21 July 2003

Outlaw

In case anyone ever asks, the best cure-all for a crappy week at work is shopping and lunch at an outdoor caf� with your best girl friend in the world. Oh, and Sangria. Can't forget the Sangria.

I'd been dragging ass all week, sick of work, sick of being sick of work, and just looking forward to a long weekend spent, well, doing nothing social. On Thursday my dear friend called and guilted me into spending some quality time with her. She's good at it. I taught her how.

We originally agreed on Friday night - a little Johnny Depp pirate action - but after the week I had at work I really just needed to be alone on Friday night. I was afraid for the public if I didn't get some time in my cave. I was afraid for my friendship. I was in a foul mood. I cancelled and rescheduled.

So Saturday it would be. We met up in a cute town near my place. We had some really great Mediterranean food and much Sangria, talked smack about our mutual friends, and made fun of the fashion of those around us. We got filled up enough on booze to wander the streets and spend money with wild abandon. I bought gifts for people, and I still can't explain some of the music I came home with from the used cd store.

The fog of Sangria and shopping lifted, and we headed to our cars in the parking garage. I cruised on up to the poor sap sitting in the Foto-Mat type booth taking tickets and money. At that moment my eyes spied the sign "Cash Only. Checks OK. No Credit Cards." Now, that would be useful information to have at the entrances, right? A reminder to those debit-card dependants like myself who are cash poor all the time, those of us who never carry our checkbooks around because we pay everything online, right?

I guess I must have looked pathetic enough, with my $7 for my $9 parking bill, because the man managed a, "You come right back, right?" and I said I would. I handed him my $7, the little arm that blocks the exit raised up, and I drove out of the lot.

Now, the nearest drive-through ATM was a good three miles from there. I panicked (maybe it was the Sangria). I called my friend's cell and relayed the story. She laughed her ass off.

"Should I go back?" I asked.

"Well, me? I wouldn't," she replied.

"Won't they come after me? Were there video cameras? Do ya think?" I added.

"Nah. I think you're free and clear. Outlaw." And with that, she hung up.

I didn't go back, but I think my guilt is restitution enough. I'm an outlaw. An outlaw of $2 suburban parking justice.