So I’m rounding 14th and Washington running with my friends and I hit a headwind and my Buffalo Bills cap blows off. Instantly I whirl, expecting to scoop it up, but impossibly it has disappeared. No one is around to point me in the right direction on this, about the second busiest corner in Hoboken. So I spend 10 minutes searching under cars, in hedges, down sewers, in cubbyholes, everywhere. Nothing. Yes, there were enough sweat stains to constitute a geological dig to find the inside brim, but it was my running hat and I loved it like an old T-shirt.
Fighting off depression, I stopped at Modell’s for some walking/work shoes because the ones I bought on sale at Marty’s pinched my feet like Ecuadorian terrorist torturers. While there I checked out the caps and the bland blue ones minus insignia of any sort ran $6.99 which was just as ridiculous as their more expensive ones which were $10 or more. So I detoured to Bergenline Avenue to my favorite store on 39th Street with the suspicious security guy outside glaring at anyone who came near the merchandise, which ranged from inexpensive key rings to cheap watches to tiny flashlights and batteries of suspect age and quality.
I entered, and three employees smiled. I pointed to a Tommy Hilfiger cap. One of them said it was $10. Now I appreciate Hilfiger’s success and his boyish face which only now is showing leathery wear, but I won’t plunk down 10 bucks for a cap even if it was once owned by Richard Widmark. I bring Widmark up here because he would have known how to handle what happened next.
(Oh, it wasn’t anything in the store – they simply pointed out a $5 L.A. Kings hat in the back which I snapped up though I couldn’t name a single player on their roster if a puppy’s life depended on it.)
The incident occurred back at the municipal parking lot behind the store. Now, when I parked I saw signs on every meter indicating: “No Parking 5/26 9 p.m. to 5 a.m.” It was around 2:30 in the afternoon on said day. No one else was parked in that entire section, which I attributed to ignorance. The sign was clear. Overnight parking was bad; daytime parking was OK. What was wrong with these people?
Except I returned to find a ticket on my wiper, a $28 improper parking summons which I kept staring at disbelieving. Did I enter some sort of Bergenline Avenue Twilight Zone in which time becomes subjective? There were two men standing nearby pretending not to notice how angry and frustrated I was. Widmark would have ripped up the sucker and tossed it aside like stale Portuguese rolls. Widmark would have cursed audibly, lit a cigarette and dared anyone to make him clean up the scraps. Widmark would have snatched the sign off that meter and shoved it somewhere, maybe down one of those guys’ throats even though they appeared to be innocent. Widmark would have slashed the tires of the Parking Authority’s pathetic little vehicle, then set it afire. Widmark would have driven off in screeches and skids, but not before stomping out his butt on Union City’s property and maybe spitting on top of it.
Me? I slammed on my LA Kings hat, took deep breaths to combat the tightness in my chest and squinted to read the court date I was to appear if I wanted to fight this injustice. And I will fight it; $28 buys a lot of chicken cutlet sandwiches. I scrambled in my glove compartment for my Maalox. Why did I feel more like Martin Short than Widmark?
Later I discover the reason for the ticket was I parked tail in instead of head in. I was legally but improperly parked. I will fight that idiotic rule. As soon as I find a hat that fits.