permit signage

(I didn’t forget, I just got sidetracked! very sidetracked. one word prompt from @peonymoss: tickets)

Perhaps because Peggy had never driven much while she was in New York, she hadn’t quite reckoned with all the bloody American parking rules that were causing her to rack up ticket after ticket in Los Angeles. If it wasn’t street sweeping on every other block, it was special residential permits and ambiguously worded signage, or it was leaving the car parked on a bridge for just a small amount of time while on a stakeout with Mr. Jarvis. The officer who issued her the fine for the last one was not very sympathetic.

Nor were her colleagues. “How long were you parked on that bridge anyway, Marge?” Jack asked as he examined her latest ticket.

“Not long,” she answered defensively. Then she lowered her voice. “…it may have been three hours. Give or take.”

Daniel raised his eyebrows. “Three hours? Come on, Carter. And then you had that speeding ticket last week—”

“…in pursuit of a suspect…”

“—and the citation for driving the wrong way down Mulholland.”

“Well, she’s British,” Jack pointed out before going on to add his unsolicited insights on women and poor driving and parking habits, none of which were terribly helpful for him the following day, when his own car got towed for being parked three inches too close to a fire hydrant.