This is a bit of fiction from the Spring 1996 Miata Club of America Magazine and is technically copyrighted, which I always ignore (its not like I’m making any money here.) But I at least try to credit the author. I can’t do that this time because for some reason there isn’t an author listed for this story. Remind me later to write about what happened when I went searching for the author of Winter ’95 article

The Meter Man

I’m the meter man.

New York City. Lexington from 86th to 89th. Seventy-two spaces. Sixty-eight meters. Four loading zones. Daylight hours I walk the beat. Keep ’em moving. Keep this big city on its toes on my three blocks. I’m the meter man.

Mostly it’s imports. A few old domestics. Used to be only 52 spaces, then the cars got smaller. City came in and restriped my blocks. More cars, more meters. More infractions. More tickets to write. That’s good for me. I’m the meter man.

Some folks abuse the system. The system never likes to be abused. I’ll give you one renewal. Maybe two. Try to take up a spot all morning and I’ll zero your meter the minute you walk off. Citation goes under the wiper. Always the passenger side. Face down. Per the code. Meter man code. Gotta keep things moving.

I get some arguments. Some threats. I just boot ’em if they get noisy. Big nasty orange boot I keep in the Cushman. Locks the tire down so nobody goes nowhere unless I say so. I love putting that boot on and walking away, a Joe or Jane screaming at the top of their lungs. Where they gonna go? I booted ’em. I’m the meter man.

I make my morning rounds by eight, chalking tires and resetting empties. Not that slots stay empty on my blocks. A regular stretch of commerce I got here. A big bank. A yuppie coffee shop. A few grocery stores. A subway station at 86th. Not my jurisdiction. I’m strictly top ground.

My home base sits opposite the bank. It’s a booth in the Gold Arm Restaurant. Good java. Black and hot. Don’t know what country the beans come from. Don’t care. Just make it bottomless and hot. Two cups per hour – that’s my limit. Can’t get jittery, start given tickets at whim. You’ll loose the respect of your constituency. When that happens, the system crashes.

They know me. I know them. The same people come here each day. Usually go for the same spots. Sort of like they all agreed to come at the same time and take the same spots each day. I went to the ballet once. My blocks are kinda like that somedays. Everything fits. The system works.

‘Bout a year ago something new came up. A white import job, one of those Miatas came on the block. Started hanging around. Would move from spot to spot, stay around all morning and then leave. Strange thing was, the meters were paid, but the Jane sometimes wouldn’t leave the car. Just sat watching the meter go down. After a few hours, she would leave. Always paid in time, always parked straight. Fit right into the system, sort of.

I like those Miatas. Me and the wife would love to get one. It’d take a lot of nickels to get close. This one was nice. A ’95 white on tan leather. CD player. Stock wheels. Factory Dunlops (you get to notice treads in my line of work). Maybe when I retire they’ll give me one of those. Right, ha, and the Mayor will come for dinner. Ha! That’s a good one! Gotta tell Betty that one. Ha!

This Miata keeps on showing up. Takes slots near the bank. Jane goes in, stays, then comes out. This goes on for two weeks. I’m getting to get suspicious. I think this Jane is trying to get some free time. I notice that each time the meter goes down, she don’t come out right on time. She’s getting sloppy, taking longer to renew. I’m giving her the three times up, but she’s abusing the grace period.

The grace period is my contribution to the system. I’ll give you four minutes to renew after the meter goes down. I’m not a mean guy, I know people are busy. Four minutes for free. That’s my oil in the system, keeps the street running, the regulars happy. But Jane with the Miata is scarfing a buffer she ain’t earned. Four minutes she asked for right away. Then it was five. I don’t know what she’s doing in that bank, but she stays for three cycles every morning. Each cycle she takes the five minute buffer. She’s stealing time on my beat.

One day a plan comes to me. I’m sitting in the Gold Arm having my second cup o’joe and it appears clear as day. I can take that Miata away from her. I can boot it and get it impounded for twenty-four hours. That’ll show ’em all. A pure white sacrifice to the system. I begin to lay my plan for that Miata.

I get my boot device out of the Cushman and start carrying it around with me. I’m going to surprise little miss Miata with a ticket today. Gonna hit her on the first cycle. If she abuses my slot again, I’ll boot ‘er fast as daylight.

It comes up like clockwork. She takes a slot right in front of the bank. Goes in. Cycle passes, she comes out five minutes late for renewal. I’ve already ticketed her. She sees the ticket and renews her meter. Doesn’t even look at the ticket. That’s some kinda moxy. Alright little lady, if it’s attitude you want, it’s attitude you’ll get.

I ticket her again during her second cycle. Gotta have two separate ticketing events before the boot comes out. That’s code. Gotta go by the book if we want the impound. Others will be involved if the car leaves my street, gotta have an iron clad case on this one.

Third cycle, she exits the bank before the meter’s flag drops. She’s gone. Missed her today, but got my two tickets down. Now I can boot ‘er. I got my NYC Official Paper Trail. She’s all mine. Nobody beats the system on my block.

Next day, she shows up per usual. Circles the grid a few times looking for a bank-up spot. They’re tough to get. Fifth time around she sees an opening coming out. Double parks, flashers on, waiting for the owner to pull out. I pace across the street. I stop and stare at her double parked there. She looks over. I duck behind a tree. Don’t want to tip her off that she’s being watched. Not today. She hustles into her spot. You’re mine today, little girl…

She goes in the bank after filling her meter. I go to my booth and order a jolt. Forty-five minutes from now. Forty-five minutes to showdown time. I got my orange boot in the Cushman right outside. The system is going to win today.

Forty-four minutes and she’s still inside. I’ve broken my rule and I’m on my seventh cup of joe. My hand shakes as I pour in the sugar. The spoon against the cup sounds like a bell. “For whom the bell tolls,” I say to myself. I let go a laugh. A nervous caffeine jacked-up laugh. Gotta get serious. Almost show time.

Forty-five minutes. Done. Now the grace clock starts. Four minutes to go. No fiver today, pretty miss. The system is hungry today. Countdown to boot-time.

Two minutes into grace. The waitress brings me cup number nine. I submarine it. Never take my eyes of the white Miata. Time to go. I drop a ten spot on the table. Lucky waitress. Maybe lucky me. Not so lucky for Jane today.

I walk out to the Cushman. The orange boot is kept in a special holder in the back. I grab it out and hold it in my right had Check my watch on my left wrist. I rolled up my sleeve so I can see it clearly. Three minutes, thirty seconds. I begin strolling across the street. Traffic stops for me. The system is gathering a head of steam. I’m the coal tender.

I reach the Miata. Check the watch. Four. Three. Two. One. I look up to the flag on the meter. It reads “VIOLATION”. Man, I love the system.

I kneel down and boot the driver’s side front wheel. My hands fumble, numb from the caffeine. My breathing is shallow. My heart is racing. The cars passing in the street roar against my ears.

I get the lock set. I stand up and kick the boot hard with my left foot. It stays. It’s on. I cross back over to my unit. Glancing back, I see the orange boot like some bear trap on the Miata. Mine, all mine. I radio from my unit to HQ. Call in a pickup for 37th. Flatbed unit – can’t damage such a car.

I go back to my booth and order two cups of java. New pot. Slice of pie a la mode. Today I am king. I wait for the tow team.

I watch the bank’s front door for a sign of Jane. I can’t wait to see the look on her face when she sees it. A head on collision with the system. Me at the wheel.

Ten minutes later she comes out. Something’s strange. She’s running. Jane’s wearing sunglasses and a hat. Some guy is with her. They are both running. Jane circles around the car. She’s carrying a large duffle bag in one hand, it swings wide as she comes around the rear bumper. Must be full of something. Instinctively, I stand up and go out to the curb. I hear a bell ringing loudly.

The guy with Jane has already gotten in the car. Jane is opening up the driver’s door and sees it. From across the street I can see the blood drain from her face. She yells something. Two uniforms come charging out of the bank. Guns drawn overhead. Lots of screaming. Jane and friend run from the Miata in my direction. Uniforms yell to me to stop them.

Not my jurisdiction. I don’t carry a gun. I’m the meter man Different system.

Jane and friend run past. My uniform is invisible to them. I take my chalking stick and trip Jane. Guy gets away. Uniforms cross over and cuff Jane. Duffle bag is full of dough. A precinct unit arrives. Takes her away. The block settles down. I go back to my booth. Big headache.

I glance across the street and see it. The Miata is still there. Key in the ignition. Boot on the wheel. A bigger plan emerges. A much bigger plan.

The flatbed arrives and I unboot the Miata for loading. Anthony is the driver. His father is a friend. I tell him which impound lot to take it to on the south side. Covered lot. Safe lot. Hidden lot. We call it the Queens triangle. Cars seem to get lost in there. Often.

Sixty days later I call for the auction date on case #95QB376-GB. It is the 5th of June. Today is the 4th. I make another call.

It’s midnight at the precinct on the 4th. The chief comes out with the paperwork for the auction. It is normally scheduled for 10:00 a.m. on the sale date. Legally, it can be rescheduled to fit the chief’s workload. The chief is not busy at one minute after midnight on the 5th. We schedule the auction for then. Chiefs a friend of mine. And of the system.

“Pertaining to case #95QB376-GB for the City of New York,” the chief says loudly to all in the waiting room where I am seated. Me and two drunks look up. “Said case has fines held against it totaling $125 for parking violations and $85 for towing.” I pull out a roll of bills from my left pocket. Pulled it out of my pension account that morning. “I now open the bidding at $210,” the chief starts. “Do I hear $210”.

I stand, hands shaking. “$250,” I call out. The system likes a fair player. “Sold,” the chief says. Betty will be so proud.

————-

We pull into Niagara Falls on a beautiful day. Betty looks great. My arms are sunburnt. The top is down. We drove all day to get here. Took back roads. Nice car.

I park along a red curb. We get out to go to the falls. I pull a blank parking ticket from my breast pocket. I fold it in half. Put it under my driver’s side wiper. Betty smiles. Professional Courtesy will keep our Miata safe. One of the advantages to being me. I’m the meter man.