Is it just me, or are the handicap parking space usurpers growing bolder? Or multiplying? Maybe it's the heat. Or maybe there's a new product on the market that is laced with extra entitledness flavor.
Sunday evening, I was on the way from the Gas Station Chicken Store, where I had nabbed my rightful handcap parking space without incident, to the Casey's. I was over the moat, getting ready to turn onto the Casey's lot, when I saw a little white sports car come in the upper entrance. It was a sports car, so I was not particularly worried that it would take the handicap space. Yet there it went, straight ahead, and as I got up to the end of the building, the little white sports car was IN MY RIGHTFUL HANDICAP SPACE!
No handicap plate. No handicap placard. The driver was so spry that they had already gone inside. So I had a suspicion the driver was not very handicapped. I parked farther down. In the area that's not really a parking space, over the striped walkway, near the dumpster. As I got out, I figured I would document this atrocious behavior, hoping the driver might be inside, watching me through the front window at the register.
Unfortunately, I did not have a good angle, already being out of T-Hoe, and too close to my subject. But here it is.
Little white sports car. Leather seats. No handicap placard.
Parked in the space, a little close, but not over the line. Which really didn't matter, because that car had no business being in the HANDICAP SPACE. Also, the driver did not even pull all the way into the space. I suppose they were in such a hurry to steal that space, and not one closer to the door, which was available. I suspect the goal was to protect that fancy little sports car so nobody would dent or scratch it with a giant T-Hoe door. Assuming that any elderly limpy gambling addict would show a modicum of politeness, and not park too close. I'M NOT THAT VAL! The thought of slamming the Not-Heaven out of that little white sports car, since I'm older, and have more insurance, DID cross my mind...
The minute I stepped inside and got in line, I knew the customer ahead of me was the culprit. I could feel it in my brittle bones. She was a little sprite of a thing, not a day over 25, dressed in a clingy white shirt, pink booty-shorts, and white leather tennis shoes, with bleached blond hair and a fake tan. She looked like a cheerleader camp coach. Indeed, she paid with her card, then took her purchase of a large pizza and medium soda and child size soda, and went out to that little white sports car. She went to T-Hoe's side, opened up the little white sports car's passenger door, and put her pizza on the back seat. She's welcome for the space I left her to get that door open!
Barbie was coming around the back, to get in the driver's seat, as I limped back to T-Hoe. I gave her the stinkeye. I don't think she felt any shame at all.
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