August 1990.
I was fresh from college, armed with my degrees in journalism and psychology from the arch-rival of Mizzou, the Universityof Kansas. After spending the summer in a pseudo-grown-up job (weight loss counselor at a popular 90s program, which was actually quite amusing considering my own weight barely crested at three digits), I was ready to start working in Advertising in Downtown St. Louis! My work location excited and scared me because, as a suburbs kid, my downtown adventures had been limited and usually related to major league baseball or July 4th.
I was ready though.
Adulthood. Independence. Wealth.
On my big First Day, I arrived at the bright orange, brown and tan-accented offices at the very top of a mirror-like building across from Busch stadium. I sat down with the Human Resources Director so all the particulars of my new employment adventure could be explained.
Talk about some overwhelming minutiae! I endured a lengthy on-and-on about office rules and regulations. The advised starting time was 8:30 a.m. at the latest, with the official moment of departure being 5:30 p.m. Of course, The HR Director hinted, in order to make the best impression on whomever you were impressing, you were expected to stay late most days, at least until 7:30 p.m. This would almost adequately demonstrate that you loved and appreciated this wonderful career opportunity that had been bestowed upon you.
Health and life insurance benefits were then discussed, with strange, almost icky, enthusiasm. If you died, your beneficiaries (mom and dad for me at that time) received the equivalent of one year’s salary! “Funny,” I thought, when considering this scant dollar amount, “this could almost pay for my funeral if no one went overboard.”
At the conclusion of the meeting, I hugged my packets and folders and was ready to start working, to start pushing the career forward, to start creating the most “impactful” advertising plans ever encountered by mankind. I stood up, my right shoe centered on the piece of duct-tape I noticed stuck to the floor by my chair. The silver sliver was placed there to cover a rip in the pumpkin-colored carpet–nice. I turned to leave and then “bam!” a serious adulthood bomb dropped, blinded me, and took my breath away.
“Oh, one more item to cover…there are many parking options downtown. The closest is the garage attached to the building. It costs $55 a month if you park inside. You can try to get on the list for the rooftop; it’s cheaper, $45 a month. And there are also parking lots a few blocks down, near the highway exit, that are less expensive.”
What? I could not believe what I was hearing. This was something I had never before considered. Didn’t companies always have parking sections in garages, have specific spots allocated for their employees? It didn’t work that way? I had never heard of this “paying for work parking” thing. I was expected to pay to park my car so I could go to my job? Expected to pay to come to the office? Expected to take what at that time was a significant percentage of my monthly income and give it to a facility where, as a county-sheltered, city newbie, I feared that my car (and I) would become victims of scraping, stereo-stealing or just plain robbery? EXPECTED TO PAY TO WORK! I thought not. No, this would not do.
I decided to take a stand. I took a deep breath and planned to speak up and hold true to my belief that paying to work was inherently wrong. The company should pay me for the work I would be doing, not the other way around. I would demand that my new employer buck up. I truly deserved a no-charge parking “benefit” as much as the one that would make sure that my buriers could send my bones off to the afterworld in a proper manner.
“I have something very important to say,” I stated with an even, firm, and assertive tone.
“Yes?”
“I’ll need that form for rooftop parking.”
corriganmendezmusings 
Love your story–takes me back to the joys of first jobs! Just the right touch of humor.