I was parked out in front of Front Page last night- I had come from my first meeting with the management team of the concern where I will now be working, so I was wearing smart-casual for a change. I had ensured that I was legally parked, since that can be problematic with all those crazy paper warnings taped to the parking kiosks, about alternate times and “smart cars only” through the end of the month.

They are hell on parking tickets in Arlington, trust me, and I am still smarting from the Big One I got for using my Dad’s disabled placard when I actually was disabled.

I have retired the placard, and now ensure the max time through “open” parking at 1800 is purchased and printed for display where the redoubtable Officer DeMain can see it.

I even saw the stout middle-aged woman in her tan uniform shirt marching down the row of cars parked on Wilson Boulevard with her gimlet eyes glittering, and confident that I was fully in compliance with all the crazy Arlington regulations, bade her a cheery good evening.

Then II walked in and had a nice happy hour with JPeter, Liz-with-an-S and Key Grip Thomas. I recall we chortled over a motorist who discovered a ticket on her windshield while we were discussing the great events of the day. When the half-priced drinks expired, I walked back out to the Panzer and saw the little envelope under the windshield wiper. I muttered “what the f**k” as I pulled it out, since my parking slip was clearly displayed on the dashboard.

Nope- it was not a parking violation. It was a much pricier citation for an expired safety inspection! Goddamn it! I took the stupid German car in there two weeks before it had to be re-inspected in June. Damnit!

$50 smackers! $70, if not paid within 30 days! Goddamn it. I had made a special note to have it done, and kill two birds with one stone and change the synthetic oil. And now I find that I had been driving all over the Midwest with an expired sticker on the windshield!

I was seething about the injustice of the world as I motored cautiously home in my shiny Panzer, hyper alert for law enforcement in the growing darkness. These things come in threes, you know.

The nice extended swim helped me cool off, there in the aquamarine world illuminated by the underwater lights. Then an extended conversation with John, the replacement Polish lifeguard, who was actually interested in finishing some observations about the state of Europe and open boarders, and his thoughts about what was coming next to his poor flat homeland, so easy for invaders to traverse, east to west and vice versa. Kaliningrad.

By the time I got back in the unit, I had given up on a plan for Europe, but I did have an idea about my German problem.

I had taken the car in specifically to have the oil changed and the car inspected. The sticker up on the left side of the windshield gave me the date, even if I could not find the detailed invoice of the visit in the hoorah’s nest of papers that filled the glove-box. I looked at them and filed them chronologically to be tossed in the milk-crate that serves as my remote file cabinet. It was the dealer’s fault!

I was the victim here! I suppose you could make a case for me having some involvement in the violation, thinking the block had been checked for the inspection, and never looking at the sticker to confirm it.

I wrote a check to the Arlington Country Treasurer and was about to seal it in the-thoughtfully provided envelope when a thought occurred to me. The Mercedes dealership has demonstrated an extraordinary sensitivity to customer satisfaction. After every visit I seem to get a follow up call, email solicitations reminding me the Corporate people in Dussledorf would be sending me a survey, and how much they wanted me to be happy, happy, happy.

I checked my mood. I had already been summarily stripped of my badges and iPhone that day due to an abrupt change in employment status, and I was downright surly. I was not going to be victimized. The only deep pockets I could see belonged to the trousers of the Dealership.

I took the violation notice to the back room and ran it through the scanner. I printed a copy, and then mixed a nightcap and ignored the Convention in Cleveland.

When dawn began to lighten the shades in the bedroom, I got up, made coffee, threw on shorts and grabbed the iPad and the scanned copy of the ticket and drove over to the line of late-model vehicles awaiting the magic moment when the carefully-automated roller-glass doors would soar up and permit us to approach our personal vehicular maintenance counsels. Mine is named Hugh, and he asked me what I was interested in that fine morning.

“Justice!” I said, and explained the failure of the mechanic to finish the work I had brought the car in for two months before. “I want to continue to give you the very best possible rating,” I said. “It would be tragic if I had to report this minor glitch in the process.” I looked at Hugh hopefully.

He pursed his lips. “My, my, that is a problem. Perhaps there is something we can do about that.”

Be bustled off somewhere and I turned the keys over to the porter and went into the customer lounge to watch the highlights of the night before in Cleveland, not having much choice.

Some time later, almost at the bottom of the email-queue on the iPad, Hugh reappeared. “Your car passed the inspection,” he said, “and it is now headed to the wash-rack. I have also processed a refund of the cost of the fine to your account.”

After a total of an hour and a half, I was driving home, all things right with the world. I doubt I will ever again live within walking distance of a Mercedes dealer, but I am certainly pleased that I do at the moment.

I have to say that this day started out a lot better than yesterday. You don’t want to hear about that.

Copyright 2016 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com