Meter madness seems like the only business as usual this year

We consider ourselves reasonable people. We pride ourselves on being able to sit around, talk things out and come to workable solutions, such as which hemorrhoid ointment to use. Even if we don’t agree, mostly we can understand certain talking points of the opposite side.

This would be a correct assumption if you were paging through a classical ancient history book, a book on logic that was written by some well-known Greek philosopher. But then along comes summer with her high and mighty attitude. And before you know it, you are dealing with a combative, take-no-prisoners, closed-minded device called the parking meter. Throw in a couple of meters that are too lazy to work or are assigned to 30-minute spots, and you’ve got an entire species of human beings that will go into such a rage they end up looking like they went 10 rounds with Oscar De Le Hoya.

There is something about dealing with an inanimate object that will make you fall down on your artificial knees and bang your head into the ground. It’s sort of like saying, I give up; just put me in a pair of sweats and I’ll live out my days watching World Wrestling on television.

Now I know parking meters do serve a useful purpose; after all, we do need the income to pay for vital services like someone to pick up all the paper plates and French fries that are thrown next to empty trash cans on the boardwalk. 

And living year-round in a resort area, we do have an advantage in that come the season, we walk around with enough quarters in our pants pockets to create an arch between our legs big enough to drive an aircraft carrier through. Fortunately, out-of-towners write this off as the whole community having a severe case of hemorrhoids; either that or we have watched one too many John Wayne movies.

The problem I have, at this time of year, is that my phone number is one digit away from the Rehoboth Parking Meter Department’s. I’ve met a lot of nice folks over the telephone, some of whom I’m sure have served at least 2-4 years.

The messages left for me include demands to get down to where they are parked and fix the meter ASAP or someone named Vito will be visiting me, a complete oration on the merits of putting my head on a stick because I’ve got the wrong meter number on their ticket, and a bunch of foreign-language emotional highlights, at least enough to qualify me for a diplomatic post.

One of the problems for tourists is the microscopic information written on the meters. But everyone knows you put a quarter in and a time will appear on the screen, letting you know when you should return to put more quarters in the meter. What befuddles most people who don’t live here is that as soon as that coin hits the meter, not only is your time up, but you probably owe some back money from the last person. 

I’ve seen people mash, cram and pound meters that won’t accept anything because some kid has stuck a bunch of glue in the slot. I’ve seen people talk, yell and plead with meters; eventually a good Samaritan comes along and pries their hands loose from that death grip on the parking meter pole. 

A year ago, I took the plunge and put a parking meter app on my iPhone. It works great. Don’t be ridiculous; I didn’t say I actually use it. That would require my figuring out what to do. So I just have it as a status symbol.

But parking meters aren’t the only inanimate objects that we deal with today. All the electronic devices, iPods, iPads, smartphones, computers, not only are annoying, but most of them come with voices that sound exactly like your mother when she asked where you had been all night, who you were with and what did you do. 

So if you are frustrated with the meters, I just have a few words of advice for you from that great philosopher Clemenza, a mob hit man in the movie, “The Godfather” – “Leave the gun. Take the cannoli.”