Parking pursuits taken to the limit in D.C.

I am developing a special relationship with the hardworking, obsessive-compulsive, parking-ticket woman in Adams Morgan.

We play our cat-and-mouse game on a daily basis. I sometimes see her hiding behind a bush, with her trusty gizmo in hand, pretending to be enthralled with the lushness of the foliage, all the while awaiting a parking mistake on my part. I sometimes see her peeking out from the side of a building, craning her neck just so to see if I am up to no good. I admit to parking mistakes. I am not perfect. But it does become tiresome to have a $30 reminder of it planted on the windshield of my modest vehicle.

We are opposites, no doubt about it. She is close to perfect. I am far from it. If the District ever hands out a performer-of-the-year plaque to an employee, it could start with the parking-ticket woman of Adams Morgan. She should be on the short list anyway.

I am surprised she has not come down with carpal tunnel syndrome by now, and that is just on my vehicle. And I don”t know what her secret is, other than possibly having a photographic memory.

She is forever citing my vehicle for having exceeded the two-hour time limit in a residential neighborhood. You see, this is a big, fat no-no if you have a Zone 3 sticker on your automobile and you are parked on a Zone 1 street. That is my fate. That is my eternal curse. I am a Zone 3 person trying to get along in a Zone 1 world. Now I know what it is like to be ostracized, to be an outsider, to be under the watchful eye of the parking-ticket woman of Adams Morgan.

And she is watching. She is forever watching. And she is all-knowing, too.

She somehow knows that a Zone 3 car has been lurking on a Zone 1 street longer than two hours. This apparently is a testament to her agile mind. And it is no small street. There undoubtedly are other automobiles that do not have the precious Zone 1 sticker on their front windshield. Is she able to commit their parking stays to memory as well? Does she cite them, too? She must have a system.

We have come to know one another in an odd but meaningful way, although we try to maintain a respectful distance. She was getting ready to slap a ticket on my vehicle one day just as I showed up.

She was the consummate professional, all business, in no mood for chit-chat. And she showed she had a heart. She let me go without a ticket, perhaps because she has come to understand that we are proud warriors in the parking wars of the city, leery of one another but mindful that we each have a job to do. We nearly bonded that day.

She eyed me and gave the magical order, “Move it.” To which I said, “OK.” That seems like a long time ago, given the subsequent events. She has been all up in my grille lately, papering my vehicle with a vengeance, dispensing $30 hits with regularity. The vehicle may exceed the two-hour limit by only 15 minutes, but darn if the parking-ticket woman of Adams Morgan already will have noted it.

She has the total package: high skill level combined with unmatched dedication, incredible eyesight and quick fingers that punch in all the right numbers.

I am so looking forward to when she goes on vacation, because it is my assertion that no other enforcement person in the city could carry her gizmo.

Until then, I suspect the parking-ticket woman will be tracking my menacing Zone 3 vehicle with her X-ray-like vision. It is who she is. It is what she does.

She is the parking-ticket woman of Adams Morgan, the patron saint of Zone 1.