I’m The Confusing Parking Lot Kiosk And I Deserve The Abuse I Get
(photo by author)
I am the lowest form of human-machine portal: a parking garage ticket dispenser in a standalone kiosk.
Remember — you will never master me. No matter what you think, you’re really just pissing in the wind.
Let’s go through a simple transaction.
You’ve parked. Now, approach me, the kiosk. You look like you’re in a hurry.
In a tiny window the size of a playing card, in a blurred font almost impossible to read, I request you punch any number to start. You do, and my response is: “Transaction concluded. Thank you.”
You do that again. Again my answer, “Transaction concluded.”
I hear the first f-bomb.
You try again. This time you punch six numbers. My pop-up menu says: “This machine uses cookies. You must agree to this or you cannot pay for parking.”
I hear you drop a string of f-bombs. You hit the “agree” button.
By now the sunshine is obliterating any printed messages on the semi-opaque plastic covering the screen. I relent and move on.
Then I ask “Boxers, briefs, or commando?” You f-bomb again.
Sorry, it’s just a kiosk-world joke. I also turn on the hidden video camera. Your disgruntled facial expressions could be a great meme.
I ask you to insert your credit card. You can choose either of two slots. Oops, you picked the wrong one. That’s for tickets. Now it’s a struggle to get the card back.
Now you try the card slot with finger indents, but it is impossible to put the card in and pull it back out quickly. Yes, I am messing with you. Each time you put the card in and manage to pull it back, I simply respond: “Please insert your card.”
Ho boy. Your blood pressure is really going up.
Okay. I ask: “What would you like to do? A) Get a monthly parking pass? B) Order an extra large pepperoni from a nearby pizza joint? C) Reserve a parking space for the next few hours?”
You choose C. I have the printer produce a monthly parking pass along with your pizza order. I add the total to your credit card. $74.
Wow. Your language now can only be described as coarse. You begin repeatedly punching the “C” key in a forceful fashion.
Okay. Next question. Which parking slot?
Oops, you forgot to check. So you run back to the car, but the numbers painted on your parking slot are faint and disfigured by oil and wear. Is it 66 or 99 or 19 or 61? You choose 99. Actually, it is 362.
You’re back waiting for a disorganized senior who is spending ten minutes to get a parking receipt. Then we start over. We struggle back through the first conversations until you get to punch in what you think is your slot number. I ask a simple question: A) Do you want to add more time, or B) Get a new parking pass.
You press B. I put in a second pizza order and charge it to your card. Then, I ask: “How long will you be staying with us?”
You punch in two hours. I approve only twenty minutes. I can see tears welling in your eyes.
You smack the kiosk casing, skinning the knuckles of your right hand. Shouldn’t have done that. To save more kiosk damage, I blurt out “Approved.”
And I submit a second bill for the monthly parking pass, the pizza, and today’s parking. Total is $102 on top of the $74 you spent earlier. For two hours parking today, your credit card bill will be $176.
Now I make the sound like I am printing out a receipt. Hah. But nothing drops into the little “receipt” window below. Then I say “Transaction concluded.” You become hysterical and randomly punch the keypad. To preemptively pay for more damage, I charge your credit card another $176 (new total $352), print out a dashboard receipt, and drop it in the little window at the bottom.
This begins a new struggle. Each time you raise the narrow window to get the receipt, it pushes the paper receipt back up into the kiosk. When you finally grab part of it, the receipt rips in half.
More f-bombs. No, I am not a fucked up, fucking stupid machine. Wish I were.
I print out a final receipt. You manage to extract that.
Now I politely I ask if you’ll fill out our survey about the quality of today’s transaction. After all, I am here to help.
