Spring in January

Spring weather in January does strange things to Chicagoans. It’s not just odd, it’s wrong and we all know it. We know we will pay for it sometime when we are least expecting it, like a bad check we are writing to weather central. We use up any extra energy we might gain from the unseasonable warmth fighting the seductive idea that winter is not coming at all, that it just passed us by this year. Denial is much more dangerous than the cold.

So, even tho we are enjoying the weather, we are irritated at the same time. I wouldn’t be surprised to find the crime rate goes up. Usually even the criminals stay indoors this time of year.

Anyway, one fine January spring day, I was driving along Wabash Avenue, underneath the el tracks. I was headed to the Washington Library to do more research on my family tree. Parking can be difficult there because of the el train supports. The city has done away with all free parking anywhere downtown, and people are now fighting for the few $6 spots on the street rather than the $15 – 20 spots in the parking lots.

I remember when you put a nickel in one of the meters that lined the streets and that was that. You’d stay too long, get a ticket and paper your bathroom with it. No one ever actually paid their parking tickets. That was before computers and databases. I just got a letter the other day for a ticket from 3 cars and seven years ago. I really can’t remember owning a 4x4 truck and I lived out of state that year, but hey, no problem, I’ll pay it! I’ll pay it twice to avoid that lovely little item of footwear they can now attach to your tire. It’s Dante’s fourth level of hell you enter then, my friend. And no one can help you. It’s just you and the parking gods at the junk yard.

Back on the street, the guy in front of me suddenly pulled over, he’d found an empty spot. I was happy for him. “Good eyes,” I thought. “I have to start watching over here.” Just then, two things happened at the same time. A man who was panhandling on the street began waving at the man to warn him that the spot he’d found was illegal. And I saw another spot a few yards ahead.

I pulled over to the right and put the car in reverse. Suddenly, the other car pulls up alongside my spot. He is trying to take my spot - now that he knows his original spot is illegal.

The panhandling guy has moved back onto the sidewalk to watch. I’m looking in my rear view mirror. I put both hands in the air, palms up in the universal sign for “Whaddya think you’re doing?” He has an intense look on his face, and indicates that he is now the owner of this spot. Only problem is that he is right next to the spot and unless his car has a gear called SlideOver, he needs to move up in order to back into it.

I quickly decide I am not driving away. Now, this is the kind of thing that used to drive my ex nuts. I would take these stands and he would feel that he had to back them up. I never looked at it that way. If I took a stand, it was because I was ready to defend it myself. (Evidently, according to my mother, this basic misunderstanding of the male ego may have contributed to the reasons why he is my ex. Another story for another day.)

Sitting alone in the car that day I did actually think to myself, “I wonder if this guy is dangerous?” This is why I stayed in the car, rather than giving in to my impulse to storm over to his window and wag my finger right in his face.

The whole wagging of the finger thing? As I write it now I can see that it doesn’t sound very threatening. But if your face has ever caught the full force of a wagging finger that belonged to either an old nun, your grandmother or anyone who has just put you on a scale, you know that a simple finger wag can stay with you for years.

Wagging is different than pointing. Pointing indicates that the pointer has made a judgment and the pointee has been found guilty. The pointee then has the opportunity to point back. The conversation goes like this:

Pointer: “YOU! YOU are wrong!!”
Pointee: “NO, YOU, YOU are wrong!!”

These conversations usually do not end well; in fact, in many cases they do not end at all but repeat into infinity.

Wagging means that not only has a judgment been made, but also that the sentence is shame. The conversation goes like this:

Wagger: “SHAME ON YOU!! Is this the way your mother brought you up?”
Waggee:

In this case it doesn’t matter what the response is because the waggee is now thinking about their mother, who would surely not approve of stealing a parking space. You see? The Republicans have taught me something.

Anyway, this is all moot, because I didn’t get out of my car or wag any fingers. (By the way, this is the correct spelling of the word moot. It is not mute. Mute means one cannot speak. Moot means one doesn’t have to speak. One may remain mute. I’m just sayin’.)

We are now both fuming in our respective cars. He is sending really tough looks my way and I am shaking my head. So I turn around in my seat and wave my hands around. I am thinking “Hey! You had the other spot!” Just as I realize there is no way he is going to understand my psychotic sign language, he suddenly points to the panhandling guy. I understand that he is saying, “Yeah, but he told me it is illegal! And I still need to park!”

Since we seem to have a telepathy thing going, I shrug and point back to the original spot, thinking at him, “How does that give you permission to take MY spot?” And I have to admit it, I am wagging a mental finger at him and saying, “What would your mother say?”

He ducks his head, and a small guilty smile plays on his lips for just a second. And then he does the miraculous. He puts his car in reverse. I won! He has to wait for me to clear the lane before he can move, so I begin to back up. But of course, this is when I crack. I hit the curb 326 times before I am safely parked. I think I will wave at him; gracious in victory, but when I look up he is gone.

I get out of the car and walk around to feed the meter my credit card. The panhandling guy looks nervous. He starts to stammer, “I didn’t tell him to take that spot…I only told him the other one was illegal…I didn’t see you…”

For a minute I think about using my telepathic wagging power to suggest that he get a job. After all, what would his mother think?

But then I change my mind. I walk over and smile, stuff a dollar in his cup, and ask him to watch my car. There are a lot of crazy people walking around in this warm January city.