Read Meter Maids Eat Their Young for Free Online Page B

hard not to scream.
    He was hunched over, the flat black handset all but smothered in his large hands, its color in sharp contrast with his eggshell-white hair. He glanced at me once, pushed his silver, wire-rimmed glasses up his narrow nose and continued to whisper. The two halves of my story sat neatly on the corner of his desk.
    His office has always fascinated me. There was something so peaceful about it, so otherworldly. The walls were oak. The floor was oak. The desk a tremendous slab of oak. The heavy chairs framed in oak. The line of Queen Anne bookcases, all oak, each filled to overflowing with books. You could lose yourself in a room like this, draw the heavy drapes, pull a book at random from the shelf, and forget there was a harsh world beyond the window panes.
    I tiptoed to one of the chairs and sat down, turning it so I could stare out the window. Trying to ignore the one-sided conversation, I focused my thoughts on the endless line of parking meters fading into the distance five storys below.
    One could easily believe those flat-gray pillars of aluminum and plastic, lined up along the curb like sharp teeth, were spawned from the dankest torture chamber of a demented Marquis de Sade. Sad to say, they were invented by an American, one Carl Cole Magee, and first installed in Oklahoma City on July 16, 1935.
    The original prototype, cobbled together with help from the Oklahoma State University Engineering Department, was dubbed the ‘Black Maria’. It came in two types: Automatic, which required the added expense to the city of a meter winder to crank the timing mechanism; and manual, which required only the poor slob who fed it. Guess which design won out?
    A clearing of the throat brought me out of my reverie. He was leaning on his desk, arms folded. I squirmed in my chair like a schoolboy in the principal’s office. He glanced at the two halves of the story and back at me.
    â€œUm,” I said. “It’s a little sparse, I know—”
    â€œSparse is not the problem.” He leaned back in his chair. He looked tired but his emerald eyes were as piercing as any dagger. I felt as if the inside of my skull was being inspected.
    â€œThere was a time in this business when all true newspaper men had one thing in common, whether they were running a small town, hand-crank press or working for a major daily with millions of subscribers. Truth was their passion and whether a story had twelve words or twelve-hundred, the story had heart.
    â€œTeller, there are many reasons why I contacted you, why I asked you to return to the paper. This story is chief among them. The situation is getting out of hand. Violence is brewing.”
    Brewing indeed, I thought. The number of protesters gathering near the Admin building was growing with every passing day. Just the week before, an irate motorist started yelling at a meter maid. Another meter maid arrived on the scene and between the two of them they beat and maced the driver and then had him arrested. The following day, two construction workers, angry over a ticket they’d received while at lunch, dragged a meter maid from her cart and pushed the cart into a construction pit.
    â€œThe tension is growing,” he continued. “People are angry and their anger is being ignored by those in power. Your return gave voice to their anger and the impact is being felt, if still being ignored. However, I have the impression over the last month or so that your mind, your heart, is not altogether here amongst us.”
    He held out his palm toward me to ward off my protest. “Don’t argue with me. Just listen. Your first articles nudged people from their complacency, got them talking, got them organizing. And, when this meter mangler arrived on the scene, likely a direct result of your writing, you covered it with enthusiasm and compassion. I’m sorry to say, though, your recent articles have been lackluster at best.”
    He reached out,