If you’ve been following my history with this, well, two things: (1) You really need a life, and (b) You know I have a real issue with parking machines. Yoooge problems.
Can’t help you with #1, except to recommend more alcohol. So let’s move on.
Last week I park in a downtown Ft Lauderdale garage by the county administration building. I note the floor I park on (4), then walk down the urine-stench steps to the sidewalk, cross the street, attend the meeting, and prepare to return home.
There’s a big sign on the first floor of the garage: PAY FOR PARKING HERE. It stands above a menacing parking machine, not 25 yards away from an enclosed (bulletproof) booth for CUSTOMER SERVICE occupied by two morbidly obese bored-looking idle uniformed agents, who presumably are too dull-witted and untrustworthy to handle payments in their own lot.
Miraculously, the machine functions! It tells me how much I owe, takes my three dollars with only minimal delays and returns, and spits back my stamped receipt.
Then I look around for the stairs to ascend to retrieve my car. Evidently in the two hours I spend at my meeting, it’s been removed because I can’t find it anywhere. David Copperfield couldn’t make a staircase disappear as efficiently. So I approach the corral where the obese pair are lazily grazing, explain my desire to find the fourth floor so I can drive home, and ask where the stairwell is.
Neither wants to talk to me, but the one I make eye contact with holds up three fingers and says, “The 3rd and 4th floor are confusing.”
I kind of just stare at them both. The hell?
“Look,” I say, trying to sound reasonable. “I’m not confused about 3 and 4. I just don’t know what where the stairwell I walked down is because I don’t see it. Just tell me where the stairs are, okay?”
This inspires a quick conference between the two that I don’t quite hear — goddam glass booths with the tiny air-hole speakers — and then they say they can’t help me, go ask Security, in the person of yet another obese uniformed employee occupying the front seat of a open-air vehicle off to the side of the (HA!) Customer Service booth.
“You don’t know where your own stairwell is?” I ask. I love government workers.
Security at least has a personality. He laughs when I tell him I can’t find the stairs. “They outside,” he explains, “and they locked. You can exit, you can’t enter. Take the elevator. What color was your floor?”
Shit. Color? Who can see color in a parking garage where the outside light is blinding, and the inside is dark and dingy as a Republican’s brane? “I dunno,” I say. “But there was a big yellow 4 on the wall. So I figure that’s the 4th floor, right?”
“Yeah,” he says. “But the elevator is color-coded. Four is green.”
I thank him, head for the elevator. It’s NOT color coded. To quote Casey Stengel, Can’t anybody here play this game? I push 4, find my floor, find my car.
I wind my way down to the exit where I confront yet another fucking machine guarding the way. If they pay for 2 stooges sitting in a booth doing nothing all day, why do we have to deal with all these fucked-up machines? This one has caused me a load of grief in other encounters because it says insert receipt first and then credit card. But since I already paid in cash, why does it want my credit card? Well, it doesn’t. But you can’t know that from the instructions. I know that from previous shouting matches with the Customer Service fatties, back when customers could actually walk up the steps as well as down.
So I put my receipt in, press the button to get a paid receipt back, and the gate goes up……but no stamped receipt comes out. So how do I get my proof that I paid for parking? I press it another half-dozen times and nothing happens. “Work, you prick!” I shriek. “You have one goddam fucking function in the entire world and you can’t deliver?”
It takes a special personality to shriek at machines.
A car pulls up behind me. It’s probably not the mayor or the parking authority chief, so there’s no reason to ruin another citizen’s day. The gate remains open. I go through, and never get my receipt. Fuck it.
Can’t wait for the customer satisfaction survey.