Down on Main Street, at The Lone Gull where the intersection of great coffee and conversation lies, the talk of the day usually centers around two subjects: Where'd all the money go in city government?; and the precise location of the meter maids at any given time period of the day. Usually, the two have nothing to do with each other, but I'm no longer so sure.

For one thing, parking downtown has never been that easy. Finding a space requires pluck and getting back to your car before the time is up on the meter necessitates good planning and swift reflexes. After all, a nickel, dime and quarter doesn't buy what it used to in the parking game, and old habits die hard.

Yes, the regulars look out for each other, peering scoutishly out the windows while their fellow coffee connoisseurs wait apprehensively in line. While oft imitated, but not yet equaled, the quality and strength of the java at Lone Gull does have an emboldening effect on its patrons. Conversations are spread around from the groups and individuals who all share this special caffeine bond and sense of telling it like it is.

Any and all subjects can arise, but lately the impending trajectory of the meter maids has been high on the list. Recently, some pretty controversial theories have been flying around about the operation and strategy of the Ticketing Twosome. At first, I laughed and gave these crazy ideas no weight, but who's to say?

There is one old codger who claims to have discovered the Secret Lair of the Maids and has brought back the story alive. According to him, the city's money has gone into an immense, underground labyrinth of tunnels and elevators, coordinated by a Norad-style big board communications system.

Huh?

Have you ever wondered how the meter maids manage to get to your car so soon after the meter expires and are gone almost immediately from the street after the ticket is written? I must admit puzzling myself on a dash back from a coffee fill-up, arriving at 1:35 to find a ticket written at 1:35 but a search up and down the street revealed nothing. Did she run into a store? Duck into a waiting car? Lowered down and back up from a helicopter? A parachute? Broomstick?

Well, according to this old guy, there is this giant shell game going on under and above ground to accomplish this. Carolyn Foote, according to him, acts as a normal meter maid, dutifully walking up the streets checking the meters and ticketing when necessary. She is the old fashioned-style agent, friendly, courteous, firm but very polite. She is the face of Gloucester parking, but supposedly, she is there to lull you into complacency, to trust the old order of things, your old sense of timing.

But deep down below the earth, under the streets of this venerable Fishtown, is a complex set of tubes and runways all connected to a giant situation room in a secret location. There, a mammoth screen rises, stretching 100 feet wide and 50 feet high. On this screen is every street and every parking meter in the city.

When a meter is one minute from expiring, an alarm bell sounds, and the situation desk alerts the field officer, the city's other meter maid. Suddenly, she is in a narrow elevator streaking toward the surface directly to the meter involved. As the clock expires on the meter, the officer pops up onto the street next to the car in question, attaches the ticket and is immediately whisked away back down the chute. All of this happens in the blink of an eye. The motorist never sees this because they are too busy searching up the street for the meter maid coming or they're still gabbing away at the Lone Gull because they saw Ms. Foote heading the other way.

Distraction tactics, eh?

This old guy claims to have discovered the secret lair and seen the screen himself. He says the elevators come and go so rapidly, and there is one per meter. The location of the offenders are pinpointed so as to eliminate all that walking and cut immediately to the chase, so to speak. I guess he was just poking around the old underground sewers and found a secret door into the situation room. They even have an elevator that can whisk them immediately to get coffee and doughnuts, but it's Dunkin' Donuts, not the Lone Gull.

If it really exists, I guess this elaborate system was built when the city had more money and could afford to fully indulge its police force. Maybe it's even in the contract, I dunno. But I guess it's worth it since the meter rates have risen, and every penny is crucial. Zero tolerance must be the rule now that there is no more money.

I suppose that could be why the Sewer Outflow project is costing so much and scheduled to take so long. They have to move some of the elevators in the way. I'm only guessing ... Meanwhile, life goes on in this sleepy, springtime hamlet. Coffee continues to flow and be slurped, opinions and complaining give way to the realities of life on the streets. They say there's a vast parking conspiracy down there. I have yet to see it myself, but if there's enough time left on my meter and if the coffee's strong enough, I'll believe anything.