Parking Wars

In my crazier moments of fandom, I actually believed that I had the ability to influence the outcome of certain games at certain moments through sheer will. I felt that because I had a good handle on the layout of the good guy to bad guy ratio I was somehow empowered. Like some forgotten god among Zeus' crew, I would reach down from my imaginary Olympus to interfere with the course of sporting events, setting things according to what I felt was "right". I have been very lucky in that a lot of the time, my impression of what "should" happen turned out to be what did happen. Often this was simply a mental exercise, which would drive me very close to insane when things didn't go my way. But, there were physical manifestations as well. For example, in college there was a particular Tar Heels hat I wore, and for big games I would set it on top of the TV I was watching from. The hat, I thought, had some kind of mojo that would ensure a Carolina victory. Absurd, to be sure, but I did retire the hat back in 2000 with a record of something like 27-3. 

Of course, all of this is representative of a pretty mentally deranged thought process and an ego wildly out of control. It didn't take me long (or maybe it did, but at least I got there) to figure out that taking real ownership of things that were completely outside my realm of actual influence was not healthy. I suppose The Off Season is the ultimate extension of that realization, but it has occurred to me recently that there is something else in my life that I feel similarly about. Something else that, based on the evidence I have at hand, it seems I can control even though common sense would deem that patently ridiculous. What's more, I suspect I am not alone. I'm talking about finding a parking space in the greater Boston metro area.

Everyone has got a technique for finding a spot (or at least, they really ought to). Mine is a bit more of a policy, but it serves the same purpose. When setting out for a destination in our car, I know that I am going to drive straight to the front door of wherever we are going, be it a friend in the 'burbs, or a shop on Newbury St., and I won't take anything until I get there. This means that if there is a spot available at Clarendon, but the store we are visiting is beyond Fairfield, I'm not taking it. To do so, and to then stroll past an empty space closer to the goal would kill me. If I end up looping and parking further away, so be it. That's the price you pay for demanding greatness.

When rolling looking for parking spaces downtown, or in a mall parking lot or a garage of some kind, I feel like all of my basic hunter gatherer instincts bubble up to the surface. I am alive, sensing the wind, following my gut, ready to pounce. I can spot tail lights coming to life in a row of dead cars like an eagle soaring above the Serengeti. I pity those who wait for bag laden shoppers to emerge from the anchor stores and follow like jackals as they meander to their rides. That's no way to park. Not for someone with a pulse. No, you need to find your most fertile hunting grounds and keep moving, keep active. The areas near the food court, with higher turnover. A loop that provides meters on both sides for each leg of the circuit. You need to bang lefts as soon as others in front of you lean right, and look for empty rows that don't have pathetic squatters waiting for the slightest movement to hit their blinkers and claim the next vacancy. That's just ice fishing.

There is one area in particular where my powers are most potent. Locals may laugh, but I am willing to put this in writing. On my worst day, I can find a meter in Harvard Square with ease. Ease, I tell you! Not long ago my brother-in-law was in town, and we all decided to hit the Square. He is quite accomplished at things that people can actually do well at with dedication and practice, like cooking, skiing, and gardening. I wanted to show off my imaginary skills, and so I said out loud in the car as we drove down Mass Ave, "I think I'll get us one of the meters in front of Gorin Brothers Hats". I may as well have claimed I could make the Kessel run in single digit parsecs. 

I began to worry as we approached the traffic light in the middle of the square, already measuring the cars in front of me. Trying to determine, as always, who was likely to keep left, or go straight, and who else was looking to park. I saw more than a few cabs, so I knew I had a shot as we proceeded past Cardullo's, but the worry persisted. Had I driven too close to the sun? Written a check against my mojo that would clean me out for good? Perhaps, but there was no turning back now. The street was one way, after all. On I drove, to discover everyone else was headed for the river, or Central Square, and the road opened up in front of me. Once I was past the crosswalks, with the Brattle on my left, there it was in plain view. An empty meter directly in front of Gorin Bros Hats. On a Sunday. I was home, free.

That isn't the only time my parking mojo has worked, but it might be the best. And though it is just as insane as my belief that I can influence sporting contests, I'm not giving this one up for a year, or even a day. You guys can get out here. I'll park the car.