A Parking Job So Bad It Needed Emergency Care
I was visiting my mother at Roper St. Francis in Mount Pleasant when I left for a few hours to attend a recovery meeting.
On my way out, I saw this car parked outside the Emergency Department.
Or at least I think it was parked. It appeared to have simply stopped wherever it lost interest in moving.
Now, because this was outside the Emergency Department, I kind of understand. Emergencies are emergencies. Sometimes you pull up, get someone inside, and worry about the car afterward.
I have my own story.
When my ex-wife was about to give birth to our son—our second child—she waited until nearly the last possible moment to announce that it was time to go to the hospital.
On the way there, I may have run a few red lights. I did honk as I approached them to warn people that a panicked father-to-be was coming through.
When we reached the Emergency Department, I jumped out, ran inside, and grabbed a wheelchair. My ex-wife was still sitting in the car. I got her into the wheelchair and rushed her inside.
Meanwhile, the car was still running, the keys were still in it, and the doors were wide open.
Was that proper parking etiquette?
Absolutely not.
But a baby was arriving, and my priorities were clear: mother, baby, and then the unattended getaway car sitting outside.
So yes, I can understand a bad parking job at an emergency room—at least temporarily.
But the car I saw at Roper St. Francis was on another level. It was sitting crooked across the blue-striped access aisle next to an accessible parking space, looking less like someone had parked it and more like it had been abandoned mid-thought.
Those striped areas are not bonus parking spaces. They provide the room people need to deploy wheelchair ramps, use mobility equipment, and safely enter or exit their vehicles.
When I returned from my recovery meeting, the car was gone.
Hopefully, whatever brought the driver to the Emergency Department turned out okay.
Or perhaps the car had simply been moved to another part of the parking lot—where it was parked just as horribly.
Either way, emergencies may explain a rushed arrival. They do not turn an access aisle into a parking space indefinitely.
Be safe. Be considerate. And once the emergency is under control, please go back and park the car between two actual lines.
Summit Coffee: A Relaxing Local Stop After Sullivan’s Island
After attending a recovery meeting on Sullivan’s Island, I wasn’t ready to head home. I wanted a locally owned coffee shop where I could write, use Wi-Fi, drink coffee, and have a small bite. Summit Coffee was nearby, open until 4 p.m., and checked all those boxes.
The parking lot is quite small, with one accessible space and perhaps four additional spots. Inside, I counted roughly eight tables and a long four-seat high-top overlooking Ben Sawyer Boulevard. Since I needed an outlet, the high-top was perfect. The air-conditioning was especially welcome on such a brutally hot and humid day.
The shop was clean, and the staff was friendly. This is what I remember a coffee shop being: a comfortable place to hang out, enjoy a drink, eat something small, and relax without trying to be everything to everyone.
I ordered a 16-ounce decaf Americano in a ceramic “stay” mug. It was good and served piping hot, so I let it cool while I worked. The self-service area had Stevia, Sugar in the Raw, stirrers, cup stoppers, and plastic utensils.
I also ordered a Nutella croissant. It was flaky and had just the right amount of Nutella—enough chocolate and hazelnut flavor without being overwhelming. There were a few other small food options. The closest thing to a sandwich was a bacon-and-cheddar biscuit. When I asked whether it contained egg, the answer was, “I imagine so.” Since I strongly dislike eggs—and because ingredient knowledge can matter for allergies and dietary restrictions—I would encourage the staff to become familiar with exactly what each item contains.
A slightly more substantial lunchtime option would also be a welcome addition. Overall, though, Summit Coffee is a super-cool neighborhood spot with good coffee, reliable Wi-Fi, friendly service, and a relaxed atmosphere. I would happily return.
This Was Not the Blog Post I Planned to Write
I had other things to write about.
I had just gone to see The End of Oak Street—vlog review coming soon—and then stopped at Boxcar Betty’s in MTP, where I discovered bacon jam.
I did not know I needed bacon jam in my life. Now I’m wondering how I survived this long without it. Was I even living, or was I merely existing in a tragically bacon-jam-free state?
After lunch, I wanted to go to the nearest Starbucks, sit down, and get some writing done before a recovery meeting. I had topics. I had thoughts. I may have even had a plan.
None of those topics involved the back of a Honda CR-V.
And yet, here we are.
This particular Starbucks is next to a National Tire & Battery. Because it is next to a tire shop, there are sometimes vehicles parked outside the service bays. It happens. Cars need tires. Tires need cars. The circle of automotive life continues.
The resulting passageway is narrow, but it works—as long as everybody participates in that increasingly experimental social practice known as courtesy.
Usually, drivers go around the vehicles near the service bays and move as far left as possible without sacrificing a wheel rim to the curb. It is not a perfect system, but civilization has survived on less.
Not this vehicle.
This vehicle appeared committed to occupying exactly enough of the available space to make passing somewhere between “deeply uncomfortable” and “please have your insurance information ready.”
There wasn’t much room between the building, the sidewalk, and the car. So I waited.
And waited.
At least ten minutes.
I did not honk. Remember, no horn. Read back if you don’t know that story.
I did consider flashing my high beams, but that seemed like the automotive equivalent of sending a strongly worded email while the recipient is sitting directly in front of you.
Eventually, the car moved forward.
Victory?
Not exactly.
It moved just enough to acknowledge that movement was technically possible, while still declining to leave what experts call “a reasonable amount of space.”
As I finally worked my way around, the people inside appeared to be waiting for the early-bird special to begin while conducting important business on a portable device. Perhaps they were negotiating a treaty. Perhaps they were solving the national debt. Perhaps they were watching a video explaining how driveways work.
I may never know.
Here is the semi-serious part: parking lots are small communities with bad signage. We all have somewhere to be. We are all distracted. We are all occasionally the person who doesn’t realize we are blocking someone else.
But when you are sitting in a narrow lane, and another car has been waiting behind you long enough to reconsider every decision that led them there, moving over a few feet is a lovely gesture.
It costs nothing. It requires no app. There is no subscription fee.
Just look around, notice the other humans, and share the pavement.
Anyway, I eventually made it to Starbucks. I had bacon jam in my recent past, a recovery meeting in my near future, and several completely different topics waiting to be written.
Instead, I wrote about this car.
Ugh.
Devastating Diva in the McDonald’s Drive-Thru
The other day, I was at McDonald’s in Mount Pleasant doing what any responsible adult does when presented with a deal: getting a $1.50 McChicken, fries, and a large Coke Zero.
Fine dining? No.
Efficient dining? Absolutely.
I pulled into the drive-thru, placed my order, and began the traditional McDonald’s ritual of slowly moving forward six feet at a time while wondering whether I really needed the fries.
Of course I needed the fries.
Then I noticed the car in front of me.
Nothing particularly unusual about the car. It was a Honda with a South Carolina license plate. But then I looked at the license plate frame.
It read:
“DEVASTATING DIVA.”
Well.
That is certainly a statement.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I have a license plate frame myself. Mine is a Tau Epsilon Phi fraternity frame. It basically tells the world, “Yes, I joined a fraternity, and apparently I’m still talking about it decades later.”
But “Devastating Diva”?
That raises questions.
If I were a woman, I’m not entirely sure I’d want to advertise that to every person sitting behind me at a red light.
Because there's confidence, and then there's issuing a public challenge.
You aren't merely a diva.
You're not even an exceptional diva.
You are DEVASTATING.
That is a lot to live up to when somebody finally pulls alongside you.
I hope she’s married or has a partner, because otherwise that license plate frame is doing some serious pre-screening on the dating pool.
Imagine meeting someone:
“So, tell me a little about yourself.”
“Well, I enjoy traveling, trying new restaurants, spending time with friends…”
“And?”
“I’m devastating.”
“Excuse me?”
“Check the Honda.”
At least she's giving everyone fair warning.
Meanwhile, my license plate frame basically identifies my fraternity affiliation. Hers sounds like it should come with terms and conditions, a liability waiver, and possibly a hurricane warning.
And really, I respect the commitment.
If you're going to declare yourself a Devastating Diva, don't hide it in an Instagram bio where only your friends will see it.
Put it on the back of the Honda.
Take it through McDonald's.
Make the guy behind you eating a $1.50 McChicken contemplate your entire life story.
Mission accomplished, Diva.
Mission accomplished.
Citizen Alert vs. Neighborhood Chatter: Which Delivers More Value?
Tonight, I was at Mount Pleasant Towne Center waiting to see Motor City (video review coming later tonight at https://NielFlamm.com/videos).
While I was there, my phone buzzed with a Citizen notification.
The alert informed me that there was a newly registered sex offender in my area. The screenshot is attached.
To be clear, this isn't a discussion about the individuals on the registry, the constitutionality of registries, or the criminal justice system. Those are separate conversations.
The registry exists.
What struck me was the timeliness and usefulness of the information.
I don't currently have young children in my guardianship, but knowing that a new registrant has moved into the area is information many people may find relevant.
Citizen offered additional details through its paid subscription, including the registrant's name, address, and other information.
Instead of subscribing, I spent a few extra minutes on the South Carolina Sex Offender Registry and was able to locate the publicly available information myself:
That experience reinforced something I've been thinking about while comparing neighborhood apps.
Too often, what I see on Nextdoor are lengthy discussions about HOA disputes (after covenants were voluntarily signed at closing), complaints about barking dogs, arguments over young people on e-bikes, or other neighborhood frustrations.
Those conversations have their place.
But receiving a timely notification about publicly available safety-related information felt significantly more valuable.
For me, that's where Citizen currently provides something I haven't experienced with Nextdoor.
Technology should help people become more informed about their communities—not just more informed about neighborhood disagreements.
Join the discussion at NielFlamm.com/blog. Leave some feedback—I'd love to hear from you.