This morning, Nate headed out at 7:50 to move our car. I think of it as the alternate side of the street parking dance: In NYC, there are generally 1-2 days a week that require you to get your car to the other side of the street or risk a tow. We once learned the hard way, when we arrived at 8:05 to a missing car, that our precinct is notoriously ticket-happy and quick to call the tow trucks. We’re currently contesting a tow from a perfectly legal space three months ago. Do you know how hard it is to prove your car was not blocking the pedestrian ramp besides, “trust me, I’m not a moron”?
For several years I’ve suspected that there is a pattern of crossing the legal line in order to keep ticketing high in Brooklyn Heights. Now I am sure of it.
This morning, Nate arrived well before 8am, and returned back home at 8:03, wide-eyed, panting. “Our car is gone.”
At 8:05 we called the police. The tow pound. The marshalls. No sign of our car. I phoned our insurance company and reported it stolen around 8:30. I twittered it around 9.
Somewhere in between, I sobbed furiously, wondering how the hell we’ll be able to head down to North Carolina to see Nate’s family in two days, with money insanely tight, and an insurance policy that doesn’t cover us for rentals. Let alone the two car seats in the back that are worth more than the $200 of personal goods you’re entitled to claim. What’s that, like a few CDs? Oh wait, those aren’t covered either.
Not a great morning.
At 10:00 Nate tried the tow pound one more time, just to be sure. Indeed, they had the car.
He raced to the pound (taxi: $10), retrieved the ticket, paid $185 for the tow.
The time on the ticket?
The time on Nate’s phone documenting his first call to the police? 8:05 AM.
NY Times: Expect a phone call. Officer Ford, consider yourself on notice.