Rude dude

I’m walking up to the bright yellow parking meter machines at the train lot in Aurora this morning, yapping with Mom again.

In the back of my head, it’s 284. 284. 284. Must remember 284.

That’s the space I’m in today.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a guy rapidly approaching – hurrying up to beat me to the one machine that’s open on the right.

Of course this is terribly rude.

But I’m too late for the 7:22 and way early for the 7:42 train, so it’s no biggie.
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Here’s how it works: You park in a numbered space. You punch your number in the machine. Then you plug in your buck-fifty or your parking cash card. You wait for the printed ticket to push its way out, and voila, done.

The whole transaction should take less than 30 seconds.
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“Hedy, maybe he saw you yapping on the phone and thought you would be slow.”

That’s what I figured. But still.
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The rude dude gets to the machine, plops down his backpack and his coffee on top of the trashcan between the two machines and starts RUMMAGING THROUGH HIS BAG FOR CHANGE.

He’s not even READY.

He LEAPED ahead of me – me with my automated park card in hand – so that he could spend an HOUR digging around for money.

Now I’m irritated.

All that digging around should be done ahead of time. You prep before you approach.

It’s an unwritten rule.
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The machine on the left opens up. I’m in, I’m out. Zip-zip. Still yapping.

30 seconds.

While the rude dude is still rummaging.
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I am listening to: Everything is Alright – Motion City Soundtrack
I am reading: Next by Michael Crichton (bleh)
And I am: Zippy