Photo by Will Buckner

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The parking lot of a bank is an unlikely spot for either a huge argument or a nice idea. But the other day, I was a witness to the first and the author of the second.

The scene was a typical one: Eight parking spaces in the bank’s lot, including one clearly marked for those who have a handicapped hang tag.

The traffic jam in the bank lot was pretty typical, too. All eight spaces were filled. Two cars were waiting for customers to emerge from the bank so they could take the vacated spaces.

The first waiting car was being driven by a woman who was at least 70. I could tell that her blood was coming to a nice, crisp boil.

She was drumming her fingers on the steering wheel. She was massaging her temples. As I walked past, she shot me a look that can only be described as ready to burst.

Just then, a man ambled into the lot. He was at least 80 — maybe more.

He walked up to the car parked in the handicapped space and unlocked the door. He was about to get in and drive away when Ms. Ready to Burst rolled down her window and let him have it.

“Sir!,” she screamed. “You parked in a handicapped space and you’re not handicapped!”

The man looked surprised, then chastened.

“Well, you’re right,” he said, sheepishly. “But I just had a very important errand to do. I was only gone a minute.”

The woman blistered him with tabasco on top. What if someone who was really handicapped had needed the space? Why couldn’t you have found a spot on the street? What gave you the right to disregard the rules? And my gosh, mister, you weren’t even doing business in the bank!

She threatened to go inside and tell the bank’s officers what had happened. The man apologized, but didn’t seem to mean it. He switched into blame-the-blamer mode.

What gave this lady the right to criticize him? Was she the police?

She hadn’t been inconvenienced, so why did she care? Why didn’t she just leave him alone? Couldn’t she see that he was just an old man who wasn’t harming anyone?

Senior takes on Senior. Not a pretty picture.

I heard all this and continued to loiter nearby, partly so I could see how the fracas ended, and partly because I felt that wonderful tickle of a solution forming in my head.

The fracas ended with the proverbial whimper. The man got in his car and drove away. By then, another space had opened up and the woman parked there.

As she got out of her car, she shook her head sadly. I could almost hear her thinking, “Wow! Such inconsiderate people out here these days!” She entered the bank. I entered after her.

By now, the tickle in my head had become a Tickle.

I waited until the woman had done her business at the teller’s window. Then I approached her.

“Ma’am,” I said, “I saw the whole thing outside. You were absolutely right to say something to that man. Where would we be if we didn’t insist that people obey the rules?”

The woman thanked me, and launched into a story about a neighbor of hers who really was handicapped (car accident three years earlier) and who really did need handicapped spaces.

“You saw for yourself,” she said to me. “That man was walking just fine. He wasn’t handicapped at all! Selfish, selfish, selfish!”

I pointed out that not every handicap is visible. What if he had just had major surgery and had been advised not to walk long distances?

Fair enough, the woman said. But if that had been the case, he would have had a handicapped hang tag. No question that this man had not had one.

I needed to get my banking done and get going. So, it was time for me to surface my brainstorm.

“Ma’am,” I said, “what if businesses set aside a second kind of dedicated parking space? In addition to handicapped spaces, how about senior citizen spaces?”

After all, I said, major groceries have had “stork spaces” (for expectant mothers) for decades. Same church, older pew.

The woman smiled for the first time in the previous five minutes. She thanked me, and said that was a super-good idea.

She wondered if there was some way I could trot out the idea to a wider audience to see if I could get some traction underneath it.

I think I just did.

Bob Levey is a national award-winning columnist. Replies to this column may be sent to: Bob Levey, c/o The Beacon, P.O. Box 2227, Silver Spring, MD 20915-2227.