Parking Privilege

by Heather Dougherty

In 2009, as a junior in college, I had almost no money and almost no worries. I went to class, grabbed lunch with friends at the dining hall, caught some “Jersey Shore” reruns, and then ventured out of my bed for Pitcher Night Wednesdays with $5 in my wallet. When I moved off campus and into the sleepy town surrounding my Western New York school, I wanted to add more freedom to my already perky lifestyle, and zeroed in on the one thing missing from my college fantasy bubble: my car.

The possibilities were endless! With a car, I could go to Wal*mart whenever I wanted! I wouldn’t have to trudge to house parties in the snow, or scrub rides to go grocery shopping. I could road trip to the suburbs and check out the mall, which had a Starbucks! In my frivolous head, my car was totally necessary. After winter break, I drove my 2002 Honda Accord, nicknamed the Silver Fox, 408 miles to its new driveway on (no joke) College Street.

This seemingly innocent decision triggered a butterfly effect in my financial life.

Like many privileged college kids, I didn’t worry much about rules. I smuggled Keystone Light cans in my purse, chugging them in the bar bathroom stall as an underage patron of Wing Night. I frolicked the town streets with open containers of vodka-infused Snapple and snuck into the lecture halls after midnight just because. I never got into much trouble, and the mindset of being ~*~young and stressless~*~ made me feel like the rules never really applied. This was college, not real life.

With the Silver Fox, my rule breaking started leaving a paper trail. As a social, but also lazy, upperclassman, I drove everywhere. Translation? As a drunk, but also responsible, upperclassman, I left my car overnight in random places.

Highlights included closed parking lots, side streets, and private driveways. By the spring of senior year, I accrued more parking tickets than credits towards my pointless English minor. Throw in two traffic violations (rolling through a stop sign driving half a mile to get pizza; speeding on the thruway driving home for spring break), and I was totally winning Reckless Driving Bingo: College Edition. Unable to pay the fines, the tickets piled up in my underwear drawer, hidden to everyone but me.

By graduation, I had almost no money and one big worry: How the hell was I going to pay those tickets? The idea of being unable to afford the fines scared me into silence. Instead of asking for help, I buried the debt in the back of my mind, packed up The Silver Fox, and moved back home to real life. So long, college playground. Hello, suspended license.

The next year was a stressful game of ticket payment Whack-a-Mole: Twenty-Something Edition. I would get a letter from the DMV informing me that if I didn’t pay the fine, my license would be suspended in 30 days. I would accept the payment plan option, pay a portion of the ticket, run out of money, and then bury the evidence. Before I could close my underwear drawer, another notice would pop up in my mailbox for an entirely different violation. There were too many moles and not enough money to whack them with; and I had been hiding the problem for so long, I didn’t know how to ask for help.

Then I did what every irresponsible 22-year-old having post college identity crisis daydreamed of doing: I accepted a volunteer position in Spain. Good luck sending suspension notices to a tent in the Sierra Nevada, DMV! Life was a playground once again.

By 26, the Silver Fox was hanging in my hometown, on loan to my newly licensed sister, and I was back in the States living in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. I was renting a cozy house in an affordable neighborhood and on deck for a promotion at my cool office gig. I had become an adult, one who may or may not be cleared to drive.

Even though I knew I could check my status with the click of a mouse, I hovered in denial about my driving privileges. I rode the bus happily, and got word that my promotion was approved — with a pay raise! As I got my shit together, my quarter-life crisis faded into the background.

I learned about the mystical grown-up process known as Saving Money, and as I built up a nice rainy day fund, the DMV sent a familiar note to my old address. Yep, still suspended. The games were over. It was time to face my debts. I picked up the phone and called the town court nervously to find out the damage: Four unpaid parking tickets and two unpaid traffic violations that totaled almost $1,000, not including the suspension termination fee from the DMV.

“Do not drive,” the clerk urged to me over the phone. “Then you’ll be charged with a misdemeanor, and it will be an even bigger mess.” Misdemeanor = Mess. Got it.

Was I never going to drive for the rest of my life? The thought scared me straight. As much as it hurt, I cleared out my savings and overnighted payment in full to the court, fantasizing about time traveling back to College Street and shaking myself silly. I’d offer College Me a warning from the future, a Get Out of Jail Free Card you can only earn after learning the hard way. She’d laugh it off, offer me some boxed wine, and add some witty comment about how I seemed to turn out fine — cuing Future Me to deliver that exhausted sigh my mother always gave when I didn’t understand.

Two days later, I was officially a licensed driver again, with almost no money, and one less worry. As I smiled for my new PA State license photo, l thought about how satisfying it felt to own up to my past mistakes, and how lucky I was that I could turn it around. Driving was a privilege. I should treat it like one.

To all those College Selves out there in the world, we forgive you. You’ll learn …eventually. Love, Your Future Self.

Heather Dougherty manages special events for Pittsburgh Ballet Theatre, assists in programming for the Girls Coalition of Southwestern PA, and is a co-founder of Hollaback! Pittsburgh. She is a featured contributor for Femsplain, and takes her sockbun hairstyle very seriously.

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