Some small lies

Some small lies

We came in from Long Island late last night from a lovely evening spent with some cousins from my wife's side of the family. The night was rainfilled from the start and throughout an excellent sit-down dinner we listened to the gusts of wind rattling the window panes. Gingered Potato Soup followed by a rich Coq au Vin, surrounded by a pretty good wine and several fingers of Johnny Walker, led everyone to the best dinner ingredient - good talk. The four of us are certified providers of such and putting this group in one room insures fast trading of ideas and funny stories. We solved the current political conundrums, of course, and laid out the framework for a workable healthcare system all while looking through the artwork and family pictures of my wife's earliest years.

We played tug-of-war with the family dog and applauded our host's miracle catch of a vase diving towards shardsville after being pushed off the top of the bookcase by the smaller of the two cats. Dessert was a creamy chocolate cheesecake which was not only illegal and out of bounds for my diet, but I am sure, if one checked, would be found listed amongst the FBI's most wanted. I know I wanted, and had, more.

But this story is about coming into the city late at night. It was still raining and the winds, if anything, had picked up, blowing the car across the lane unless I paid strict attention. We had the rental car company's Never Lost GPS programmed to take us home and it did so without a hitch, zooming us through that confusing set of exits that, unaided, usually sends us South towards towards JFK instead of Northeast to the Throg's Neck Bridge and Washington Heights.

Coming into the city after midnight when most sensible people are settled into bed means trying to find the mythic, and sometimes hard fought over, prize-- the close-to-your-building parking spot. It hardly ever exists except in your mind's eye. You can circumnavigate a three block area for an hour some nights and never see a glowing taillight or a little plume of telltale exhaust. You do this because all New Yorkers are driven by the need to find, not love, but free parking. An hour, even late at night when you at the edge of exhaustion, is nothing if you can avoid the ignominious defeat of having to put the car into a parking garage for money. When and if you do find a place to park the story finds a place too, in your living-in-the-city archives of triumphs, as if you actually did something of merit. Discovering a genetic connection with allows humans to dispose of body fat merely by wishing it to go away would be on a equal footing with finding a large parking spot on the first go-round on a rainy night.

Which is what happened last night. Okay, so I am still working out the wishing fat away thing, but the parking spot- a bigger miracle than the catch of the falling vase- happened within fifty yards of the steps of our building. Maybe forty-five, I'll have to measure. I had just dropped off the spouse and had girded myself for the grueling hunt when I saw an odd thing. Down the street there was a gap in the number of the car rooftops that I could see. A gap is something you never see right away, but there it was. Right where the cross street butts into our street in a tee, there was a huge parking spot. I did a perfect Y turn, nosing into the space first, reversing my direction and then, in one smooth horizontal arabesque, backed into the space. I was in. I shut off the engine, killed the lights, got out and pressed the little button to lock the car.

It was then I noticed the headlights of the car stopped at the end of the crossstreet. It had been there for the few moments as I was swinging the car in, I was sure the occupants were hoping I was on my way out rather than on my way in. (I was in. Such joy.) The passenger sidedoor opened and out stepped a well-dressed young woman.

"Hey, I thought we should tell you that's not a real parking spot. You could get a ticket there."
I said "Oh?"
"Yeah, I've gotten a ticket there myself, so I thought we should tell you."

Did I mention the mythic and sometimes hard fought battles to find free parking? She sounded so sincere. Wasn't it nice that a New Yorker would take the time and trouble to help out, help out in the middle of a dark, rainy night, help out for no other reason or gain on their part, because, of course, they couldn't use the space either. What a nice thing to do for a stranger in their city!! Did I mention it was a rental car with out of state plates?

Well, I did my best to sound just as sincere when I replied:

"It's okay. I'm only going to be here a couple of minutes."

I wonder how long they waited.