WordSisters

Author: Ellen Shriner

  • Scammed

    Recently, my sister and I had good lunch at the Bad Waitress Diner, but it cost us close to $250. The turkey wrap I ordered had fresh avocado and a tasty sauce. Margo’s Eggs Benedict had a great rosemary hollandaise. What left a bad taste in my mouth was the $232.79 towing charge we paid for participating in the Caravelle Chinese and Vietnamese Restaurant’s parking lot scam. 

    As we pulled into the parking lot the Caravelle shares (sort of) with the Pancho Villa Mexican Restaurant, we saw a tow truck trying to negotiate the turn from the parking lot into the alley. We idly wondered if the car it was towing had died. We should have thought a little harder about that, but we were busy yakking. Margo lives in Ohio and we were enjoying one of her rare visits to the Twin Cities.

    We noticed the sign near our spot that said, “Pancho Villa parking after 3 p.m.” and thought, It’s only 11:45. We’re good to 3:00 and we won’t be here that long. We should have noticed the guy posted next to a light pole across the street from the parking lot.

    We ate our lunch, talked about our respective children, and speculated and laughed about the young women and young men at the sidewalk tables outside our window. (Was that guy checking out the woman with the short skirt? Did she just flip her skirt like that so he could?) All in all, a good lunch.

    Until we walked half a block back to the parking and discovered my car was gone. Huh? It should be right here. Didn’t we park it here? It was TOWED?!? But by whom? Pancho Villa? We went inside and found the hostess. She explained that they always ask their patrons where they’ve parked, because five minutes after someone parks in the lot next to Pancho Villa, the Caravelle calls for a tow truck. The whole lot is Caravelle’s until 3:00 p.m. Oh. Clearly, we’d misunderstood the signs. $&%#!! We thanked the helpful hostess and left.

    I felt so stupid. Angry, too. How could I have misunderstood the sign so thoroughly? And where was the sign saying we’d be towed? We found it on the opposite side of the lot, by the Caravelle. As I wrote down the phone number for Cedar Towing a guy stood nearby, repeatedly hawking and spitting, to the point where I wanted to turn to him and say Mom-like, “Knock it off!!” Still dazed, it never occurred to me that he might be trying to get our attention or possibly signal someone else, like the guy leaning on the pole across the street.

    We walked back to the Bad Waitress to ask for a phone book (neither of us has a smart-enough phone, so we couldn’t look it up). Once there, we explained what happened. The manager seemed unsurprised and unfazed. She didn’t have a phone book, but she did have the phone number for a taxi service. We copied the number and went outside to call and wait.

    When we called Rainbow Taxi, the dispatcher said something like, “Oh yeah, the Bad Waitress. I know where that is. We’re over there a lot.” Duh. Finally, it clicked. Caravelle may be the masters of the towing scam, but the Bad Waitress and Rainbow Taxi are complicit, or at very least, well aware of it.

    Earlier, I’d felt stupid and frustrated—Why wasn’t I street-smart enough to think about the possibility of being towed? What a dope! But after talking to Rainbow Taxi, I was furious and determined not to give another dime to this racket. Fortunately, we spotted a taxi driving by and decided there were enough taxis in the area and we could hail a cab on our own. We crossed the street to catch a cab headed the right way. Blowing off Rainbow Taxi was a tiny revenge, but it felt good. Half a block down was the guy next to the pole, still scouting for the Caravelle, while his partner (the spitter) loitered in the lot to see where parkers actually went.

    The cabbie who picked us up had a Greek accent and chatted with Margo. I was too crabby to talk. During the ride to Cedar Towing, we stopped at a light, and a person with a disability crossed in front of us on a scooter. The cabbie remarked, “That’s fine on a day like today, but these people on scooters go out in the winter, too. Then they get stuck in the snow and I have to get out and help them get across the street.” Here was a genuinely nice man. He wasn’t trying to scam us. I relaxed a little.

    At the towing company, the woman told me the cost was $232.79. How is a half hour’s work worth $232.79?!? But I decided to keep my mouth shut until after I had my car. I asked to see the car before I paid, and the clerk made sure I knew it was a big hassle for her. Her manner implied that it was unreasonable of me to think they might have damaged the car in the process of towing it. Yeah, right.

    The guy she called to escort me to the car was less sophisticated. When I asked him how they towed it, he said they took it on a flatbed. OK, so far. SUVs shouldn’t be towed with just a hook. They need to be towed on a flatbed. I inspected the car carefully and found fresh scratches on the hood (you knew that was coming, didn’t you?) I called the guy over and asked what might have caused that. He tried to say maybe the scratches were already there, but I cut him off saying, “No, I just had the car washed several days ago and dried it myself, so I know those scratches are new.” He acknowledged that when he was looking for the VIN number, something might have scratched the hood.

    Inside, I asked the clerk what Cedar Towing planned to do about the scratches. She said I could call her boss, but he was on vacation right now. Of course he is, and he probably will be for the rest of my natural life. So I paid, but as I left I said, “Great scam you and the Caravelle have going.” Of course she blustered back, “It’s not a scam. There’s a big sign.” I laughed at her. She said in parting, “You’re entitled to your opinion.”

    Yes, I am.

    Margo took photos of the scratches with her phone (for all the good it will do) and we left.

    So of the three restaurants we dealt with that day, I’m recommending Pancho Villa, because I’m pretty sure they aren’t in on the towing scam. But, just to be safe, you’d better plan to walk over there.

  • Companion for the Journey

    Several close friends and I are immersed in the heartbreaking work of caring for elderly parents who are fading.

    One friend’s father is growing more and more forgetful. When she asks what he had for dinner, he can’t recall whether or not he ate. But they conclude he must have eaten, because his caregiver would have made sure he did. He’s in his 80’s and his heart condition is responsible for the memory loss. It’s so hard to realize that this man, who had been an incisive school administrator with a sharp wit, can’t recall if he took his pills or not.

    Another close friend’s 86-year-old father is very frail and losing the battle with congestive heart failure. He’s thin, weak and his heart and kidneys can’t keep up with the demands of moving blood and removing excess fluid. The sports teams he used to love to watch barely stir his interest now—he’s too tired and worried to care about a touchdown.

    My 91-year-old mother has grown more forgetful in the last six months, and she knows it. For years, she could be counted on to manage all of the household and financial details while she cared for my Dad, whose health was deteriorating. Her sister Corinne was also in poor health recently, and Mom helped manage her affairs, too.  Now, however, Mom

    Mom, me, Aunt Corinne

    relies on extensive notes so she can recall phone conversations, her plans for the day, or what to tell the doctor—not just a list of topics to cover with him, but the logic behind her requests. Today, she’s still able to manage living in her own home with the help of my siblings and me. But who knows how much longer that will work?

    My friends and I are all take-charge women. We know how to solve problems and get things done. What’s hard is the realization that there’s little we can do to change the course of events. We can’t “fix” our parent’s health issues—whether memory loss or congestive heart failure. For them, there’s no going back to great health. Instead, we try to slow the decline, help them stay as long as possible on each new plateau.

    I’m working on accepting the inevitable. I’m trying to be Mom’s companion for the journey.

    I’m doing my best to enjoy Mom while she’s here. So we talk, I give her homemade cookies, I help with household chores when I visit, and when she says, “You know, I’m not going to be around forever,” I look her in the eye and say, “Yes, I know.” I believe it’s important to let her say what’s in her heart and not dismiss her feelings with fake cheeriness. But the moment passes and we refocus on having fun—a good meal, a good laugh, a good memory. A lot of days, that’s enough.

  • Love Your Public Library

    Growing up, my Dad, my sister, and I visited the Sanger library in west Toledo every week. In all my memories, the library is sunny and bright, and I was eager to discover what wonderful stories might be waiting for me. When the pickings were slim, I was actively disappointed, but checked out whatever books I could find. Being without books to read was worse than reading so-so books. To this day, I have stacks of books by my bed and downloaded onto my iPad. If I’m traveling, I need at least three books available to feed my reading addiction and keep my no-book anxieties at bay.

    The three of us loved to read and each of us checked out four books (the maximum allowed). In second and third grade, I read through a shelf of orange-bound biographies and met Mary McLeod Bethune, George Washington Carver, Florence Nightingale, Lucretia Mott, and others. I also LOVED Nancy Drew mysteries and tore through them. Later, I learned that Toledoan  Mildred Benson (whose pen name was Carolyn Keene), wrote many of the stories in that series.

    By the time I was in fourth grade, I had read all of the children’s chapter books, so Dad arranged with the librarian to let me read whatever I wanted in the adult section. Today, when book banning is rampant in schools, this seems like a surprising decision, but Dad wasn’t worried about what I might find. He once told me that he attempted to read all of the library’s books (he got from the A’s through the G’s), so he understood my need to read. In fourth grade, Daphne DuMaurier’s Rebecca was one of my favorites, and I went on to read all of the DuMaurier books at the library.

    At home, our bookshelves may have seemed oddly empty. Although Dad loved reading, he didn’t need to own the books, and so my sister and I learned we didn’t either. As a practical matter, we couldn’t possibly find space for all the books we read. Dad’s philosophy is still ingrained in me. Over the years, I’ve borrowed most of what I wanted to read from the public library, and I’ve bought books as a special treat or if the library didn’t carry what I wanted. I still feel that way, but now I buy books I love in order to support living authors. However, typically I buy them after I’ve read the library’s copy. Weird, I know, but I can’t own everything I’ve read or plan to read.

    Today, my relationship with the library is different. I don’t visit in person as often as I used to. Instead, I download ebooks from the library, because I love reading on my iPad (so many books in one lightweight place!). But I am as firmly committed to public libraries as ever. For me, they represent a world of stories and knowledge: garden books about shade plants, novels about China during the Mao’s Cultural Revolution, financial reports of companies I want to invest in, travel guides about small Irish towns. For other people, they’re a source for free computer and Internet access for research papers, Facebook, and job searches.

    Today, the Dakota County Library in Minnesota is my home library. While their funding is secure for this year, the Toledo-Lucas County Public Library is facing a 50 percent budget cut if the local levy doesn’t pass this fall. I hope my Toledo friends and family will vote for the levy renewal, so this wonderful resource doesn’t become a memory!