By John Mistretta

Fingers swept across a salt-covered car. Scan, green.

Buildings sprung out from concrete sidewalks and up into infinity. Scan, green. Scan, green. 

Cars zoomed next to me. People, dozens of people, walked in a hurry. Some carried briefcases, others, coffee. None of them paid attention to me. Scan, green. To them, I was nothing more than an insect. 

Scan, red. 

My heart skipped a beat, my cheeks grew warm. My pulse quickened. It was showtime.

Before me was a green car; its expiration had occurred six minutes prior. The machine strapped to my belt started buzzing, vibrating against my thigh. I breathed deeply, soaking in bliss. I waited to tear it off. Perhaps the owner was about to arrive, just a few minutes later than anticipated. That’s all it took. 

You can learn a lot about someone by their reaction to one of my tickets, growing furious as they find it set on their windshield, tucked delicately into place beneath plastic wipers. Their reaction to me making them give up thirty-five dollars. Like it wasn’t them who broke the rules.

A passerby scowled as I lifted the windshield wiper, the only time anyone ever noticed me. Gently, so gently, I placed the orange ticket down and tucked it in.

“Sweet dreams,” I whispered.

Boots crunched over sleet and dirty snow. Thousands of people crossed my path. They all saw nothing. Less than nothing. Scan, green. Where I walk, they see no one. Except, of course, after they see a ticket.

Across the street, someone saw me. A tall man with a little girl’s hand in his own. The man’s eyes darted from me to the green car, knowing. That feeling of blood, of life, returned to me as it drained from him. 

When the light turned green, they jogged across. I pretended not to look. He grabbed it. I waited for a sign, of muscles twitching and jaw clenching. My breath held tight. He looked at the ticket and then me, while I did my duty. I reveled in it. Scan, green. The man got in his car without a sound, knowing he had broken the rules. 

Too bad, I was hoping for more. 

Rounding a corner, I was in a new neighborhood. The buildings shorter, the people sloppier. In a city like this, worlds and cultures were defined by a few blocks. The people and places, all so different, except for their shared belief that my kind was a subset of species less than human. The one universal truth. 

Maybe there was something to that. Maybe I wasn’t human. I smiled. Scan, green. Scan, green.

Down the block, all the way at the end, was a black SUV parked over the curb. I knew their type. Maybe it would be a good day, after all. I crossed the sleet-stained street, saving the SUV for last.

There were Fords and Chevys. Japanese and Germans. Dirty and clean. Broken and brand-new. All depreciating in value as quick as my strides past them. Scan, green. Scan, green. Some were filled with junk, others empty. You can learn a lot about someone based on how they keep their car.

Only a few cars away. Scan, green. Scan, green. 

Did I like my job? Who wouldn’t? I walked around all day in a city of many, a city of legends. I got to experience the city as it lived and breathed, a voyeur observing the masses passing me by without a second thought. I wasn’t one of many. I was certainly no legend. Not yet. I am one of the forgotten, one of the invisible. And for my purpose on this earth, I couldn’t ask for anything better. 

Scan, red.

I knew when I first saw the SUV that it would happen. Its owner hadn’t even bothered paying the fee. There had never been an expiration set. Not yet. 

I could see my reflection in its shiny black exterior. Just a silhouette, a dark shape passing through. Maybe that’s all they ever saw. The ticket printed and I tore it out of the machine. Then I froze, hearing it before it came out.

“Excuse me, miss? What the hell are you doing?” 

My chest tightened. Butterflies. I always got butterflies when it happened. I turned around, the ticket held ever so gently in my hand. He unearthed from an espresso bar, a red-faced, bald man in a sport jacket. His eyes held fury. I could almost taste it. 

“Jerkoff, I asked, what the hell are you doing?”

“My job.”

“I parked two seconds ago. Give me a fucking break.” 

“I’m very sorry, but here you go.” I extended the ticket toward him, hiding my grin.

“Take it and shove it up your ass.” He grabbed it, crumpled it up, and threw the ticket into a swirling puddle of black water.

“Have a great day, sir,” I said.

The man spit on the ground and stormed back into the espresso bar. One last obscenity was shouted before the glass door was slammed, and I was met, once again, by my own reflection. 

Fingers dipped into dirty water. They wrapped around the soaked ticket. I squeezed it and felt the cold run down my hand. Scan, green. Scan, green. I could barely contain my excitement. Like I said, you can learn a lot about a person based on their reaction to a parking ticket. For me, I’ve found it an excellent way to help decide how to cull the herd. Think of it as a way of ridding us of a few bad apples.

That was the only ticket I gave out that day. But it didn’t matter, I was in heaven. In my hand, printed on that damp piece of paper, was the name and address of my next victim. Later, I’d ask him if his life was really worth those thirty-five dollars.