Handicapped Spots are for the Handicapped, Dumb A**!
The blue Corvette is parked in the same spot everyday. It’s a real nice car, as are all corvettes. Brand new and shiny, it reflects the sunlight and gleams in the faint light of evening as much as the bright light of morning. Every morning it is parked in the handicapped parking spot nearest the back door of the building where I work. Most days there is a handicap tag in the window. The kind that hangs on the rear view mirror. Somedays the tag is not there but there is no real danger of a ticket being handed out here. Cops do not patrol business parking lots in this area.
For months I have walked past this Corvette on my way in and out of the office. I always go in and out the back way because it is nearest my desk. That car always catches my attention in the mornings. How could it not? The sun lights it up like a gleaming chariot. A car such as that promises speed, freedom, the wind in your hair, the American Dream. Or says the ads. My little Saturn is functional, practical, good on gas. It suits all my needs in a vehicle. I would never get something as impractical as a Corvette even if I won the lottery ten times over. That’s just not my style.
Still though, as I walk past that car every morning, I can’t help but wonder who owns it. Mostly because of where it is parked. It is strange, to see such a high end car parked in a handicapped spot. That the owner does not work for my company I have long known. Only one person here has a Corvette, an old, beaten-up model he got as a teenager and refuses to part with. Since my company is the biggest employer in the building, this knowledge only deepened the mystery. My natural curiosity peaked, I have been trying to spot the owner every morning for the last several months.
This morning I finally got my chance. I was a few minutes late, having been delayed by construction and an accident on the interstate. I parked as near the door as I could, as has been my custom since acquiring this contraption on my foot a few weeks ago. I was sitting in my car, the door open, trying to fasten the straps on my boot, when the Corvette came screeching into the parking lot. Engine growling, brakes squealing, he spun through the lot and past his accustomed spot. In the time it took to blink an eye he had whipped his Dream Machine around and backed into the spot. Intrigued, I watched him out of the corner of my eye while I finished adjusting the fit of the boot. Who was this strange man who was handicapped and at the same time could afford, and was capable of driving, one of the famed Corvettes?
The driver took his time getting out of the car. He checked his face in the mirror then took a comb and ran it through his brown hair. Almost as an afterthought he hung the handicap decal around the rearview mirror before stepping out of the car. I looked him up and down. Middle-aged, with a barely visible beer belly. A cigarette dangled from his lips. In one hand he held a latte. He swaggered –that was the only word for it –up to the smoking portico and lounged against a column while enjoying his deadly habit. Every now and then he took a swig of his drink from the cup with the Starbucks logo. His shirt was a Polo shirt. The real kind, not the $5 knock off that I am wearing today. No logo was visible on his pants, but they looked like real wool. His shoes I recognized as those popular with the executives of my company and many others. One pair is more than a week’s pay for the likes of me.
This man was not even remotely handicapped. He had no limp, no problems. His biggest ‘handicap’ was obviously his self-indulgence and his arrogant attitude. I am more handicapped than him, even without the broken foot. How had this man gotten a handicap decal, I wondered? Though the answer isn’t hard to fathom. It could be his mother’s, or his father’s, or he may have simply slipped the commissioner a fifty under the counter. It happens all too often in this world. And the result? People who really need such spots often can’t get them. During the last six months of her life my mother was in a wheel chair. Whenever we took her anywhere we had to constantly fight for such handicap spots. At least a dozen times I reported vehicles without handicap tags parked in spots marked for them. When I see such things I want to scream ‘Handicap Spots are for the Handicapped, you dumb ass!’
This man made my blood boil. As I approached him on my way in he deigned to notice me. Here I came, loaded down with all the things I bring to work everyday, with an obvious limp and a big ole black boot on one foot. He looked me up and down. Was that a little gleam of guilt in his eye? I hope so. He rushed to open the door for me. I walked through graciously and muttered a quick thanks.
Jerk.
For months I have walked past this Corvette on my way in and out of the office. I always go in and out the back way because it is nearest my desk. That car always catches my attention in the mornings. How could it not? The sun lights it up like a gleaming chariot. A car such as that promises speed, freedom, the wind in your hair, the American Dream. Or says the ads. My little Saturn is functional, practical, good on gas. It suits all my needs in a vehicle. I would never get something as impractical as a Corvette even if I won the lottery ten times over. That’s just not my style.
Still though, as I walk past that car every morning, I can’t help but wonder who owns it. Mostly because of where it is parked. It is strange, to see such a high end car parked in a handicapped spot. That the owner does not work for my company I have long known. Only one person here has a Corvette, an old, beaten-up model he got as a teenager and refuses to part with. Since my company is the biggest employer in the building, this knowledge only deepened the mystery. My natural curiosity peaked, I have been trying to spot the owner every morning for the last several months.
This morning I finally got my chance. I was a few minutes late, having been delayed by construction and an accident on the interstate. I parked as near the door as I could, as has been my custom since acquiring this contraption on my foot a few weeks ago. I was sitting in my car, the door open, trying to fasten the straps on my boot, when the Corvette came screeching into the parking lot. Engine growling, brakes squealing, he spun through the lot and past his accustomed spot. In the time it took to blink an eye he had whipped his Dream Machine around and backed into the spot. Intrigued, I watched him out of the corner of my eye while I finished adjusting the fit of the boot. Who was this strange man who was handicapped and at the same time could afford, and was capable of driving, one of the famed Corvettes?
The driver took his time getting out of the car. He checked his face in the mirror then took a comb and ran it through his brown hair. Almost as an afterthought he hung the handicap decal around the rearview mirror before stepping out of the car. I looked him up and down. Middle-aged, with a barely visible beer belly. A cigarette dangled from his lips. In one hand he held a latte. He swaggered –that was the only word for it –up to the smoking portico and lounged against a column while enjoying his deadly habit. Every now and then he took a swig of his drink from the cup with the Starbucks logo. His shirt was a Polo shirt. The real kind, not the $5 knock off that I am wearing today. No logo was visible on his pants, but they looked like real wool. His shoes I recognized as those popular with the executives of my company and many others. One pair is more than a week’s pay for the likes of me.
This man was not even remotely handicapped. He had no limp, no problems. His biggest ‘handicap’ was obviously his self-indulgence and his arrogant attitude. I am more handicapped than him, even without the broken foot. How had this man gotten a handicap decal, I wondered? Though the answer isn’t hard to fathom. It could be his mother’s, or his father’s, or he may have simply slipped the commissioner a fifty under the counter. It happens all too often in this world. And the result? People who really need such spots often can’t get them. During the last six months of her life my mother was in a wheel chair. Whenever we took her anywhere we had to constantly fight for such handicap spots. At least a dozen times I reported vehicles without handicap tags parked in spots marked for them. When I see such things I want to scream ‘Handicap Spots are for the Handicapped, you dumb ass!’
This man made my blood boil. As I approached him on my way in he deigned to notice me. Here I came, loaded down with all the things I bring to work everyday, with an obvious limp and a big ole black boot on one foot. He looked me up and down. Was that a little gleam of guilt in his eye? I hope so. He rushed to open the door for me. I walked through graciously and muttered a quick thanks.
Jerk.
posted by RAS at 8/01/2006 07:40:00 AM
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