Use the garage today because it’s pouring rain. You know it’s a bad idea because they charge a weekend surplus but for some reason you go along with it.
At a bar upstairs the notebook comes out and you do a good amount of work in the sapce of two beers. The bill is $6, plus tip. It’s been about two hours. This is fine.
Leaving the garage a twentysomething in the cashiers’ booth tells you the price of your stay was $7. Frustrating. Guilt-inducing. Embarrassing, too, that you can’t go out to do some work over just two cheap beers without then incurring some peripheral expense that throws your supper into question and sets you on this nervous-angry thought track (made worse by the booze) about when you’ll next be paid and how embarrassingly meager a life you’ll have to lead until then.
The machine isn’t working.
Dude in the booth asks if you’d mind backing up 20 feet, changing lanes, and going and paying in another automated register.
Bafflingly, you say, “Yeah, I mind.”
Of course you don’t mind.
This dude with the glasses sighs and then apologizes but says that this is the only way for you to get out.
Of course he’s not sorry.
Two twentysomethings at an agitated standstill not wanting (not being able) to say what’s really got you both here, in this mood.
- He’s just doing his job, and embarrassed to be working here.
- You’re just broke, and embarrassed to be so.