I had dinner with friends on a rainy night at a restaurant  downtown last week. I had been bragging to them about owning my official Handicapped Parking Permit. It wasn’t easy getting it. Among its many benefits, It’s a trophy for winning the final argument with my doctor.

I said, “I’m dying for christsakes! You give me less than two years to live, and for that I can’t get a parking permit? Which one is the joke, Doctor?” Pretty compelling.

With my handicapped permit, I get the best parking spaces right near the entrance of where I’m going. When I can’t find a reserved space, I can park anywhere for as long as I want, after I hang my badge from the rear-view mirror. I don’t even need to read a sign.

“I just love to reserve park and then skip into the store while tossing and catching my keys. It drives people nuts.” I said.

I can’t really do that because my spleen is the size of a loaf of bread, but it makes for a better story.

Afterwards, I continued to boast while they kept laughing under a light rain. The area was under construction and we serpentined the puddles scattered in the gravel covered road. There were no reserved spots because of the excavation, so I had to park on the street.  We got to my car, hugged our goodbyes, and then they pointed to the soggy parking ticket on my windshield. Their laughter echoed on the street while they walked on to their car.

I called the number on the ticket the next day, explained my situation, and complained about the injustice of the ticket and fine to someone named Leslie. She told me that she’d give me a number and a date to go to the courthouse, see the judge, and explain.

“You’re kidding, right?. I have to go to the courthouse just because someone made a mistake? The cop didn’t even look to see my handicapped sign. That doesn’t sound fair, Leslie.”

I could hear her take a deep breath and then she said, “Please hold sir and I’ll get that appointment time.”

“Leslie? Can’t you just throw it away? …. Leslie? …. Come on Leslie. I’m a cripple. …. Leslie?”

“I’m sorry, sir. I can’t. Now if you just …”

“Leslie? …  Come on. … Leslie? … I could be your Grandpa. You don’t want to give Grandpa a ticket. Do you?”

“Sir. I can’t.”

“Alright. I’m going to have to do this the hard way, Leslie. Hey, they record these phone calls, don’t they? Put a flag onto this call if you can, Leslie, because my attorney may need it for my trial.”

Leslie tried to talk sense to me. “It’s only a twenty-dollar fine sir. They won’t arrest you, but this will cost you more later and if you don’t pay it, it could affect your credit rating.”

“Thanks, Leslie. Don’t bother with the court appointment. I’m off to fight injustice!” I hung up.

This shouldn’t happen to handicapped people. I can get along okay, but that isn’t the point. I’m fighting for handicapped AARPies everywhere. I haven’t paid the fine. I mailed a letter in place of my check. Since then, I’ve been cowering behind the window drapes waiting for the authorities to pull into my driveway.

TO: City of Waukesha, Parking Enforcement Center

Congratulations crime-fighters!  Your dragnet of the evening of 5/2/2014 was successful in ticketing a senior citizen for parking with his handicapped permit displayed in the windshield of his car from the rear-view mirror.  It’s difficult to find a place to park let alone walk to a restaurant in downtown Waukesha because of all the street construction.  It’s even more difficult, almost impossible, for a man suffering from acute chronic myelomonocytic leukemia. I hope you get to try that sometime in your lifetime.

I am not going to pay this fine. If you need to arrest me bring your handcuffs and a wheel chair to my home.

You should be ashamed of yourself.”

Come and get me, Coppers.