I’ve worked with challenging individuals in my 20 years as a construction supervisor, but nothing prepared me for the parent who drove into our plainly posted no-parking zone like she owned it. When I politely requested her to relocate, she rolled her eyes and said, “deal with it.” I grinned because karma was coming and didn’t disappoint.
It takes patience some mornings. Others? They give it quick karma’s sweetness. On one occasion, an entitled motorist learned the hard way that construction teams don’t fool around—especially when you block their single entry point and order them to “deal with it.”
Ray, 40, is a foreman on a small but difficult construction team. Our backs have been sore for six weeks constructing a home halfway up “Mount Backbreaker.” It’s hardly a mountain, but dragging 2x6s up a steep, uneven dirt route in July seems like Everest.
Without roads or shortcuts, the location is only accessible by foot. Thus, every board, pipe, and roofing material must be hand-hauled upward. Our only release? At the foot of the slope, two blessed, clearly designated “NO PARKING: LOADING ZONE – TOW AWAY” places. Without those places, we’re toast.
My back sweated before I retrieved my coffee that morning due to the heat.
“Ray!” On the scaffold above, my friend Derrick called. Vic just called—early lumber delivery. Ten minutes left.”
I grabbed my phone. Sure enough, lumberman Vic missed call.
“Hi Ray, Vic. On my way, maybe five minutes away. You have trusses, subflooring, and sheetrock.”
In order to clear the roadway for Vic’s vehicle, I swiftly down the path. When I rounded the corner, my blood pressure rose.
It existed. In one of our loading zones, a shiny white Range Rover idled like a boss. A lady inside, windows open, AC blaring, drinking coffee and browsing on her phone.
I approached, quietly tapped her window with my knuckle.
Glass rolled halfway down.
“Good morning, madam. Please note that you are in a construction crew loading zone. We need that place cleared for a huge delivery truck coming soon.”
Little did she glance up. “I’ll just be a few minutes,” she stated bluntly. “Why not unload around me? It’s not significant. Chill.”
The window zipped up again.
Okay.
Okay.
I inhaled. I counted 5.
A second later, Vic’s pickup growled around the bend. He arrived on time with his loaded eighteen-wheeler and no place to turn without those two slots.
Vic leaned out the window. “What the hell, Ray? That white SUV yours?
“Nope,” I said, jaw clenched. “She told us to work around her.”
Vic grinned slowly. Say no more.”
I smiled back. Enclose her. Driving side, if possible, tight. Let her have the VIP suite—between your vehicle and the porta-john.”
Vic carefully drove his tractor so close to her driver’s side that she needed a miracle to escape. A parked automobile behind her and a portable toilet two feet in front blocked her escape option.
She glared at air brakes from the sidewalk. Her attitude turned from moderately irritated to enraged in seconds as she understood what was occurring.
She said through her windshield, “You serious right now?”
No joke, woman.
I waved Derrick and gang down the path. Let’s move, boys. We must frame the roof.”
Vic lowered the truck gate. You phoning in?
“Already on it,” I responded, taking out my phone. “Let’s enforce parking here for documentation.”
We worked. After each load, perspiration soaked our clothes while the SUV idled quietly between truck and toilet.
After twenty minutes of unloading, a six- or seven-year-old child with a blue backpack appeared. He looked through the passenger window.
“Mom? Why are you sitting in front?
Her ungainly climb over the center console, squeeze through the passenger door, and tumble onto the sidewalk with a groan were seen through the glass.
Because these morons blocked me in!” she hissed, brushing off her designer blouse as she opened the back door for her child.
They entered, and I thought that would be it.
But no. She came upon us like a thunderstorm moments later.
“I must leave. Move your truck.”
Vic didn’t blink. Excuse me, madam. Unbuckled load. I can’t relocate it till it’s secure, per policy. Safety rules.”
Do away with procedure! I must go!”
I shrugged. We politely requested your relocation. You declined. You instructed us to ‘work around you.’ I motioned around the commotion, “—is us working around you.”
Her mouth fell. “I’ll report you!”
As if on cue, a municipal parking officer’s vehicle drew up. Clipboard-wielding Officer Lena Martinez adjusted her sunglasses outside.
“Morning, Ray,” she said him, stepping over. “Heard you had delivery issues?”
Before I could react, the Range Rover engine started.
“She’ll try it,” Vic mumbled.
“Oh, no…” Derrick added.
The SUV surged into reverse, tires spinning on the scorching tarmac, and hit the porta-potty.
It rocked.
A groan.
It tilted like a wounded beast, spewing a blue flood of liquid like the worst smoothie.
“Sweet mercy,” one person murmured. “She killed it.”
But she continued.
The Range Rover lurched forward, wheels whirling, straining to climb the curb. Halfway up, the undercarriage caught, and the truck teetered on defeat.
Officer Martinez walked over.
Turn off the engine now.
The lady froze and cut the engine.
“Exit the vehicle.”
However, my kid is in the back!
Yes, I know. That’ll be another problem we handle.”
She exited the SUV from the passenger side, hands trembling, face flushed, heels clicking on the curb like she was attempting to retain her dignity.
Martinez told her to wait on the curb while she phoned for help.
“She blocked an emergency zone, operated the vehicle recklessly, and endangered a child,” the officer murmured. “Not to mention property damage.”
Vic, always direct, continued, “Driving like that on a suspended license, maybe?”
“You’re kidding.”
Officer Martinez answered, “Nope,” checking her iPad. Her license was flagged last month. Citations unpaid. She should not be driving.”
Raised eyebrow. “She said she was picking up her kid.”
“Idling illegally in a construction zone with a suspended license. That’s a feast of lousy choices.”
She was handcuffed and in the cruiser’s back when Officer Rodriguez arrived. Her kid played with his bag zipper on the curb quietly.
The kid’s grandma, dressed in a flowery blouse, came a few minutes later, worried and resigned.
“She called me from the back of the police car,” she murmured to Officer Martinez. “Not the first time.”
She tenderly took her grandson and thanked us weakly before departing.
Vic stared at the broken porta-potty, then me. “The verdict?”
“Company’s sending replacement tomorrow,” I said. “Honestly, it needed cleaning.”
Crew members laughed.
We sat on a stack of timber drinking cool sodas and reminiscing about the morning as the sun set and turned the home yellow.
“You repeating her words? “That was genius,” Derrick exclaimed between gulps.
“I thought she’d explode,” Vic said. What about the porta-potty crash? That was the cherry.”
“Instant karma,” I said. “Better than reality.”
We celebrate entitled drivers, tight collaboration, and the “No Parking” sign’s durability.
I thought about how sometimes people put their urgency above everyone else’s as twilight fell. They demolish barriers and expect the world to move.
Occasionally, the world quietly withdraws… and lets them smash into their mess.
