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#Writever 1 — Justice

I. Could not. /Believe./ What I was seeing! As I pulled the wheels of my chair furiously to get to my van, risking the cracked and warped pavement of the sidewalk, I started shouting. "What are you doing!? What are you doing!?"

The woman in a white uniform and a cap pressed a button. A white sheet like the tape on a adding machine ticked and jerked as it rolled out of her handheld ticket machine. Her eyebrow went up as she looked at me. She ripped it off and looked for a windshield wiper to tuck it into. I'd lost mine last winter. As I rolled up, she pealed off the backing and pasted it onto my windshield.

In the middle. Where it would interfere with me driving. At least she didn't start to write me up for an equipment violation.

"My handicapped sticker is up! What the f—"

She shook her head, unintimidated, knowing I couldn't reach her stuck in my chair. She retreated to her shiny enclosed tricycle that stood there idling, white like her uniform, plastic like her smile. "You can't park in a red zone."

"My van's broken down! It's not like I wanted—"

"Ignorance of the law is no excuse," she said. The motorcycle engine sounded derisive as she rumbled off.

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