The parking meter was obviously very hungry. He was the new kind, the hip-wireless kind, the one that feels very important because it prints little shiny scraps of paper for high dollar amounts. In any other location a cash register was just a sidekick, in any other location the receipt was optional. Not here. Here it was all about the receipt. Cash for receipt. Give him cash, and you may get some protection. For a limited time only. Very limited.
The parking meter would sometimes fantasize of printing some really wrong tickets. Let's say one that expired days ago. He would not print a series of them, of course, that would cost him his position. But maybe one, one single one? Maybe for a large car with an unfriendly driver? That would be a powerful move.
Ideally this ticket would be written for somebody who is on the most wanted list. The parking meter imagined to be the one who wrote the wrong ticket for Osama Bin Laden, as he parked his unmarked car right in front of the TGI Friday on 49th and 7th. Imagine the newscast on the jumbotron not far from here. Osama caught thanks to a swift move by a parking meter. They would probably give him a new paint job. Maybe he would get better security guards. The two concrete sticks next to him did not look as if they could hold back a chevy impala, not to mention a hummer.
On the other side of the street, a planter waited for rain. It was time to feed the kids again. The grass, the bugs, the mold spores. And it was also about time that the bag of cash buried deep in the soil finally turned into something useful. A bunch of earthworms were working on this one though. (For several years now.)