Parking Police

I used to think that parking lots were wild places, devoid of law and security. I’ve learned otherwise. In Las Vegas, parking lots are highly patrolled. Mind you, many security guards ride around on bicycles. From an environmental perspective this kicks ass, unfortunately – I doubt their ability to kick ass.

At one time I might have been grateful for this patrolling, but since I started living parking lots I find the stalking extremely annoying. This week I have met 5 parking lot guards:

The first encounter occurred outside of Borders. Rik and I were enjoying a candlelit Burger King Fusion dinner (I made a salad). We made the mistake of putting our cooler and door mat outside the trailer. This is a parking lot faux pas.

The second confrontation occurred at the library. What a shame, it was a sweet spot. It was our second day in this spot and I had become too brazen. I pulled out the 5 foot solar panel, cooler, doormat and our bikes. I was in housekeeping mode, listening to the radio, beating and shaking dusty things outside. I didn’t see him coming but I heard the knock at the door. I recognized him, the shiny head guard. I’ve watched him over the past few weeks patrolling the library: scoping out the study rooms and peered into the planter box (I’m not sure why he did that but I found it fascinating). I think he recognized me too. We both blushed – I was embarrassed to be wearing short, booty shorts and he seemed genuinely regretful for giving me the boot.

I was alone again for the third confrontation. I was chilling in the trailer, resting a climbing injury while Rik was working online at Starbucks. It was an uneventful encounter. I assured the guard that despite the solar panel and cooler, we were definitely not camping in the parking lot. He was satisfied by my promise to roll out in a few hours and he pedaled away.

The expression “3 times lucky” has proven true, the fourth encounter was ugly. I lost my cool and mumbled a few sarcastic remarks. Did she have it coming? Probably not, I mean she was doing her job…or making her boring job more interesting. We told here that we’d leave as soon as we finished out lunch and cleaned up. I guess she didn’t dig our relaxed pace. Whatever the case, she got her knickers in an awful knot and threatened to call “Metro”.  I have no idea who Metro is, but I think she meant we’d get towed away. I laughed (note: do not laugh at people who pretend they have authority) at the thought of being towed away while washing the dishes.  I felt bad afterwards, albeit curious about the karmic consequence for being petulant.

The fifth and final encounter was fun.  I saw the flashing lights, blew out the candles and ducked. Bang-bang-bang. Busted. I stood up from my hiding spot, like a red-handed criminal. I turned off the stove. Mmmm, dinner smelled great. Then came the awkward interrogation.
Who are you?
What do you mean?
Who are you?
That went on for a good while. I was buying time until we determined that I wasn’t supposed to be there. I’m not sure where I get my ambivalence for the law, but I definitely put up a very polite fight. He was nice and told me that the day-guard was a bit of a stiff and had ticketed us. He didn’t mind if we spent the night in his lot but if we were still there in the morning we’d likely get towed. He asked for my name and I suggested he write it on a piece of paper. He thought his hand would be fine…16 letters and a few hearty chuckles later, Tyrone and I parted ways.