RESERVED PARKING

I remember when they put up the sign. We had been brainstorming some new, free, weekly incentives we could offer to our phone reps; the sign had been Lena's baby, and she had stuck to it as her favorite one. Within days, Jason from maintenance went out and pounded a stake into the grass in front of the nearest parking spot to the door and mounted the pole topped with a horizontal rectangle: "RESERVED PARKING".
Though it drew a lot of questions from the people that worked upstairs, it didn't catch with the reps. It proved a pitiful incentive, mainly because the lot was so small--only 30 spaces or so--and they all got in before it was very full anyway. On top of that, two of our already small team couldn't even use it: there was our epileptic rep who didn't drive, and an older rep who had a handicapped permit and could have her pick of the handicapped stalls, which were closer to the door anyway. Still we held the weekly drawings and doled the spot out to unimpressed employees as if it were some kind of grand prize. Even in the face of their indifference, Lena persisted in her enthusiasm for it.
I left the company for two years, and then came back. In my absence, somehow the spot's purpose changed. Maybe because the team had shrunk still smaller. Or maybe because Lena finally sensed that it had no effect on her reps' behavior. Regardless of the motive, upon my return everyone knew the spot as Marlisse's--Lena's boss. Since Marlisse only comes in three days a week, Lena and another manager take turns parking in it on the off days. It seems so pointless, given the size of the lot, yet everyone in the company abides by the words on that sign--that parking is reserved, and it is not reserved for you.
Ridiculous as it sounds, I hate that spot. I hate that sign. I hate its tightly-kerned black letters shouting in all caps from the off-white base. I hate that it's anchored in the grass instead of lined up uniformly with the Handicapped signs on the sidewalk. I hate the smug superiority it betrays in those three ladies who share it. I have fantasized of stealing the sign under cover of darkness, picturing myself in the role of vigilante returning democracy to the parking lot, but there's no way I would follow through on that. There are cameras on the side of the building that would likely catch me in the act.
Such a small piece of property shouldn't bring such bitterness. Those of us with the sense to see the sign's senselessness should just content ourselves with snickering about those who are fooling themselves into believing the spot constitutes some elite privilege. But it can be hard to brush off someone else's condescension. I could care less about the parking, but I hate thinking of them thinking me to be beneath them.
Instead of playing the desperado, I display my distaste for the sign and its politics by parking as far away from the building as I can. I prefer to park facing north, partly to keep the sun off my windshield, and partly to point purposefully away from the sign.
Even this week when all three of them are overseas, the spot stays empty, the sign shielding it from encroachment by the unworthy. Any one of us could park in that spot without consequence; in a way, parking there could be my best gesture of defiance towards the spot's absentee regulars. But instead, I keep my distance, locking eyes with my fellow co-workers in the parking lot as we walk in, wordlessly communicating our commitment to considering one another equals.