New York
A Perfect World
by
Jim ShahinI thanked them, then Sam and I went back to the hotel to clean up.
It still being relatively early in the evening, we decided to relax
and have a drink. I had to admit that this towing experience was
going far better than I could have dreamed. But why hurry to the
tow-truck lot? All that awaited us there, I knew, was a barbed-wire
fence, a snarling dog, and a whiskered guy.
After an hour or two, Sam and I went outside. The evening was mild,
with a light breeze and lazy white clouds in the pale blue sky. We
thought about walking, but I hailed a cab. No matter how close the
place was, I knew where cities put their towing lots. I didn't want
to take my son into an area of town I knew could be dangerous.
The cab deposited us at a lot that looked like a high-end mall's
covered parking. There was no barbed wire. No snarling dog. No
whiskered guy. Instead, there were a few cars, parked at a
respectful distance from one another, not, as is usually the case,
crammed next to each other. The cars were just regular, not
demolition derby contestants. In the background I heard the lapping
of the waves on the shore. The sun was setting, spreading reds and
yellows and lavenders across the sky.
A friendly woman sat in a booth. "Oh, hon," she said. "The signs on
that street are hard for folks to see, especially if they're from
out of town. The city council passed a law not long ago putting
them there. It's too bad."
I was flabbergasted. When I was towed in New York years ago, I
protested that there was no tow-away sign and that I could prove it
because I took pictures. The guy said only, "Buddy, all of New York
is a tow-away zone." That "tough luck, kid" attitude, I since had
come to assume, was something taught in towing school.
But here was this sparkly woman, all but saying she wished she
didn't have to tow my car and take my money. We chatted awhile. She
told me about a bluegrass festival she hoped to go to.
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