The space was reserved for the School Board Superintendent. I am not, in case you’re wondering, the School Board Superintendent. I parked there.
Sometimes I have absolutely no problem with narcissistic misappropriation of that which is reserved for others. If I’d heard of someone else parking in the Superintendent’s reserved spot, I’d scoff, internally, for sure, if not outwardly. Was the person too impatient to find another place to park? What is it about their sense of entitlement? Are we on the downward slope of Western Civilization, the pre-anarchy epoch where individual needs are deemed of higher importance than the collective good? But this wasn’t someone else’s narcissistic rewriting of the rules, someone else’s idiosyncratic determination that the restriction didn’t apply to them. This was me. I needed to park. All the other spots were full.
I will not stoop to use one of the handicap parking spots, despite them being the choicest, prime parking lot real estate. My hypocrisy takes me only so far. I cannot begrudge old and disabled people the sole compensatory consolation prize of illness and limited mobility. That said, I have entertained the passing envy of the white wheelchair placard, in equal parts fearing I’ll tempt the universe to send me lifelong illness or disability by such heresy, but unable to deny my desire to walk four or eight or twenty fewer paces to the front door.
Additional prime spaces are now often taken up by the Do-Gooders. The Van Pool space, perpetually empty, would be more tempting if I drove a van; I’d prefer not to give many outward signs to parking lot enforcement folks that my obvious non-van sedan is the scofflaw vehicle. Also empty are the spots reserved for fuel-efficient vehicles and the charging stations for electric cars. The rent-by-the-minute cars-to-go, flimsy looking Matchbox® vehicles enlarged by a few zoom clicks and painted impossibly bright blue or green, take up even more spots. Additional spaces are reserved for the name of the highest bidder – the person who has the time and inclination to attend endless community-interest, get-involved meetings, probably take a position as some major committee chair, and then follow up their self-important seeming selflessness with a big fat check at the charity auction that insures they will always have a place to park their luxury SUV. And insures I’ll end up circling for street parking, eventually finding a tight and impossible spot several blocks away.
My participation in organizations is much more lowly. I’m a mere parent of a public school child. I’m not the president of the PTA, and certainly you will never, ever, ever find me at a school board meeting voting for or against fiscal proposals that shortchange academic integrity and learning possibilities for the next generation. I am not the kind of person you’d want in either of these situations. My son’s school mascot is the Mavericks, with an image of a mustang-like horse. I’m not sure that whoever was on the PTA when this name was chosen had a full understanding of what a maverick is. Nor the fact that when the term is applied to animals, it’s applied to cows, steer and calves, not horses. Animals who have escaped branding, by the way, a practice that no self-respecting liberal can tolerate, even if they repress the knowledge of how their wool was gathered for their Ann Taylor or Brooks Brothers pea coat. The overriding feel of a maverick is not simply independence and free thinking, but nonconformity, noncompliance, and the metaphoric lone wolf. If I met the School Board Superintendent and proposed that a new school in the district be named the McKinley Malcontents, or the Roosevelt Rebels, or the Lincoln Loners, or the North Shore Narcissists, I’m pretty sure my idea wouldn’t even come to a vote.
Apparently I’m the maverick. The nonconformist pursuing potentially disruptive rants bookended by law-abiding, role-conforming, by-the-book virtuousness. I pay my bills on time, get dinner on the table and my child in bed every night with brushed teeth, fresh jammies, and all the day’s homework completed. I double-check to make sure my car is parked within the white lines. Even in the spot reserved for someone else.
This reminds me of a funny situation I’d heard about. Somebody had won a reserved parking space at church for a year from a fundraiser auction. The parking space was highly visible, next to the front door, and marked as reserved for the lucky winner, who then spent the rest of the year being heckled every time her family missed a church service, because it was obvious to the entire church community, every single time. She said they were even teased in weeks they went to church if they were late or if they went to a different service than usual. One year was enough for her – she vowed never to bid on that auction item again.