My lucky day at the gas station

It seems like every time I think of something interesting to write about the story ends up making me look like the idiot. This post is no different. I usually consider myself to be pretty intelligent but you can see from my occasional lapses in judgment that I keep my brain pretty well in check with poor decision making.

So a couple years ago I was driving home from work and was low on gas. I decided to stop at the Johnson Creek exit off of I-205 to hit the Fred Meyer gas station. This is typically a pretty congested area at rush hour, but the low fuel light was on and the only gas stations between Freddy’s and my house are terribly overpriced.

So I exit the freeway and take a right down toward 82^nd Ave. The plan is to cross 82^nd in the far right lane (there are two left turn lanes and two straight lanes) then turn right into the Fred Meyer parking lot. I’m in luck because there are only about 10 cars in front of me waiting at the red light and…dumb-frocking-luck!...the light turns green as I’m approaching. As I draw near the line is doing what all lines do at green lights, namely, it’s stretching out like an inch worm as each driver slowly reacts to the car in front of it. (Sidenote: I fantasize nearly every day that just one time when the light turns green every driver in line will start moving forward all at once in a synchronized motion thereby saving everyone valuable seconds which over the course of my life would save me a day or two). I happen to be the very best driver ever to sit behind the wheel of a Galapagos Green 2003 Honda Element (insert bread box or toaster joke here)...

...so I have my speed measured out just right so that I won’t have to brake when the guy immediately in front of me starts moving. It’s then I begin to realize that my plan has been foiled. As I approach I can see that the maroon pickup in front of me isn’t moving at all. As I draw even nearer I see him turn on his turn signal. Great.

Blink…blink…blink…goes his signal. He’s not moving. I finally have to hit the brakes as I approach. He just sits there. A car tries to let him in. He’s too timid to take advantage of it. That car passes, another tries…same result. I throw up my hands and say to myself “come on!” I see his beady little eyes in his rearview mirror. He sits there…blinker blinking. There are cars lining up behind me. The light turns yellow. He flips me off. The light turns red. He moves over to the straight-only lane immediately left of where he was. Great..he’s just prevented 8 cars (most importantly ME) from making this light and he’s going straight through this light anyway…wait a second. Did he flip me off?

I pull up next to him and roll down my window. He doesn’t roll his down. “Why did you flip me off?” He holds up his fist. At this point I size him up. He’s kind of a squatty, nerdy dude in a t-shirt that’s a little too tight for his beer belly. He may or may not live in his mom’s basement and he’s probably 37 years old. Wait…did he just raise his fist at me like he wanted to hit me? I mouth as I’m doing hand motions to communicate through his window “roll down your window (making circular motion with my closed hand) so we can talk (making an opening and closing motion with my fingers and thumb like a sock puppet) about why (I shrug my shoulders) you (I point at him) flipped me off (I point at my middle finger).” He holds up his fist again. “Oh, I see (pointing at my eyes). You’re a real brainiac (I point at my temple). “ He points to the gas station. “Okay. I’m (pointing at me) going to the gas station (I make a nozzle-like motion then point to the gas station) to get gas. You (pointing at his stubby little figure) can follow me (I wave him over like we’re playing red rover) if you want.”

The light turns green and I go to the gas station. I look in my side view and see he’s followed me. Great. So I know I’m going to have to get out and go talk to this idiot to make sure he doesn’t follow me home. Time to go into defuse mode. I get out my credit card so I can start getting gas before walking over to talk to this numb nuts. I turn to the attendent at my window…oh crap. That’s no attendent. That’s Stubs McFistyfart.

Him: “You’d better think twice about who you threaten.” He’s still not intimidating me, honestly, but he’s probably off his rocker so I try to swallow the sarcasm I want to use. This is a critical point and something that didn’t come naturally.

Me: “You think I threatened you? You flipped me off. Tell me how you think I threatened you.”

Him: “You were tailgating me.”

Me: “Do you know what tailgating means? You were at a complete stop at a green light. How could I have been tailgating you? Tailgating implies that you were actually moving.”

Him: “You’re lucky I just got out of prison or I would drag your a—out of that car and beat the living sh-- out of you.”

Me: (Well this just took an unexpected twist. I wonder if he could actually do it). “I guess it must be my lucky day then.”

Him: “Yeah, I guess it is.” He starts to walk away, looks back and says “you’d better think about who you threaten.”

Me: “I DIDN’T THREATEN YOU. GET A GRIP.” Did I really say “GET A GRIP”? No, but I think I said something in my head like “holy s…that was as close one. And these business casual threads ain’t fightin’ clothes.”

I watched him drive away as far as the eye can see to make sure he couldn’t follow me home.

This is what he would look like if he was in a giant diaper and was fatter and less beardy...and had a soul:

Oh, remember how his little truck just sat there blinking at the light? Well that’s exactly the opposite of what his eyes did when he was (note the irony) threatening me. This dude was calm and cold. I was full of adrenaline and thinking about how to use the door of my toaster as a first strike weapon. I had just figured it would take about 15 seconds of me holding my own before a gaggle of gas station attendents would break up the fight and call the police when he started walking away.

To quote Headliner from Arrested Development in their smash hit ‘People Everyday’: The moral of story is you’d better look very hard at who you step into. You might get killed or shot and it’s not worth it. Africans need to be loving each other and you’re not.

Wait a second. I told you I was going to look like the idiot in this story. Nevermind about that, I’m obviously the hero.

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:

D. Thoreson Meter Maid

D. Thoreson Meter Maid Number 2

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 6^th 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: