Tuesday, May 8, 2012

D. Thoreson: Meter Maid, The Final Chapter

I never expected that there would be a part three to the Meter Maid Douche Thoreson story. If you haven’t read Part 1 and Part 2 yet you should do so now by clicking on them here:
In fact, if it’s been a while since you read them it’s probably a good idea to skim them before reading on. I had little need to do so prior to writing this final installment because the emotional trauma I endured loathing this public payroll leach is now seared into my memory like the fish you ate that gave you food poisoning. Now every time I have to feed a meter in the City of Portland I taste the vomit all over again.
In “D. Thoreson Meter Maid Number 2”, my less-than-subtle title intended to make you associate Douche’s name with poop, I told you all about my experience in the court room. As it turned out, going to parking ticket court is about as far from television courtroom drama as anything you could imagine. It’s just a judge hating his assignment and time after time reducing fines by 50% regardless of any other factors. It’s a gigantic waste of time…and money since you have to pay to park downtown where court is held.
As you probably remember, I made myself the bad guy back in “D. Thoreson Meter Maid” when I used an expletive in reference to The Douche on the parking receipt I left in the window as I delivered Meals on Wheels. What you may or may not have realized is that my trip to court was for the original parking ticket. The ticket I received after taunting Douche with my note was still in process at the time of the last writing. That was by design because I wanted to see how court went the first time to determine if it was worth my time to waste Douche’s and Multnomah County’s time by again pleading not guilty and demanding a trial. Well, after my experience I realized that I had done about all I could do and reaped basically no reward.
So, reluctantly, I decided to plead “no contest” and kiss my $39 check goodbye instead of demanding to be heard by someone who wasn’t interested in listening. Here is a copy of the letter I sent to the court:

If I’m being completely honest, time has healed some of the wounds from this experience. I don’t have much pent up malice left in my heart for ole’ Douche anymore. This is despite the fact that the City of Portland has now issued me 3 parking citations in the past 6 months while the person who smashed out my window and stole two GPS units from me walks free. Priorities…
I will say that I do feel a sense of loss after having quit the Meals on Wheels route. When I quit it prompted John to quit which prompted Peggy to quit which shut down our company’s participation with Meals on Wheels altogether. Since that time Francis passed away. She was 94 and had outlived two husbands and a daughter. It was her time to go, but I was still sad to hear the news. Last I heard, Ron was still up on the 6th floor in his wheel chair telling stories. I think about him sometimes. He’s the kind of guy who leaves an impression on you.
Well, back to my third and (hopefully) final ticket. Imagine my surprise after sending THAT letter in my defense when an envelope arrived at my home this week. I took it inside and opened it up. At first I thought the court had decided to charge me MORE after reading through my case. My blood was beginning to boil again, but alas the court wasn’t charging me more. The court was cutting me a check in the amount of $33.

I was still found guilty, but ultimately my fine ran to a net total of $6. That means all in all it cost me the price of a burrito to have a 10 minute heated conversation with Douche Thoreson after calling him a female dog. If it were a Mastercard commercial it would look like this:
One undeserved parking ticket and subsequent afternoon in court: $24.50.
One parking ticket received in retaliation for calling a man a “B---H”: $6.00.
Being able to loudly tell a meter maid his true contribution to society in front of a handful of random strangers and now the entire world through the magic of the internet: PRICELESS.
One final message to you, D. Thoreson, spelled out with my fine money: