No Parking

By Matthew Snyderman

Copyright ©2025

There is something anybody who has ever driven in San Francisco knows; parking spaces can be as rare as one of those gold strikes of 1840s vintage. And like the no-holds-barred scrambles for promising claims during the Gold Rush, confrontations over them have produced no shortage of mayhem. By my 16th birthday, I'd already witnessed everything from profane shouting matches to ice-picked tires to a priest bursting from his car to pin the face of a teenager to a lamppost. Yet, despite knowing this, I still chose to apply for a summer job as a parking lot attendant at The Rip Tide, a storied restaurant with ocean views and lousy food. It was 1976 and my best friends, Matt and Raul, had long since lined up (and wouldn't stop boasting about) jobs with chick potential, while I landed a position that reportedly atoned for paying minimum wage with a steady stream of tips. Spending the summer flirting with girls as a lifeguard or camp counselor was tempting but wouldn't generate enough cash for me to get the used Mustang I'd been coveting.

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Day 1 at The Rip Tide involved being issued a white blazer with "Rick"

embroidered on the pocket and a timecard. Scott, the Assistant Manager, sat his three newbie attendants down and handed out Xeroxed employee manuals before going into his spiel, all but goose-stepping in front of us: no hair below the collar, no sunglasses, and absolutely no jeans. We were responsible for directing, not driving, cars to a lot in the back and tour buses, The Tide's cash cows, to the primo spots out front. "Under NO circumstances are you to allow a car to park in a bus space," he said. Twice.

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The next few shifts kept me busy playing ringmaster for buses packed with tourists in t-shirts and shorts who hadn't heard that San Francisco Julys were like Novembers back home, while anywhere from 4 to 12 cars trolled the lot in search of a space. One driver wearing a Dodger cap and a smirk dangled a ten-spot to let him use the bus section. I considered it but detested the Dodgers too deeply. Another, whose VW Bug was inexplicably outfitted with an air foil, tried to impress his halter-clad girlfriend by calling me an asshole and threatening to kick my ass for preventing him from flouting the parking commandments.

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My first Saturday on the job saw frustrated drivers of Oldsmobiles, Fords, and an El D straight out of Superfly circling the lot like vultures before getting lucky or throwing in the towel. A crimson Shelby Mustang, motor gunning, eventually joined this procession and made a handful of unsuccessful passes. Lightning bolt racing stripes made it stand out all the more. The instant a London-style bus pulled out, this car of my dreams pounced on the vacated space. I gestured for the driver to lower the tinted window, bracing myself for a confrontation.

Appraising me from its driver's seat was a woman, closer to 30 than 20, whose Penthouse caliber breasts were barely encased in a tube top. I couldn't tear my eyes from them.

"Ma'am," I said while gesturing toward a prominent sign that read, "Busses Only."

"Is that so?" She removed some oversized sunglasses and cocked an eyebrow. "No exceptions?"

"I'm afraid not."

"Even in matters of life and death?"

"Is this a matter of life and death?"

"Any more driving, I'll die of old age AND miss my appointment." A crisp $20 magically appeared in her hand.

"Ma'am. Please."

She shifted in her seat, revealing a lot of thigh with the promise of more. I tried to look without looking, but she noticed me noticing. "How old are you?"

"Me?"

She nodded.

"Seventeen In September."

With a conspiratorial twinkle, she whispered, "How about a blow job?"

"Ma'am?

"You know what those are, right "

"Uh, yeah."

"Ever had one? I mean, a good one."

I stood speechless.

"Come on," she said, reaching across to unlock the passenger-side door, "Get in."

"What!? In broad daylight? "

She tapped at the tinted glass adding, "This is a limited time offer."

I walked to the passenger side and slid into the seat. Tossing her head to get a mane of feathered hair out of the way, she freed my hard-on from its confinement. "Well, hello," she purred, bending down to wrap a pair of full lips around its head. I held my breath, then closed my eyes and started panting like a sled dog, but not before catching her sneaking a peek at her watch while working her tongue clockwise, counterclockwise, and back again. I came like Vesuvius, nearly forcing the passenger seat off its rails.

Straightening up, she dabbed at her mouth with a Kleenex. "That was fun." A final glance at the time; "Ooops! Can't be late! Happy almost birthday Rick," she laughed after scrutinizing the name on my jacket pocket and stepping out into the sunlight, "Don't forget to lock the door."

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The following 40 minutes featured a battle between an intoxicating afterglow and my fear of impatient tour bus drivers raising a ruckus over the pirated parking space. And right on cue a Gray Line double decker appeared just when I thought I was in the clear, its driver wasting no time in leaning on the horn. Then a second bus came to a stop behind the first, boxing in half a dozen cars on their way out of the lot. This high-decibel fiasco didn't take long to bring Scott running. He banged through the double doors with portholes for windows and surveyed the scene, hands on hips, before dispatching a flunky to call for a tow truck. The doors were still swinging when my new friend hustled out to her car and jetted off in a spray of gravel, but not before casting me a wink that everybody saw.

And so ended my tenure at The Rip Tide, leaving me $137.35 richer. The rest of my summer was spent working the French fry machine at McDonalds, which meant settling for a Datsun B-210 instead of a Shelby, a sacrifice I've never regretted. Not for a second.

About Matthew Snyderman:

Matthew Snyderman lives in Northern California with his wife.  He enjoys swimming, watching old movies on the big screen, and collecting music.  His work has appeared in The Avalon Literary Review, The Berlin Literary Review, Bristol Noir, Fabula Argentea, Killer Nashville, Literally Stories, The Lowestoft Chronicle, The Opiate, Punk Noir, Twelve Winters, Twin Bill, The Under Review, and The Yard.