Parking Lot
I am a thief and a delinquent; a bad member of the society and definitely have a criminal mind. I cheat people and I pretend that I do shit that I actually don't do. I'm a red haired crook and a cheap bastard.
But if the people at the parking lot where I leave my red 2.4L every morning haven't realized that I've paying less that I was suppose to, they deserve their faith. If they cannot get their shit together and run that parking lot successfully, I ain't going to turn the lights on for them.
In the office building where I work at, it costs one hundred and eighty greens to park your car for a whole month. The parking lot where I park is three bucks a day ($60-$66 a month). Actually it was three dollars a day but they raised it to four bucks not long ago; and when there's shit going on in downtown they charge $5.
But I always pay my very own special fee of $2 a day; not a penny more, not a penny less.
Once you park you have to put your money is some sort of box with little tiny holes besides parking numbers; you have to fold your bills, squeeze them in there, and push them with your car key or a little piece of metal hanging from one side of the box.
One day I saw the way they run their business and how they know who've pay or who haven't and my life changed. They just open the box and check that there's something in the little compartment and that's enough for them; they collect their loot in a Walmart plastic bag and leave little red and tootles tickets on the cars that didn't pay.
Bobby Brown is the guy in charge of collecting the money and whom I always greet like a good old friend. I see him maybe once every three months.
When there's special events in downtown, he sends a redneck with cheap sunglasses, a gallon of gel in his mullet and an uneven mustache to collect the money. This bastard always tries to extract from me the whole $5 but at the mention of Bobby he kind of struggles what to say. Sometimes he says that he knows no Bobby, and that I either "pay or find other lot". I then ask him to call Bobby Brown, Robert Brown, Mr. Robert Brown, the dude who runs this place. "Giving a call, ask him about Jean-Fran" and as this poor redneck knows that he's the smallest fish in the pond he lets me in after I assure him a couple times that I'm going to put the money in the box.
I'm not a bad person my friends; I greet everybody with respect, say please and thanks, have good manners on the table and when I say that "it's nice to see you" I really mean it. And one more dollar a day is not going to send me into Chapter 7 [personal bankruptcy] but just as I find joy in the small things that life has to offer, I guess the evil me finds thrill is such a small act of perversion every morning as well.
But if the people at the parking lot where I leave my red 2.4L every morning haven't realized that I've paying less that I was suppose to, they deserve their faith. If they cannot get their shit together and run that parking lot successfully, I ain't going to turn the lights on for them.In the office building where I work at, it costs one hundred and eighty greens to park your car for a whole month. The parking lot where I park is three bucks a day ($60-$66 a month). Actually it was three dollars a day but they raised it to four bucks not long ago; and when there's shit going on in downtown they charge $5.
But I always pay my very own special fee of $2 a day; not a penny more, not a penny less.
Once you park you have to put your money is some sort of box with little tiny holes besides parking numbers; you have to fold your bills, squeeze them in there, and push them with your car key or a little piece of metal hanging from one side of the box.
One day I saw the way they run their business and how they know who've pay or who haven't and my life changed. They just open the box and check that there's something in the little compartment and that's enough for them; they collect their loot in a Walmart plastic bag and leave little red and tootles tickets on the cars that didn't pay.
Bobby Brown is the guy in charge of collecting the money and whom I always greet like a good old friend. I see him maybe once every three months.
When there's special events in downtown, he sends a redneck with cheap sunglasses, a gallon of gel in his mullet and an uneven mustache to collect the money. This bastard always tries to extract from me the whole $5 but at the mention of Bobby he kind of struggles what to say. Sometimes he says that he knows no Bobby, and that I either "pay or find other lot". I then ask him to call Bobby Brown, Robert Brown, Mr. Robert Brown, the dude who runs this place. "Giving a call, ask him about Jean-Fran" and as this poor redneck knows that he's the smallest fish in the pond he lets me in after I assure him a couple times that I'm going to put the money in the box.
I'm not a bad person my friends; I greet everybody with respect, say please and thanks, have good manners on the table and when I say that "it's nice to see you" I really mean it. And one more dollar a day is not going to send me into Chapter 7 [personal bankruptcy] but just as I find joy in the small things that life has to offer, I guess the evil me finds thrill is such a small act of perversion every morning as well.
Jean-Francois was drunk at 9:34 PM
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