There is no place to park in Brentwood.
Even though there’s an occasional empty blue space reserved for disabled drivers, we’ve all seen the yutz in the Maserati who roars into these spots, oblivious to the frail, walking-impaired motorist behind him, desperate for a space. Maserati Guy feels he has the right to stop wherever and whenever he wants, because his car has the most testosterone on the block.
Seeing the growing fleet of parking enforcement vehicles on San Vicente, staffed by uniformed workers who love their jobs more than anyone in America, I assume the City of Los Angeles makes most of it’s nut from citing selfish drivers who take disabled spaces. First offence: $250. Second: $500. Third time, toast.
However, I would hope the fine wouldn’t be the reason for observing the law. Nonetheless, someday, Maserati Guy is going to get a badly needed brain transplant, and feel the agony of every baby shuffle step he has to take, parking three blocks from CVS to buy morphine and a Fleet enema.
When it’s his turn for the walker with the yellow tennis balls, let’s see who’s upset at whom for taking his blue parking spot.
© 2012 Molly-Ann Leikin
