulative effect of all these reserved spaces? There must be some limit. I noticed the grocery store just put up Reserved for Parents With Toddlers signs.”
The secretary sneered. “Obviously, you’re not a family man, Hatfield.”
“If you mean that my wife and I don’t have children yet, that’s true. Regardless, the number of reserved parking spaces could be better controlled.”
The woman next to me addressed the secretary. “Katie, can we consider special parking for people with pets? My cockapoo would appreciate it if he didn’t have to wait in the car so long while I finish my shopping.”
The commissioner called the vote. “All in favor of installing restricted parking signs to help our four-legged friends?” The secretary entered the unanimous vote into the record.
“Wait,” I said. “There wasn’t even a motion or a second.”
A man wearing a camo bucket hat adorned with fishing lures suggested, “Maybe we could allocate two spaces for people who drive pick-ups.”
Another audience member raised her hand. “I’ve been thinking about bringing this up, and now seems like the right time. I just hate it when I get my hair styled, and it’s sprinkling outside when I return to my car—”
“Parliamentary procedure!” I exclaimed. “Audience members should wait their turn.”
What began as mere chatter reached a crescendo. By the end of the public session, the Planning Commission had approved a dozen amendments to the municipal parking ordinance. New signage was mandated to grant special parking privileges to newly entitled categories, including husbands waiting in cars while their wives shopped, people who just wanted to run in to use the restroom, and shoppers who knew what they wanted to buy before they entered the store.
Feeling dejected, but grateful that the town no longer allowed tarring and feathering, I left the meeting. Reaching my car, I found a bright yellow parking ticket flapping under the windshield wiper. A parking ticket. I had carelessly overlooked the sign: “PARKING RESERVED FOR PLANNING COMMISSION MEMBERS.”
Gregory Meece is a retired head of school who now enjoys being an author, woodcarver, and Amish taxi driver, though not necessarily in that order. He graduated from the University of Delaware, earning English, communications, and educational leadership degrees. Greg’s stories have appeared in twenty different anthologies, magazines, and literary journals. He lives on a former Christmas tree farm in Southeastern Pennsylvania.
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