I was in my friend CC’s apartment just off Greene street for no more than about fifteen minutes, and had the emergency flashers blinking on the ‘91 Lumina.
We had just gotten back from the gym and were quaffing protein shakes and listening to some new trance LPs he’d gotten from Florida, or the U.K., or California, or somewhere.
By the time I came out, not only had I a $15 parking ticket (though they had assured CC they wouldn’t ticket anyone with flashers on, because that signified a loading or unloading, or quick-trip parking job and was excusable), but my flashers were somewhat dim.
I took him up on it, had him follow me as I parked CC’s car (wrenching my shoulder trying to parallel park it on the right side of the street, at the bottom of the hill), found out he worked for the University in the computer lab I’d been in earlier that day, and dropped him off at his destination, thanking him profusely for his kindness, and his class.
I thought about offering to buy him a drink, but considering my sweaty, shaken state of affairs, thought better of it for his sake and mine, and we were on our respective ways.
I knew what that meant: I got in the car, turned off the radio, the flashers, and the vent, and attempted to crank the car. The initial beep dipped to a low hum and all the dash lights retreated back to just-before-visible. Great. Battery’s dead.
Now, CC had to go to class and was headed that way. He helped me push my car back one car length and tossed me the key to his so I could drive that one up, parallel park on the wrong side of the street facing my car, and jump the Lumina with his vehicle. Hmm.
His car is what even the palest cracker must admit is a phat ride: a gun-metal grey Mazda RX-8, and there’s always some CD in the changer he hand-mixed himself and burned a couple of weeks before.
Unfortunately, however, the power steering was out in his car, and he’d meant to take it to the shop and hadn’t gotten around to it.
This meant that when I drove up the steep hill to where my car was parked on Greene, I realized in the face of a steady stream of quarter-till-rush-hour traffic that there would be absolutely no way to whip this thing around and park, facing angry, bureaucratic, university commuters.
Circling the block, I devised my plan: the aging Lumina was parked directly in front of the Thomas Moore Center, a Catholic on-campus organization; I could drive the Mazda down the side road behind it, execute a three-point turn, and come out facing the trunk of my car.
It would then be a simple matter of backing the Lumina up a car length or so, popping the two hoods, and….
So I drove down behind the Thomas Moore Center only to realize that there was only about enough room for this car I was driving, laterally, and maybe three inches on either side: behind me, as I turned the wheel to the left, was a brick wall; in front of me was a little brick drop-off, a fine stepping stone for pedestrians, and clearly not for vehicles.
Fantastic. After about two or three near-misses on either side, straining against the non-powered steering wheel with trembling arms from the murderous workout CC and I had done just prior, striking the horn when I wasn’t careful, I became giddy with the knowledge that if I messed up the sequence of shifting First-to-Reverse, First-to-Reverse and spinning the wheel just the right way, I was going to get this thing stuck down behind a building with no outlet and scratch the finish.
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Once I regained composure from laughing hysterically at myself, at the car, and at the absurdity of life itself, I finally turned the thing around and came out the way I’d come in, just as I’d planned.