I’m on South Beverly Drive in Beverly Hills, sister city to Cannes, France. Imagine Beverly Hills having a sister city. Funny. At 1:30 pm, there is no parking. I am already a half hour late for my appointment. In fact, both of us are caught in the parking crunch, driving aimlessly around looking for a meter or an opening in the public garage. The streets that branch off from Beverly are restricted, the homeowners clearly having a questionable “in” with the city council. There is absolutely no parking without a permit, thus the curbside remains pristine and empty, yet, the parking police wait, they wait patiently all day long for someone to fuck up and forget to feed the meter or park sans permit.
This ticket alone can mess up your driving and insurance record for at least five years. As if to accentuate their pretense, the speed limit in BH is 20 mph and the police station looks like a manor house. I was pulled over one Saturday night on Wilshire Boulevard alongside an African-American guy who stood aside as his yuppie-looking Toyota got the full work over while another officer searched his sax case. It was laughable in a predictable, stereotypical kind of way. Here I was, driving a rusty old ‘71 Superbeetle that backfired. Yes, I was driving over the 20 MPH speed limit. I smiled sheepishly at my cohort, as if this was some sort of consolation. This was the beginning of my bitter dislike for BH 90210.
I am walking down the street to my meeting at Peet’s Coffee passing four girls with BH High cheerleading outfits and matching black UGGs who sip their frosty coffee drinks and dangle cigarettes while junior agents, (not yet able to afford the blue tooth technology) tail them making lascivious comments.
I finally arrive where my friend and I share our parking tales of woe. To avoid the pile up in the alley behind Peet’s, I turned the wrong way out; it’s either that or gets caught up in the quagmire of stopped traffic. I am quickly reminded at the corner by a biker pedaling along that I’m going the wrong way. I know that. But I smile and say “Thank you for pointing that out.” None of this gets under my skin, I just notice my snotty response and stifle a giggle. I gain a space in the garage after illegally waiting on the street with my engine idling. I glance around Peet’s after ordering hot regular drip. The Good Samaritan biker is there, curbside to the counter. I smile at him and say hello; he bites into his lemon bar and looks away.
