Ali, are you okay? (May 2010)

Park at your own will
A dodgy autopay that almost brought out the thug in Ali Imran K.

Next month will mark my second anniversary here at August Man and I would like to make it known that I still do not have a parking pass. I have no idea why I haven’t gotten round to getting one but for the past 24 months, I have been paying my parking dues with a ticket at an autopay machine. I know it seem rather silly, expensive as well and not to mention inconvenient, but as I mentioned earlier, I don’t know why, so don’t ask.

If you’ve ever been to this side of the world, you will know that Dataran Prima is a sizeable piece of land filled with three office blocks, two of which have their own autopay basement parking. For convenience sake, you would think that there would be multiple machines to serve the numerous exit points from the car park, but there are only two in reality, one for each long block. To make matters worse, the bright yellow machine in our block, has a mind of its own (much like my cousin Lina’s ripe bosoms) and it once told me I owed RM54, 065 for four hours.

But I’ve gotten used to its temperament which usually requires a gentle thump should it misbehave and if you’re lucky enough it may actually spit out an extra 50 cent coin. Speaking of coins, just as an added info, I get the impression that this lovely piece of contraption was probably fished out from centuries long gone as it doesn’t dispense notes but 50 cent coins as change. So don’t try to put in RM10 for a RM2 parking charge unless you compensate a bulging trouser pocket with coins.

As it happened, one evening as I was leaving the office, it started to rain. The wind blew it in all kinds of directions as well, which made dodging it an arduous dance of sorts. The yellow box said I owed RM4, after having slipped my ticket in, so I dropped in whatever loose change I had on me at the time. I finished paying feeling rather convinced that I really don’t need a parking pass because despite the odds, this was all too easy. The hems of my trousers may have been a little damp from the spittle of rain, but hey, this is the tropics, if you hate getting wet, go live in the Sahara.

When my ticket didn’t appear as per usual, I looked up at the screen and it said that I still owed 50 cents, when I could’ve sworn I paid everything. “No matter” I thought. I’ll just toss in another coin and I’ll be well on my way. I hear the coin making its way down to the pits of its mechanical bowels and when there was a clinking sound that indicated that it has reached its destination, still nothing happened. That, no less just lit the fuse leading to the bomb that is my infuriating rage and if I didn’t know better, this looks to me like the perfect setting for an explosion of nuclear proportions.

I thumped the machine-nothing happened, I kicked it- no reaction, I held it by its sides and rattled the bejesus out of it- nada. But at least my ticket came back out but not without hurting my eye first as it came flying out like guided missile.  At times when the autopay acts up, occupants of our block have the option of either notifying a security guard, who would then buzz the parking barrier up themselves or paying the fee at the management’s office, which was just further along from the machine. Funnily enough, no guard was seen on site and I took this as a general sign of negligence. What if someone was robbed? Or raped? Or just needed to get out of the parking pronto? My blood rose as I imagine them huddling underneath the stairs in our building because the rain made it an apt opportunity to catch a snooze.

Besides, I don’t think they take their jobs that seriously as I once saw one of them with an iphone, so I’m guessing, they’re guards just for the heck of it. The management office was no better either, as it was already closed when I got there. I stared at my reflection in the office’s window in disbelief all the while thinking to myself “This is not happening”.  My only other and final option was to brave the torrential downpour, so that I can get to the other block where the last remaining working machine sits. If that one’s broken as well, then I’m screwed. I got out eventually, in case you’re wondering but positively fuming from drenched clothes and lazy, good for nothing workers who seem to have a talent for disappearing at crucial times.

All I can say is, they certainly picked the wrong guy to mess with as although I would stand for people overtaking me at Kripsy Kreme, this appears to be something that wars are made of. I worded my comeback speech carefully-concise, to the point yet authoritative. I knew I was right and there was no way that this principled man was going to back down, at least not in theory.

I harrumphed my way into their office the following morning, exerting a sense of utmost urgency and said “Your machine swallowed my RM5 yesterday. I want it back, please”. The attendant rose and asked “How much?”, giving me the impression that he was ready to engage in a verbal duel, not knowing that I had a slew of comebacks up my sleeve ready for him.

“RM5 ”, I repeated assertively. He appeared to be rummaging for something underneath the counter-an emergency button! I knew it! “Crazy man running amok for RM5” or worse, a long heavy object to clobber me on the head with from across the counter-oh, you’ve done it now Ali! Could’ve just let it slide, but No! You had to make a big deal out it. Perfect, just perfect.
“Here you go” as he slapped a note in front of me.
“Urmm....Thanks”, I said as I picked it up and left.