Meter fairy makes tickets go away
[size=-1]By NICHOLAS SPANGLER[/size]
[size=-1]Miami Herald[/size]
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Xavier Cortes is surely not the first man to pull on a pink tutu and call himself a fairy. But few in history have worn a tutu -- and a wig and wings and skates and glittery pink kneepads -- with such an urgent sense of purpose.
This is because, for one thing, the position of Parking Meter Fairy of Coconut Grove is paid, and Cortes, a 36-year-old artist specializing in what he calls ''pop iconography with surreal imagery,'' has gone some time without a regular gig.
Cortes is also of the unusual opinion that the commonweal is under siege by the Miami Parking Authority, and that a fairy is our last, best defense.
''This needed to happen,'' he said one recent Saturday. ``People come out of a store and the next thing you know, they've got a ticket and the whole outing is ruined. Because of a ticket! They can't really be free, always scared like this.''
He was on skates as he said this, rolling at great speed down McFarlane Avenue, and he looked appropriately grave. He wobbled. It was not clear, if confronted with a curb or onrushing cement mixer, that he could stop.
He carried, per decree of the guidebook publisher who employs him, a gauzy purse full of quarters and a battery-powered pink wand that played
Over the Rainbow.
But the purse was starting to rip under the weight of the quarters, and the wand could not be turned off.
Additionally, it was hot, construction workers were whistling at him, the skates were chafing his ankles and the citizenry seemed not to appreciate his mission.
''Did you lose a bet?'' asked a young skateboarder.
''No, I was not betting anything,'' answered Cortes, but the skateboarder had whizzed off.
NEW AVENUE
Cortes turned onto Main Highway. The citizenry had been unusually assiduous in making good on their metered obligations this day, but this, perhaps, was a block of scofflaws needful of his help.
''Here is a quarter, sir,'' Cortes said to a man stepping out of a black Land Rover, buying him 15 minutes.
''I had change,'' the man said.
``Well, enjoy it.''
''Thanks,'' said the man. His eyes did not well up; he did not ask after the costume; he did not even smile.
If Cortes was disappointed, he did not show it. In quick succession he rescued a Porsche Boxster, a Jaguar sedan and another Land Rover.
Time was running down on all their meters -- the Jaguar had a mere three ticking minutes left. But does the owner of a Jaguar need to be rescued from an $18 ticket?
''Well, you never know,'' Cortes said. ``They might be living to keep an image, and really live in a ramshackle little place. I can't know, so I help them all.''
Indeed, rich and poor alike are at risk in the Grove: the Miami Parking Authority dispenses 4,600 tickets per month there, totaling $95,000, and thanks to its efforts, the city and Miami-Dade County kept $3.8 million of Miami parkers' money in fiscal 2002.
If you ask an authority employee about this -- say, Art Noriega, the executive director -- you risk hurting his feelings. ''We're doing good, too,'' Noriega said. ``We enforce the right of way. If we weren't out there, what would happen is, for a five- or 15-minute stop at a retailer you wouldn't be able to get access.''
All well and good, but not nearly so exciting as a rescue mission on skates.
Cortes headed south and traced the Grove's side streets. He dispensed change, posed for pictures with tourists and fell once, cracking the wand but not, sadly, silencing it.
He looped north. It was there, on Main Highway behind the Mayfair Shops, that he met his nemesis.
The meter maid.
She prefers the more technically correct -- albeit sinister -- title of enforcement officer and she was moving toward him, seemingly ticketing everything in sight.
She had a head start, and Cortes still had difficulty stopping, but no matter -- he grabbed his purse and sprang into action. For one glorious block they raced each other, her purposeful stride against his desperate glide.
DON'T GO THERE
Cortes had saved two cars when the agent turned suddenly onto South Bayshore. Cortes accelerated, overtook her and deposited a quarter for a Datsun that she ticketed anyway.
''Commercial loading zone,'' said the code enforcement agent, and went on her way.
Cortes was defeated, momentarily.
''The thing is, she's got me there with a technicality,'' he admitted. ``But I'm still going to inquire with my superiors.''