Mostly Semantics

Sunday night TM, MS, CV, MBG and I all trekked to Baltimore to see the Pipettes at Sonar. CV has the review, but I have a story. See, on our hunt for parking, I found myself in familiar territory: the Baltimore impound lot. One of ‘em, anyway. I’ve been meaning to post about this for months… I was in Baltimore over the summer (July, maybe?), where I had the wretched experience of walking to where I parked my car, keys in hand, only to find that my car wasn’t there. I knew instantly: it hadn’t been stolen, it had been towed. Nearby signs warning of towing if cars weren’t moved by 7am confirmed what I already knew. I wanted to wonder if those signs had been there the previous evening… but the feeling that I’d just done a really dumb, inconvenient, and likely expensive thing was already setting in. Damn. Worse - I’d actually taken pains to move my car from the 2 hour spots to what seemed a safer long term home only a few hours earlier. I am twit. So it’s back into the hotel lobby where phenomenally helpful and understanding people behind the front desk not only have the number ready, but make the call for me, and buy me breakfast (Diet Coke totally counts as breakfast). The phone rang and rang, without answer from the impound lot (foreshadowing!). The concierge invited me back to the office and let me use a phone to continue to call.

Eventually, someone picked up: “Impound lot.” I explain that my car was towed, and I’m calling to see if it is at his lot (one of two, I was told). He mumbles something completely incomprehensible. “Excuse me?” “I’m not talking to you, I’m talking to someone else.” (more foreshadowing!) Right. I can see that. Except that I can’t, because we’re *on the phone.* But if he hangs up, I’m stuck dialing and dialing again, so I demur. Eventually he confirms that my car (the red one, with the volunteer firefighter plates, as he describes it) is at his lot, and gives me the address. I catch a cab, and try to accept that I am going to be very, very late for work.

The impound lot. The impound lot is amazing. There are handwritten and typed signs everywhere. Most are torn, wrinkled, and faded, barely clinging to the surfaces on which they are posted. At least one referenced “vehical’s.” (Yes, really.) Several explain the fee structure. It costs more to pay with a credit or debit card, so other signs detail directions to nearby ATMs. More than one pleads that the reader be polite and understand that the impound lot did not tow your car. (They just gave the tow truck drivers a place to put it, for a cut of the profits.) The office is a small cinderblock hut oasis in a desert of parked cars and razor wire. A single employee is behind a glass wall, helping the first customer in the line of 2. I take my place in line and survey the scene. There appears to be quite a bit of paperwork involved in getting one’s car out of an impound lot. In Baltimore, at least, it’s all hand-written. The lone employee dutifully fills in two pages worth of boxes and lines and collects funds. Periodically, drivers who have already paid for their cars get to the gate behind him and honk their horns; he presses a button to open the gate and let them out. He is also answering the phone.

The line has grown. An African American couple is standing behind me. An exasperated young woman and her mother are behind them. The attendant finishes up with the customer he was helping and moves on to the next in line, a young-ish hipster-looking type who is trying to get his Mercedes back. He’s polite, but clearly irritated. “You live in Federal Hill?” inquires one of the others in line. He does, as does the woman who is begging her mother to just leave her at the impound lot. Apparently there’s a dearth of legal parking in Federal Hill. The black man behind me chips in: “Man, I was at the strip club. All I wanted to do was drink a beer, see some ass, and my goddamn car got towed!” I laugh. The mother looks appalled. The attendant answers the phone - on speaker. We hear the owner of a lost white Dodge Neon, wondering if it might be at this lot. The guy behind me LOVES this: “dude drives a Neon?! Brother ain’t gettin’ NO PUSSY!” I’m certain the guy on the phone hears him, though he doesn’t reply. I’m thinking the impound lot might be the most entertaining place I’ve been in weeks. I’m desperately wishing someone - anyone - were there with me to see all this. The attendant tries to tell Mr. Neon where the impound lot is, but he hangs up the phone too quickly (maybe it was the pussy comment…) Now it’s my turn in line. I start to say “It’s the red…” the attendant takes over - “the one with the volunteer fighter plates.” Yes. Guy behind me again - “they towed a volunteer firefighter?!” Attendant: “They’s towed ambulances before. I’ve had them in my lot. I let them out for free, though.” I have to try: “Any chance you can do that for me?” He just laughs. Neon-guy is back on the phone. We don’t recognize him at first, but he offers “no, I know my car is there, it’s me… with the neon…” The guy behind me is laughing so hard he’s snorting. Anyway, Neon-guy has clued in that - in addition to knowing his car is at the impound lot - he needs to know where the lot is. The attendant says “you know the farmer’s market?” Neon-guy is baffled. “the WHAT?!” “You know, man, the farmer’s market.” “Naw, man.” Without missing a beat, the attendant tries again “ok, ok, you know central booking?” “Aw yeah! I know that.” I am exactly bougie enough to be sad and appalled that there are people who have no idea where or what the farmer’s market is, but know the exact location of central freakin’ booking. I am so not in Kansas anymore.

A few more minutes and $250 later, I’m back in my car, honking so he’ll open the gate and set me free. I’ve completely failed to describe the insane bureaucratic chaos that was the Baltimore impound lot. As I told the guys last night on our walk back to feed the 24/7 meters and mollify the tow truck gods, if it weren’t so expensive, I’d insist they try it.

Name (required)

Mail (will not be published) (required)

Website