A parking attendant as wide as she was round waddled up to Reginald as he was opening his trunk. “Sir, that’s not a parking space.”

“It most certainly is,” Reginald dais without looking up. “It has lines and no cone and no handicapped sign.” Many of the other spaces on that level of the garage were sealed off with cones or plastic barriers, it was true, but that space wasn’t.

“Sir, that is not a parking space!” The parking attendant oozed closer, her tone more strident.

“It’s certainly not a bagel, if that’s what you’re trying to tell me,” Reginald said, hefting a suitcase onto the pavement. “Otherwise you’re getting into ‘this is not a pipe’ territory and I don’t have time for metaphysics.”

Clearly annoyed, the attendant gesticulated with her sidearm, a loaded walkie-talkie. “Sir, there is no parking on this level, sir.” Her idea of explication seemed to be limited to putting stress on different words.

Reginald looked at the parked cars to his left and behind him. “Then I’m the least of your problems,” he said. “Better get to ticketing these people who’ve been here a lot longer than me.”

“Move it now or I tow it.”

“Well, that’s a little rude, but at least you’re speaking intelligible English now.”

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