May Day: The meters click on in Lewes and locals and tourists alike start having to pay for their stroll down Second Street. It’s a different kind of maypole indeed, and many shoppers, eaters and drinkers have returned to their car to find a yellow ticket pinned beneath the windshield wiper - courtesy of Bob Adams and his team of meter men and women.
Being the bearer of bad news, Adams often finds himself between an angry citizen and the ticket he’s writing. He receives a battery of excuses, all of a few varieties:
They paid the wrong meter by accident; they misread the meter; or they’re contributing to the local economy and are therefore exempt from such tiny troubles. While it might wear anyone else down, Adams is a professional and perhaps the best kind. He wants to make people happy.
“I’m not out to make enemies,” he said, smiling a bit. “You have to figure, you’re like an umpire – 50 percent right, 50 percent wrong. This is a small town. They can mouth off to you, but you can’t say anything. A lot of times you want to, but you can’t. You’re the professional.”
Restraint notwithstanding, there’s still the issue of the ticket. When should mercy be granted?
“It’s the officer’s discretion” he said. “If the ticket’s not dated and timed, I won’t write it. But if it’s dated and timed…” He shrugs. “It’s written. That’s sort of how we look at it.”
Not all of Adams’ days are spent in difficult positions. On Mondays he empties the meters of their treasures, filling white plastic buckets with hundreds, sometimes thousands of dollars in quarters.
“No one collects the meters but me,” he said. “It’s all walking, and it takes about an hour and 45 minutes. That’s why I try to get it done earlier in the day, before it gets hot.”
Though he’s spent six years with the Lewes Police Department, Adams’ police career reaches back decades. For 23 years he was a cop in Radnor, Pa., 19 of which were spent as a detective. Though he retired from the Radnor department in 1993, the decision to resume the badge was effortless.
“You know how they say, ‘Once a Marine, always a Marine?’” he asked. “Same goes for cops. And it’s a good six-month job. It’s better than sitting on the couch and watching TV.”
His police work tends to follow him, anyway. Once, while walking Second Street, he ran into a man he’d locked up years ago, now pushing a baby stroller.
“It was kind of a shock,” he said.
Though professionally dedicated, Adams has an appetite for adventure.
“I love this country,” he said. “After my wife and I retired, we rented a trailer and traveled for four months across America – 22,000 miles. Some people think they have to go to Aruba to see something pretty.” He laughed. “They should see Iowa.”
While the Delaware shore is a small slice of America compared to what Adams has seen, it’s the slice he calls home. His job makes him something of a taxman in the eyes of consumers, both transient and local, but he exudes a sense of humanity, offering his patience and kindness in hopes that they will be returned.
