The dog had been in our possession for four days. He was small and cuddly, and peed wherever he felt like it. Every morning, sometimes as early as 4:45, he would whine to let us know he was ready for the day to start. It was time to take him to the vet, to get him vaccinated, the goal being that he could eventually graduate from the backyard, run around in the real world, tire himself out and maybe sleep until 6:30am.

Rob was working, so the vet visit was up to me. My assistant Rochelle, Scarlett, Otto and I got into the mobility van and set out on our mission. I was feeling short of breath, still not far enough away from my ICU visit to be purely comfortable in the great outdoors, and looking forward to my new anti-anxiety medication kicking in.

It did kick in, somewhere in the middle of the appointment, and I began to feel my personality returning. The visit itself was uneventful, except that obviously Otto peed on the floor.

When we got back to the car, there was a ticket on the window. Rochelle picked it up and handed it to me. $875 for parking in a handicapped spot with an expired placard. Unbeknownst to me, the placard had expired on June 30. It was July 15.

If you have a permanent parking placard, there is supposedly nothing you need to do but wait for a new one to arrive when the old one expires. But nothing had come in the mail, and I hadn’t even noticed. I don’t think about the parking placard very often. I drive around in a mobility vehicle, with a wheelchair and hands that can’t even reach up to greet a friend or new acquaintance. I was relying on the efficiency of the DMV. Cue insane laughter.

We went home and I stared at the ticket. It felt like an insult. Obviously an officer had placed it on the mobility van. Who the hell would be driving that thing if they didn’t have to?

Two days after the ticket incident, an updated placard arrived, forwarded on by our former landlord. Despite having updated our address at the DMV, on our licenses, and on our car registration, we were still getting DMV mail at the wrong address. An expensive mistake. I sat down to write a letter contesting the fine, assuming that anyone who read it would immediately see the error of their ways. Only two weeks expired, hadn’t received a new one, wheelchair-bound, expensive illness, etc. Cut me some slack, SFMTA.

Then, at the beginning of August, we received a letter informing us that we were still expected to pay the amount in full. It was a form letter, giving no indication that the sender had even read my plea. At the bottom, we were offered two more ways to argue our case.

The first was to appear at a hearing, and the second was to pay the fine and write another note explaining why we shouldn’t be paying the fine. I considered just giving them Otto. But ultimately, we chose the first option, deciding to spend one of Rob’s vacation days testifying as to the legitimacy of my disability.

I had assumed that the address on the letter would be a foreboding courthouse, and I was steeling myself by channeling my inner Alicia Florrick. But when we arrived, it was an unassuming SFMTA customer service office that looked like a smaller, slightly less diseased version of the DMV. We got in line for our number, and then waited and waited and waited. The SFMTA doesn’t want you to contest tickets, and they will make you pay for your audacity.

Finally we were called up to another window, where we were asked to pay our fine before heading to a hearing. So we paid. All $875. It didn’t feel good. In fact, it felt sneaky. They’d gotten their money, and there was nothing we could do about it except hope for a reasonable person on the other end of Door C.

After some more time waiting, Rob’s name was called, and we went into a small office: our hearing room. The woman behind the desk had short white hair, silver glasses, and chunky earrings. She looked nice, like a tough-but-fair fourth grade teacher or a no-nonsense aunt who secretly spoils you. This seemed promising.

She told us about the procedures and said that she would be unlikely to make a decision that day. Then she wanted to hear my testimony. I told her the story of my motley crew cruising into West Portal in our hot Honda Odyssey. I left out my breathlessness, Scarlett’s excitement, the five people who stopped to tell us how cute Otto was. Just the facts, ma’am.

She listened, nodding and making notes. After about 20 minutes, she told that she was leaning towards refunding our money, but there were no guarantees.

We think we’ll win. Although, at the moment, we’re out $875 and just depending on the kindness of strangers. If we do end up losing, I’m taking Otto to pee on the floor at the DMV.

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