The Parking Ticket

After being distracted by friends at the mall, people handing out religious pamphlets, and spending quite some time lost looking for a book at Daedalus, you return to your car, latte in hand, your spirits faintly lifted. But as you approach, you see it: the flicker of orange on your windshield.

A bright slip of paper, flapping smugly in the breeze.

You pause, book in one hand, coffee in the other, and stare. For a brief moment, you consider alternate realities — ones in which you set an alarm on your phone or ones in which the Parking Gods took pity on you. But here, in this universe, there is no mercy.

Around you, you realize you are not alone. Dozens of cars line the street, each one proudly sporting its own orange flag of shame. A man a block away screams into the void: “I was only gone 95 minutes!” A woman mutters curses at City Hall while crumpling hers into a ball.

Try Again?