I love Calvin Trillin as much as everyone else in the New Yorker reading room, but I couldn't finish Tepper Isn't Going Out (boring). I don't even get that many traffic tickets. I rush out, dutifully, once a week, sometimes twice, to sit in my double-parked Passat wagon, listening to the horrible Takeaway on Brooklyn State Radio (NPR) - like every body else on the block - and I move the car. I move it back 15 feet. I don't enjoy it. But I'm good at it. Fast, aggressive, attentive, with a 'go fuck yourself' approach to the competition. Even if they're my neighbors. Fuck neighbors. This is parking - and, if you do it right, you're set for the week. I wait until 8:22, then I go back to the rush of my family's morning routine. It's such a cliche to complain about this aspect of the city. And, as stated, I rarely get a ticket. This was a special one.
Somehow, a traffic cop meanders down my block on New Year's Day, early in the morning - literally minutes after my inspection has expired. Minutes. How did she know? Was it just coincidence - it was New Year's Day - I don't buy it. What is she doing on my block on New Year's Day? Is there a database that alerts her that my inspection has inspired, and googlemaps my - of all the Passat wagons in Park Slope - car? Is that possible? Why is she there? Shouldn't we all be taking note of our lists (5 miles a day - really do it this time) and getting quietly depressed and convincing ourselves that one more evening of drinking before going dry all of January makes sense because (insert rationalization here)?
Yes, the city is bankrupt but, in the words of Dudley Pippin, "I didn't do it."
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