The Boom Gate

“Pub?” -I was just leaving work at 2pm when the SMS came through from my friend, Erin.

“Which pub?”

“Pica.”

I felt conflicted about going to a bar on a Monday after a weekend of drinking. I had work due at home—marking and a gruelling PD course on flexible learning. I’d also planned to do a grocery shop and didn’t want to overspend.

“I’ll be there in 20 minutes” I said.

I’d stay for one drink, I resolved as I weaved through traffic on the freeway. A coffee even. I parked on the ground level of the City of Perth carpark on Roe Street and walked the overpass to Pica. I walked into the bar and met my friends Luke and Maria sitting at a table. They’d just been served a plate of gnocci and were halfway through drinks.

“Oh, hey.” I said. “You meeting Erin too?”

“Yep,” Luke said.

“Want a drink?” I asked.

“Nup, thanks.”

Erin arrived and then one more friend, Clinton. I joined them at the bar. I wasn’t hungry but I ordered a mulled wine. We claimed a table under the giant Moreton Bay Fig tree. It was wet and cold outside but the wine was warm. Erin shared half of her sandwich and chips with me. Clinton bought a round and I ended up on my second mulled wine which left my mouth dry. I felt zapped from the weekend and my ass was wet from the bench so I decided to leave.

“Can I get anyone a drink before I head off?” It was a fantastically empty gesture and there were no takers.

I made my way back to the car, secretly pleased that I hadn’t wasted time or money. I could still do a shop on the way home, I thought. I stopped at the automated pay machine to settle the parking fee and paused before inserting the ticket. I was recalling a nifty trick which a friend had shown me recently when I was a passenger in his car. The trick involves simply tailgating the car in front as they leave the carpark, so when they pay, the boom gate opens and you roll out behind before the gate falls. It was a crime of course, but not a particularly contemptible one. In fact, my friend had shared with me that he hadn’t actually paid for parking in fifteen years.

I cancelled the payment, placed the ticket back in my pocket and walked back to my car. I got in and waited for a sucker to pass so I could slip in behind them. I could already hear cars approaching. I turned the key, and it didn’t start. I turned it again. Nothing. I checked my lights. They were off. I tried the key a few more times. The battery wasn’t dead but the alternator or the starter motor wasn’t responding. I called R.A.C. and put through a Roadside Assistance order, explaining that I was on the ground floor of the carpark.

R.A.C. quoted a 90 minute wait time so I walked back to Pica. My friends were still at the table. I told them my troubles and asked if anyone wanted a drink. Five hands went up.

“Get yourself a stiff drink.” Luke said.

I bought a round and got myself a pint of ale. I sat back on the damp bench and fell in line. An hour later everyone left and I received an alert on my phone that the R.A.C. was close by.

I met the Assistance person at my car.

“A Sera. You don’t see many of these.” he said.

“No,” I said.

The Sera is a 1990 Japanese import Toyota hatchback coupe with a glass roof canopy and butterfly doors. The doors were apparently the inspiration behind the McLaren F1, which in 1998 Guinness records as the world's fastest production car, reaching 386.4 km/h. You can look it up. My Sera struggles to do 80 km/h up Greenmount hill but that’s neither here nor there. I bought the car from my friend, Mardi. Her mother drove it until she passed away from cancer.

The Assistance man tested the battery concluding that the starter motor was dead. He called me a tow truck and booked the car in at one of their workshops. He quoted a wait time of 90 minutes.

“Because your car is in the carpark it may take a little longer.” He said and he drove away.

It was raining outside and the temperature was dropping. I opened the ridiculous butterfly door, sat behind the wheel, pulled the door shut, put the seat back and closed my eyes. I could sense a light so opened them and looked up through the glass roof at a cold white fluorescent tube hanging from the low ceiling above my car. I closed my eyes again and drifted.

I woke to a phone call from the tow-truck driver. He’d been looking for me in the City of Perth Carpark on the opposite side of Roe street. He was on foot. I walked and met him as he passed the boom gates. His name was Simon. He was friendly, stocky, somewhere in his late twenties with a short mohawk.

“I have to push you,” he said. “the truck won’t fit in the carpark.”

“Um,” I said, “okay.” I got back in the car, put it into neutral and he pushed me backwards before moving to the back and pushing me forwards. I steered the car straight and we moved slowly toward the boom gates. A car began to edge out and I used my horn a few times, cautioning the driver not to get in our way. We arrived at the gate and I remembered the ticket. I took it from my pocket and opened the butterfly door, stepped out and inserted it into the slot. Angry red electronic letters spelled out “FEE OWING.”

I apologised to Simon and jogged over to a nearby pay machine that showed $20 owing. My debit card was empty. I used $12 in change and then inserted my last $50. The machine digested it and spat out my change—$42 in gold coin, which I shovelled into my pocket before running back to the boom gate. I inserted the ticket and the gate raised. I got back behind the wheel and we moved slowly under the boom gate and began our ascent up the ramp exit, stopping a few metres past the gate.

“You have to help!” Simon called out.

“Okay, hang on!” I opened the butterfly door, got out, closed it, ran to the back, helped him push and we succeeded to push the car up the hill and I ran back, opened the door and jumped in before the car rolled into oncoming traffic on Roe Street. We continued this rotation until the car was parked and Simon could tow it. 

You should check out the original ad https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kEsWfgYonMY where the Sera was clearly marketed to Japanese businesswomen.