The Versatility Of Mrs. HM's Magnetic Attraction

During my Thursday errands, I arrived at the Gas Station Chicken Store during the time window when That Crazy Truck Man had blocked in T-Hoe out of spite for me parking in the handicap spot. Yes, I admit to parking in that spot without a handicap placard. 

 

As I've proclaimed before, I am guilty of such an act, but that still will not make me schedule a doctor appointment during this VIRUS-Y mess in order to request one. It's not like I knew he would show up on that day and time. It's not like he has any visible disability, or huffs and puffs from exertion. For all I know, he's using someone else's placard. Maybe his disability is uncontrollable passive-aggressive parking-spot rage. Anyhoo... I'm still guilty. Not deflecting. Just pointing out possible alternate scenarios.

 

The spaces on the street side of the store were occupied. My spot over by the moat that divides the Gas Station Chicken Store from Farmer H's pharmacy, CeilingRed's, was taken by a truck hitched to a trailer, parked sideways. Nobody was in the handicap space, nor in the space in front of it by the air hose. Not taking any chances on That Crazy Truck Man, I pulled through the handicap spot to the air hose space. It is NOT designated as an air hose space. There's room for another car in front of it, as well as room by the dumpster beside THAT unmarked space.

 

The good thing about parking in these two spaces beside the Gas Station Chicken Store is that nobody can park too close to the side of your car, keeping the door from opening all the way. I had just gotten out of T-Hoe and closed the door, and was in the process of putting my phone in my pocket, and clicking the door locks, when a lady parked a small black SUV in the handicap space. 

 

"Well," I thought, "good thing I wasn't in that space, because somebody needed it." I glanced at the license, but it was not a handicap plate. I started to walk past it to the corner of the building, but there's not quite enough room now, since the metal lockers holding the propane tanks have been put against the side of the building. I was walking between the rear of T-Hoe, and the front bumper of the black SUV to go around it, when the lady driving it put down her window. She was about my age, with black hair.

 

"Hon? I want to use the air hose."

 

"Oh. I didn't want to take up the handicap spot. There's room in front of me. You should be able to get your air."

 

"Well, I guess I can try that."

 

Thing is, she was perfectly polite about it. But I was not about to climb back in T-Hoe and find somewhere else to park. I do not exist on this earth to make the lives of OTHER PEOPLE easier. No. I am a person, too. I'd already slithered down from T-Hoe's lofty height, and had loosened up my knees to trek inside. Wait your turn, lady. Or go somewhere else for air. Why should I cater to your wishes? Mrs. HM is no virtue signaler:

 

I irritate my knees, so YOU can steal your free air more easily. 

 

Nope. I don't think so. Why should I move my vehicle from the space where you want to park? I was here first. Go around, or wait until I leave. 

When I came out, the black SUV was gone, and a white sedan was sitting at the air hose, with a lady putting air in the tire, and a man in the passenger seat hollering that it "only has 31 pounds." 

So in leaving that handicap space free, I inconvenienced two air pumpers. If I had parked in the handicap space, somebody in need of it would have shown up. If I'd been over by the moat, a trailer-puller would have had no place to park.

It's like picking the wrong line at the bank or grocery store. It's a knack I have. My magnet pulls in the worst possible scenario.