Grand Prize Writing
Lambos and Fudgesicles
by CC Williams
June’s gloom is burning off nicely and it looks like another glorious day in the South Bay. Good morning, Hermosa Beach.
I head for my favorite chair, balancing a banana on my coffee cup while powering up my laptop for the latest from the ER. From my kitchen window, I watch a Mercedes convertible with a “Volleyballers Do It In The Air” bumper sticker circle the block for a third time in search of parking.
Good luck, my optimistic Spikemeisters.
I am smug. I live here and so does my car.
I have a residential parking permit. This year’s permit looks like an invitation to a fifth graders birthday party, but one I’d go to. It is proudly stuck to the windshield of my 15 year old Honda with a dented roof — don’t ask.
But parking permits are not all giant fudgesicles and flying roller skates, you know. There is a dark side. Increased
permit prices, limited parking availability for residents, and chatter surrounding meter start times threaten the status quo. Dumbbells in driveways, lemonade stands on sidewalks and fire hydrants blocked by U-hauls all need special permits and there aren’t enough to go around.
And what’s with all the pets in strollers? Okay, not really a parking problem, but, really, WTF?
There’s a dark side, alright, but the thought of my puffy-painted little permit fills me with a warm feeling, a calming mantra. I live here and so does my car. Even if the permit’s giant fudgesicle turns out to be a pickleball racket.
I live here and so does my…. Oh-oh. Hold on. What day is it? No. It can’t be.
My smug self takes a quick peek at the ER calendar and says, ‘Oh yes, it can. And would you look at the time.”
In three mantra-shattered seconds, I am out the front door, car keys in hand, and still wearing my pajamas. It’s okay, they’re floral boxers and a vintage Black Flag T-shirt, which is practically Hermosa Beach formal wear.
The whole neighborhood is on the move, now. Under-caffeinated and underdressed, stumbling down the narrow sidewalk pointing keyless fobs in the crisp morning air.
I bump into my downstairs neighbor and give her a “Can you believe it” shrug because this is no time for chit chat. She adjusts the zipper on her ‘Free Hugs’ onesie and shrugs back “Are you kidding me? We’ve all been here before.”
To be honest, sometimes I don’t drive my car for days and I forget where it is. Because I can. That’s the thing about living in the vehicle permit zone, the sheer walkability of it precludes the need to drive.
And yet, here we are.
There’s a yellow-booted BMW with out of state tags on the corner of Ninth. It’s been there for almost a week, the stench of abandonment clinging to it like a pair of cheap leggings. Geez, it looks like it’s only a couple of years old. Where are its permits? But the sad truth is that young, booted BMWs are a dime a dozen around here. This town just eats them up.
A man in a silk kimono and a Wrexham beanie rushes past me. He’s holding a Lamborghini key fob and an enormous martini glass with a tea bag in it. He shrugs,“Bloody Thursdays, eh? Seen the Lambo, luv?”
It’s a rhetorical question, it’s every man for himself.
I spot Frank in the distance. Good ol’ Frank. He’s wearing his signature tie-dyed overalls and carrying a keyring attached to a Ferrari hubcap that once belonged to Brittany Spears. She gave it to him as a gift when he rescued her Testarossa from a sticky situation outside Saint Rocke one night.
Frrannk! Frraannkkiiee!
He recognizes me and points up the street in the opposite direction, towards Eighth. Huh? But Frankie knows. He
disappears into a Lexus sedan only to reappear seconds later in a Chevy Suburban towing a Smart Car.
Frank’s been working the mean streets of the South Bay for years now. Its residents fear The Sweeper so they pay him to move their cars around. He started out in a double wide trailer in El Segundo, now he owns a duplex on The Strand. I’m just saying, Frankie knows.
He reaches into his pocket and takes out a solid gold whistle. Jay Leno gave it to him one night after a gang of wasted rental e-bikes had Jay’s antique Bugatti surrounded outside the Comedy and Magic Club.
Frankie blows the whistle twice and shrugs, “It’s here.”
We watch it putt-putt into view, making a wide turn onto Monterey. It looks so harmless, friendly even. Like a taco truck or an ice cream van. But this is no kid’s dream, it’s a grown-up’s nightmare.
The Dreaded Parking Patrol.
Its mission is to clear the streets for the coming Sweeper, and it is unapologetic in its efforts to rid the road of all things wheeled. Some say ruthless.
The car alarms grow louder, chirping and squawking. Hurry up! Over here!
But the enemy is among us now and not everyone will make it out. I pass a shiny Ford F-150, its driver in a black satin robe and a faded MAGA ball cap. He’s pressing his fob, but the engine won’t turn over. He keeps looking down at the
dashboard and then back towards the street. I avoid eye contact and move on.
Past the tri- level with the double garage. The pearl white Escalade that lives there is an ‘only vehicle’ and it’s spoiled rotten. Rotten. Garage envy is real here. Especially on Thursday mornings between the hours of eight and 10.
A couple in matching unitards jogs by with a stroller that is almost as big as my car and probably costs more. I glance inside. There’s an overweight French bulldog licking a plastic Starbucks cup. It’s clearly a no-shrug situation. I move on.
I’m almost to Eighth Street, in front of the house with the wonky shutters — really, how hard is it to drive in a nail? I finally see it. There, tucked in between a British-green Range Rover and a Sprinter van. My Honda. And stopped right beside it, the Dreaded Parking Patrol.
Right. Beside. It.
I’m too late. My downstairs neighbor gives me a “So sorry” shrug that I know really means “Better you than me.” I shrug back, “Tough luck. Now please go home and burn that onesie.”
But wait a minute, the Range Rover seems to be engaging the Dreaded Parking Patrol in some sort of dispute. A bold move. Bold or bat crazy.
I seize the moment and slide into my car’s worn front seat. The engine fires right up and The Go-Betweens come spilling out of the tinny speakers. Grant McLennan singing, “Up and down, round and round, through the streets of your toooowwwnn.”
The Sprinter van provides cover and I ease around it and out onto the open road. The Dreaded Parking Patrol looks up briefly, but its focus is on the Range Rover who appears to have turned on its flashers in an open act of defiance.
Good Luck, my bat crazy Brit.
Frank sees me coming and he directs me into an empty spot in front of a mobile dumpster that’s good until Monday at noon. Good ol’ Frankie!
Back on Monterey things are quieting down. I pass Lambo guy and he gives me a shrug that says,“Bloody Thursdays, eh luv?” I lift my shoulder in return, ‘See you next week. Go Wrexham.’
Home again, settled in at the kitchen window with fresh coffee and the ER editorials, I watch a Barbie-pink Saab with a Body Glove bumper-sticker circle the block for a third time.
Good luck, my Swedish surfanistas.
I am smug. I live here and so does my car.
Last year, the City of Hermosa Beach sold 8,926 residential parking permits to occupants of 1,084 residences in the permit zone. The permits allow free parking at the 1,212 yellow meters along Hermosa Avenue and neighboring streets (Easy Reader, March 2, 2023.
Second Place Photography
Third Place Photography
