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To have a space to park your moving container in the District of Columbia you must obtain and pay for a permit. This permit process is all online EXCEPT for actually getting the permit. For that, you must visit your friendly local District of Columbia police station. There, you log into a computer circa 1999 and a printer provides you two large signs that say "EMERGENCY NO PARKING" and have your phone number and name on it. If you don't do this, you'll get fined and, in my mind, arrested and imprisoned forever.

I had been a resident of Washington D.C. for four days when I worked up enough courage to go to the police station. After missing the turn TWICE then missing the next turn THREE times I completed my 3 mile journey in only an hour. Win. I've got my confirmation number, my email, my driver's license, and my passport. I'm prepared to give blood and submit to a retina verification process if necessary. I park and walk past what is for sure a crack house (that's right, next to a police station) and open the door to my Ward 5 police station.

As I open the door the smell of whiskey and White Diamonds hits me. Hard. I have walked into the police station at the exact same time that four local hookers are being let go from their night in captivity. A large, potentially male dressed as a lady, hooker stops in her tracks, puts her hand on her hips, leans back, and looks me up and down. She's wearing a short, tight, sparkly blue skirt, heels (one is unbuckled), and a puffy coat with fur. I start to hear "boots with the furrr.." in my head just as she says, "Oooooweeeeeeee, baby gurl, we could make you some MONEYYYYYYY". The cop escorting the ladies of the night tries to hurry them along but is holding back a laugh. The receptionist screams "LEAVE THAT CHILD ALONE". And I start smiling, standing wedged between a trash can and a metal detector. My hooker friend goes on and her friends laugh, "Baby, if you get tired of being a good girl, you come let us know. We got you". They are laughing. I'm laughing. The cop is laughing. As they walk out the door one says "Fuck, I ain't go no money for one of them egg Mc..Mc...What the fuck you call them sandwiches?" I hear then talking about how many egg McMuffins they can buy as the door shuts and the cop walks back in.

The receptionist who called me child says, "You look like you just need a permit. Go print it over there, sweetie". As I print my permit, I see another hooker snoozing in the corner, her eyelashes falling off, glitter smudged across her cheek. I gather my permits and signage. I walk back to my car and get on the main road. My heated seats kick on. NPR news is on the radio.

I'm so glad I'm a good girl. And I'd bet, if you asked, those ladies (or men) thought they were good girls once too. I think they still are.