Having a car in New York City is really an inconvenience. But we have one anyway. My father gave it to us. And we like having one. It gives us flexibility about visiting parents and friends. And it makes getting out of the city on weekends that much easier. So we're used to having a car by now. Even though it's really an inconvenience.

What's inconvenient about having a car in New York City is the parking. There really isn't anywhere to do it. You need a garage. Which can be quite expensive. But we managed to find a garage that's a lot less expensive than the one we used to park in. That garage was in our building. This one is a block and a half away.

And that's the problem. Who wants to park the car a block and a half away? Not us. Because if it's hot out or if it's cold, if it's raining or if it's late at night, who wants to walk that far? So we try to find a space on our own block. But we can't. The spaces are always taken.

Fortunately, there's a fire hydrant in front of our building. No one ever parks at this fire hydrant. And no one ever should. It's illegal. So at least we know there's one space we can count on. So whenever Chuck can't find a space on the street and we don't want to park the car in the garage because it's too far away, at least we know the fire hydrant will be available. We even think of it as our own. We always refer to it as "our hydrant."

Not that Chuck likes parking at our hydrant. He doesn't. He's quite aware that it's illegal. He's a lawyer. He would never think of parking there if he didn't have to. If there were any other spaces on the street. But there aren't. The other spaces are always taken. And Chuck has finally figured out why. All the spaces are taken by out-of-towners.

Chuck walks along the street just counting how many out-of-towners are parking on our block. And getting quite angry about it, too.

He can tell by the license plates. He sees license plates from all over the country. And he doesn't like it at all. He doesn't like it when they're from Florida or Michigan. But he really doesn't like it when they're from New Jersey. He thinks people from New Jersey should park in their own state. Not in ours. And definitely not on our block. He thinks they have some nerve. They take up so many parking spaces that we have to park illegally. By a hydrant. That we've had to adopt. Since there's nowhere else to park. Unless we park in our garage. And we don't feel like doing that. We don't like to walk that far.

"I don't pay taxes so that out-of-towners can park on my block," Chuck complained. I had never thought about our taxes that way. But once Chuck pointed it out, I had to agree it made sense.

Chuck said he'd like to rip all the windshield wipers from the cars that don't belong on our street. All the out-of-towners. And then put notices on their windshields. Warning them not to park there anymore.

"But how would the notices stay on the windshields? Without any wipers?" I asked him. He hadn't thought about that. He admitted it would be a problem. So he dropped the idea.

In the meantime, we just make do with our hydrant. It's almost like having our own private garage. It couldn't be more convenient. Since it's right outside our building. And it couldn't be less expensive. Since, until we get ticketed or towed, it's even free.

November, 1997
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We met Sandy Friedman in the lobby. He stopped Chuck.

"Can I ask you an impertinent question?" he said.

"Go ahead," Chuck replied.

"Do you have any connection at the Traffic Violations Bureau?"

"No, I don't. Why?" Chuck said. Both of us were wondering whether Sandy had some problem with some traffic violation that he wanted fixed.

"I was just curious," Sandy explained. "Since you always park your car at the hydrant."

"Oh, that," Chuck started to say. "It's a long story."

"I just wrote something about it," I laughed. "I'll leave a copy for you with the doorman."

December, 1997
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The street in front of our building is all torn up. They're replacing the cables for television. The street is a mess.

"You won't be able to park at the hydrant now," Abdul, our doorman, informed me politely.

"I know," I answered ruefully. "What nerve. They tore up the street without even getting our permission."

December, 1997
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