Pay Attention to the Signs

In L.A. now for over a month, and I've had to repeat a lesson that I thought I'd learned a long time ago. Driving down from Bronson Canyon and following a wonderful meditation, talking on my cellphone, accepting my birthday wishes from my beautiful, elderly-in-age-only friend and former therapist, Marianne, I heard the horn honks from the car behind me. In my rear view mirror, I saw the driver, a middle-aged woman in sunglasses wearing an overly large straw hat. She was pointing at me and mouthing something. I looked at my odometer, verifying that I was traveling the speed limit. Not able to figure out why the woman honked several more times, I began thinking nasty thoughts, such as "What's your problem, crazy ass lady?" I shrugged my shoulders and threw my hands in the air. She reacted by blowing the horn again. All the while, Marianne was informing me of how wonderful I was, how much she loved me, and how lucky the world was that I was born. Coming to a halt at the stop sign, I scowled at the woman, making sure that she was able to see me in my rear-view mirror. She grabbed a pad of paper from her passenger seat, and I immediately knew that she was writing down my tag number. I continued driving, and she followed behind me. In my ear I was hearing that Marianne loved me with the "passion of her youth," but I was feeling someone hate me with the ire of their youth. I decided to pull over to let the woman pass. She stopped beside me and rolled down her window. "Hold on, Marianne," I said, as I rolled down my window. "You're going to kill yourself or someone else!" the woman shouted. "Get off the cellphone, or park it and talk!" she yelled and then quickly drove away. "Darling, are you still there?" Marianne asked. "I am. I think I just discovered that people out here don't like for you to talk on your cellphone while driving." "Well, darling, I think that is probably very smart not to talk on the phone and try to drive at the same time, don't you?" I laughed. "It is smart, but sometimes I enjoy being dumb."

A few days before, on Sunday, instead of my usual walk, I drove to The Casbah Cafe, because I had another appointment later. With plenty of spaces on the street, I parallel parked. Getting out of the car, I carefully read the sign that said, "No parking 12 till 2 Fridays - Street Cleaning." Safe, or so I thought, I went inside and hung out, wrote, and drank coffee for a few hours. Upon returning to my car, I noticed the ticket on the window that informed me of the parking violation..."No permit to street park." I looked around and saw another sign, just a few feet in front of my car and behind the other one, that said, "Street Parking Only on Saturday and Sunday with Neighborhood Permit." I'm still not sure how I missed the other all-important sign, but I did. And I shamefully accepted that I was now a California criminal, and I paid the $55 fine.

The night of my birthday, driving to a meditation service, I was talking to my friend, Kristen. Yes, I had forgotten about the earlier warning from the angry safety patrol woman. When I saw the blue light and heard the siren, I said to Kristen, "I'm being pulled over, and I don't know why. Talk to you later." The arrogant and fit cop stared at me. "It's illegal to talk on your cellphone while driving." I need to see your license and registration." Nervously, I passed him my license and my insurance card. "I'm new here in L.A., and I didn't know that it was illegal to talk on your phone while driving." He shrugged his shoulders and smirked. "I need to see your registration." "Um...I just gave it to you," I said. He shook his head. "You gave me your license and insurance card. Does this car even belong to you?" I could see where this was headed, and not wanting to further irritate him, I quickly shuffled through the glove compartment, locating the Dekalb County registration information. As the policeman walked behind the car, I sat and waited, fretful, wondering if I was going to get thrown in jail, because I hadn't yet received my new Georgia tag decal. On the side of the curb where I was parked, an older Hispanic man stood in front of a podium with a "Valet" sign on it. The man leaned his head in the direction of the cop and mouthed the words, "Fucker."

Once again, I've been reminded that I have to always pay attention to the signs. How convenient that I didn't see the sign that said a neighborhood permit was required to park on the street on the weekends. It sure saved me some time to park there. Yes, the safety patrol woman was a shrew, but she was warning me of danger ahead. And the cop was a genuine asshole; however, he was simply doing his job. Of course, I could have done without the attitude, and I think a warning instead of a ticket would have been nice. Though, who knows if I would have learned my lesson from a mere warning. Maybe the ticket was a sign to never talk on the cellphone again while driving, which may preclude me from a future accident.

Even if I chose not to see the significance of either of the tickets, the fact that my bank account is shrinking in order to pay for the State of California budget shortfall is enough to make me more observant, present, and aware. I don't want my hard earned money being used to pay Arnold's salary or to pay for Michael Jackson's funeral. Yet, a few dollars to fund environmental efforts to clean up the L.A. smog would be okay. Though, I think that initiative may have been cut due to lack of funding.