Are Parking Gods Smiling or Snickering?

It is a small item to be imbued with so much power, not much larger than a credit card, shaped a bit like a miniaturized Do Not Disturb sign. It was handed to me nonchalantly by a man who had clearly seen too much of the world to believe in anything like miracles. He saw my face light up in wonder as my fingers closed over it. “Anywhere,” he said, with a motion like Queen Elizabeth’s back-handed wave. “You can park anywhere.”

It was 9 o’clock on Saturday night, less than two weeks before Christmas, and I had just been given a West Hollywood parking permit.

I felt like Charlie finding the golden ticket to the chocolate factory. Now I could legally park on all those residential blocks previously kept off-limits by those pesky Permit Only Parking signs. I waved it in front of my husband’s eyes, eyes that were narrowed by half an hour spent trawling the streets between Sunset and Fountain, dipping as far south as Santa Monica, scanning for a chink in the wall of cars lining the curb on block after block after block. Time and again, our hearts soared with hope only to find the inevitable driveway, the fire hydrant, the red zone. We pestered pedestrians who looked like they might be headed to a nearby vehicle, and debated the sincerity of Tow Away signs behind a store that closed at 6. “Who would notice, and why would they care?” I asked innocently while my husband offered some rather hardened observations about the human soul.

Ironically, the party we were attempting to attend had provided a valet service, but the line was so long that the street became blocked, and several non-guests trapped and confused. Parking enforcement was notified, and to avoid the mess, we sought parking elsewhere, only to return in defeat, precious minutes of a childless evening ticking away.

That’s when the valet handed us the parking permit. I had had one before, but never on a Saturday night, never when scarcity equaled such value. For a few minutes, we thought about scalping it--we had not been alone in our left-turn, right-turn cha-cha-cha. And then we wondered if a party was a fancy enough occasion for such a valuable opportunity--surely we should use it in the pursuit of some glamorous event, where people danced on tables or writhed in threesomes and quartets in darkened back rooms.

When I hung it on our rearview mirror, I felt a thrill of self-importance. In these security-conscious times, the rearview mirror has become a totem of status. Where once we displayed our fuzzy dice and healing crystals, our rosary beads and garter belts, now we flaunt our talismans of admission, of acceptance. Here are the places I can go without signing in, without a truck-check or an under-carriage mirror examination. See how my rearview mirror bristles with buildings where I am welcome. I am important. I have clearance.

And on top of all that, we now had parking. Exclusive parking. Anywhere we wished in the city of West Hollywood, if only for 24 hours. As we began what had become a familiar drive, up and around and down and around, searching for parking now with new hope, we contemplated staying out until dawn--how could we waste hours of such a gift? By continuing to look for parking, as it turns out--even the residential streets were completely packed.

We wound up parking on Sunset, in a passenger unloading zone, on the misbegotten assumption that it wasn’t a violation after 6 p.m. According to the Bureau of Parking Violations, any loading or unloading zones count 24 hours a day, unless otherwise stated. But when we returned several hours later, there was our car, unticketed.

My husband thinks we dodged it because traffic on Sunset was so bad that the cops couldn’t see who was parked where. Or maybe it was a Christmas-related phenomenon. Me, I think it was the parking permit. For a few hours, we had cachet, for a few hours we belonged. Anyone could see that. Anyone at all.