yustyoking

  

                Canadian residents must answer a skill-testing question correctly to win.

                      – Universal Studios 100^th Anniversary Celebration Sweepstakes

                                                        *

                Times are changing and not for the better. Too many drivers, way too many cars, you can’t find parking anywhere in Bethesda, Maryland or Washington, D.C.

               Montgomery County has a towing problem. Hiding behind federal law, the local politicians let the marketplace determine the rules. “Federal statutes regulate towing,” they claim. “There’s nothing we can do about it!”

               This is pure bullshit. They could change the zoning laws and, overnight, drive the towing businesses clean off the face of the map! Instead, they see us drivers as scofflaws and cheats. We elected these creeps, yet they support a punitive parking environment. This is a lazy solution to a difficult dilemma. Hey, in New York City, you have underground parking five stories deep. If the county was willing to float the bond issues and invest the time and money, underground parking would work just as well here. What, our soil is so fragile, you can’t park cars underground? Pul-lease!

             This has resulted in a boomtown for tow truck operators and a crisis for drivers.

             I hoped and prayed it would never happen to me. Abuse brings out The Hulk in me. I felt sure I wouldn’t react well. Whether confronting a driver by the side of his truck or a proprietor at a reclamation center, I suspected the blood on the dance floor would run ankle deep.

            I already drive my neighbor crazy, storming around my house cussing at the top of my lungs. (A perk of living with a 91-year-old mother who is deaf as an adder: She doesn’t hear me.) I warned the neighbors I suffer from PTSD, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, but they decided to thumb their noses at mom and me. They petitioned the Town Council for speed humps. I detest speed humps. At bi-monthly meetings, six months in a row, my closest neighbors treated me like shit. I ate a lot of crow. Well, payback is a bitch! Why should I show them any consideration?

          As far as I’m concerned, you send us off to war to defend your precious freedoms, you have no right to complain when we come home damaged goods.

                                                       *

          Leaving the post office, I see that some fat, baby-faced bozo has my car halfway up his ramp. Clank, clank, clank rattle the chains, rrr-r-r-r-r goes the electric motor.

           “Throw it in reverse and lower my car to the pavement,” I tell the dude.

           “People usually thank me for towing their cars when they break down!” he insists, standing at his winch. He’s dressed in blue overalls and a tan cloth jacket covered in grease stains.

           “Yeah. You’re Mr. Good Samaritan,” I tell him. “But that’s not what you’re doing here. There’s nothing wrong with my car. This is predatory, swooping in and plucking people’s cars from parking lots.”

            “The signs say ‘One hour parking. Towing enforced,’” he points out stolidly. “What’s your fucking problem?”

            “I wasn’t in the post office an hour!” I rant. “Yes, the service counter is slow, but they’re not that slow.”

           “Says you! I say different,” replies the driver and turns away. End of discussion.

            We have an escalating case of towing.

            “You haven’t shown me an I.D. You certainly haven’t shown me a permit,” I tell him. He looks unimpressed. “So you own a tow truck. Big deal! In the best case, you’re a car thief. Worst case, you’re an extortionist.” Deep in my C.I.A. lawyer mode, even I hear how icy my voice is becoming. “Lower the vehicle to the ground. Now! ”

            “I’m just doing my job, mister,” he replies in a gravelly voice.

            “And I am telling you for the last time, you don’t want to mess with this particular vehicle. Find another customer. Return the vehicle to the ground. For your own benefit, do it right now! ”

             Who am I kidding? He doesn’t get it. This guy hears complaints all day, every day, 365 days a year. He’s impervious to threats, entreaties, arguments. Angrily, he goes to the cab of his tow truck and brings me a business card. “You call that number,” he says, “you pay the $168 fine, you can come reclaim your car.”

             “I have a card, too,” I say, “but if you make me show it to you, I’m going to put you under arrest.”

             “You can’t arrest me!” he scoffs.

             My little bro’ Timothy, an Air Force pilot, argues that every responsible citizen should be required— by law— to carry a gun and know how to use it. “Why should the criminal be the only armed person in an encounter?” asks Tim.

             I take out my Glock and hold it in both hands, pointing it at the ground.

              “You don’t scare me! I’ve seen this shit before,” insists the driver. “You won’t shoot me! That gun’s crap!” Never-the-less, his face gets red as a beet, spittle flying.

               “Your vehicle has six tires,” I point out. “I have nine bullets. If my car isn’t on the tarmac in 30 seconds, you are going to be in need of a tow truck.” I release the safety on my gun.

               “You can’t do that,” he mutters.

               “Watch me.” I march to the front right tire of his truck. I take a stance, two-handed, pointing down, with the muzzle of the gun six inches from the rubber. “Lower my car, winch man! NOW!”

                “Fuck you, mister!”

                “You’re under arrest!” I reply. “A citizen’s arrest. It’s against the law in Maryland to steal people’s cars.” BLAM! I shoot an exclamation point into the right front tire. I expect it to puncture and deflate, but the force of my bullet causes a loud, pleasing blowout. The noise is deafening. Bits of black rubber fly everywhere. You can feel the shock wave.

               His mouth hanging open, the schlub says, “You son of a bitch!” and reaches inside his jacket. I wheel, pointing the gun at his face.

              “Keep both hands where I can clearly see them! You are charged with resisting arrest. If you reach for a weapon, I will shoot you! Make no mistake about that!”

              Around us, people are running in every direction. I can see people crouching behind the fenders of their cars, frantically dialing their cell phones.

              “Can I be of assistance?” a man’s voice asks, making me jump. Slowly, he comes up from behind me, his hands held wide of his body. He has a full gray beard and wears a black leather bomber jacket covered in military patches. Good old POW / MIA, I think, finally somebody around when you really need them!

              “I think the police will be here momentarily,” I opine, keeping my gun squarely in the tow truck driver’s face. “In the meantime, I need you to stay clear of my line of fire while you carefully frisk this dude. It looked to me like he was going for a gun.”

              I see my compatriot is dressed in shabby jeans and cracked brown boots. He looks as old as Methuselah and as worn as dried leather.

              I’d be lying if I don’t admit that the two of us begin to have some fun with the driver, who now holds his hands high in the air, sweat streaming down his pudgy face.

             “What’s your name?” I ask my helper.

             “Stan,” he says, pulling a stiletto from the inside of the driver’s greasy cloth jacket.

             “How ‘bout you, driver?” I ask. “We haven’t been formally introduced.”

             No response.

             “Hello-o! You bring a knife to a gunfight?” I comment. “What… is… your name?”

             “Wilbur Simmons,” he croaks, tilting his entire body sideways toward his black tow truck. “Wilbur Simmons Towing” is painted brightly in white letters on the door of the cab. Streaks of vermilion provide a bold, eye-catching effect.

              “Nice paint job,” I tell him.

             A police cruiser roars into the parking lot, roof light churning. “Drop your weapon!” blares the hailer before anyone even exits the vehicle.

            “You’re not stupid enough to try anything, right, Wilbur?” I ask, lowering my weapon. Pointing it at the ground, I put up the safety.

            “Tow the wet sprocket,” comments Stan.

            “That’s a rock band,” says Wilbur, looking confused.

             Two police officers approach, their hands hovering over their holsters. They are not happy. They impound my Glock, inspect the blown tire and take a statement from Wilbur. “They were trying to rob me!” he claims.

            “What’s the deal?” asks an officer. His silver nameplate says “Hollister” in meticulous black letters.

            “I was just trying to get my car back, Officer Hollister,” I tell him, looking him in the eye. I am also shaking like a leaf.

            “You nervous about something?” he asks. He seems very young.

            “It’s the… after-effects of an… adrenaline rush,” I gulp, taking deep breaths. “It’ll subside.”

            Hollister’s sidekick goes to the cruiser and checks my gun permit on the computer. “Sir!” he calls. “Would you please approach the vehicle?”

            “What’s up?” I ask, coming over to him.

            “You did a really dumb thing,” he admonishes me. “Pulling a fire-arm on a registered tow truck driver. Discharging your weapon in a public place.”

            “Yeah. Yes,” I say, correcting myself. “You’re right.”

            “We have to charge you with reckless endangerment and disturbing the peace.” His nameplate identifies him as Officer Payne.

           “Okay,” I agree.

            Payne returns my gun license and Glock. He watches me put up my weapon. I have a brown leather holster clipped inside the waistband of my cargo shorts. I cover it with my shirt.

            “The thing is,” he lectures me, “your actions are counter-productive. If public citizens pull guns on tow truck operators, all operators will begin arming themselves.”

             “Yeah. Yes,” I agree. “Sorry about that.”

             “Don’t ever do that again!” Officer Payne swears angrily. “You will go to jail!”

              “How we doin’ ?” drawls Stan, sauntering over. I see that Officer Hollister continues interviewing Wilbur Simmons. “That dude thar is making up quite a story!” Stan tells us.

               “That’s a stupid thing to do,” says Officer Payne. “Stay here!” He goes to confer with his coworker.

              The upshot is, I have to pay a fine and agree to a court summons to discuss my behavior before a judge. The officers ask if I will pay for the tire. “No thank you,” I tell them. “I’m sure Wilbur has insurance.”

             They tell Wilbur that since he’s in the towing business, he can pay for his own tire. “While you’re at it,” Hollister adds, “how about returning this citizen’s automobile?”

              I take Stan to lunch at a sandwich shop. He regales me with tales of The First Gulf War. “Everyone has their favorite conflict,” he tells me philosophically. “Usually, we fixate on the time we came of age. Young. Idealistic. The First Gulf War was mine.”

             “Some wars never end,” I observe. “Behold, another speed hump on the road through life.”

             “I’m a biker,” Stan concurs. “I hate those things.”

                                                       *