That Time I Hit a Parked Car—and Just Walked Away
Recently divorced, extremely broke and terrified of yet another bill, I was shocked to learn of my own capacity to shirk responsibility.
Illustration by Casey Roonan
Driving alone down a heavily-trafficked two-way street in Queens, approaching its busiest intersection in the fire-truck red Ford Focus my ex-wife picked out for us, I spy a tantalizingly rare parking spot on the boulevard. Across foreboding double yellow lines, the spot is mere steps from my final destination – the bank.
Growing up, I’d watch drivers in my father’s sights try to pull off a three-point turn on this very road, hearing him mumble in an old-school-as-fuck accent, “He’s got a lotta balls.” My father would point out that the traffic light ahead of us was green, and the well endowed man – who from our obscured vantage point could very well have been a woman – was holding everybody up, disregarding drawn-out horns and essentially giving the world the finger.
But today, the light is red, so a quick U-turn here would be a victimless break of road ethics. I decide to go the way of my just-flicked left blinker, and begin a race for the space.
This visit …
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