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.
