late

I own a small car. I bought it in March of 2009 because it fulfilled two purposes: 1. I had gotten to be a big kid, with a big kid job; and 2. I wanted a hatchback to carry band equipment around.

Some nights when I drive back to South Philly, I have to park creatively.  Most of the time, I can fit my car into tight spots, as I’ve gotten pretty good at parallel parking.  But sometimes I have to sneak up to the corner behind a car that’s parked already pretty close.  What I mean to say is that the butt end of my car might hang off a few inches from the corner curb.  Usually, this works out okay, because the few cops who come around at night are willing, I guess, to let my parking job pass unticketed.

 But I never look forward to this kind of risky parking.  In this context, Driver Sandro is happiest when I come home from work at around 5, because there will always be a space available.  At the times that I drive home at 11 or so, especially on a week night, I know that I’ll always roll up on Tasker with the anxiety of speculation.  Will there be a random spot on my block, maybe because a visitor just left, or because the other cars looking to park have been bigger than a subcompact?

When I do find that open spot and lock up my car, the first thing I do is try to mnemonically voice the intersection so I remember where I am the next morning.  I’ve been doing this for years.  West Chester, Boston, Philadelphia.  I don’t know where next.

The best memories I have of the places in which I’ve lived are the ones that mix a little bit of hatred with a little bit more of success.  Often, it’s not what I go out to do, but how I park my car and walk home.