I was sitting in my car waiting for the Enterprise carnival barker to finish his insurance pitch to my sister-in-law. She’d just been t-boned by a clown from the Bronx who’d taken issue with her having run a green light on him.
It turns out her car was drivable, but she’d only discovered this after the grease monkey the Keystone Cop forced her to use (the responding officer must take charge of the accident scene, I was told by the precinct ticket-taker, despite the fact the other driver, a male, got to call AAA) boosted it onto his flatbed, effectively robbing a traumatized woman of her transportation, the thieving putz.
It further turns out resetting a car deactivated by airbag deployment is a cinch if you know which buttons to push, but then the towing company, whose owner in all probability is porking the sister of a Lake Success gumshoe, would be out three hundred bucks in extortion fees. So Tip Top Auto Body of Garden City Park can kiss my cash-only ass (and as a side note, one should avoid any company that insists on calling itself some literary form of “Super Duper”).
Ditto public servants who do what they can to flee the scene of an accident so they can score Krispy Kremes while they’re still hot. I look forward to the next crank call from some public servant making six figures plying the seatbelt infraction racket, as he solicits funding for his PAL T-ballers. I’ll gladly pass along Tip Top’s number.
So I’m sitting there, a handicap space directly to my left, when an SUV the size of Oklahoma pulls into it. Well let’s see what kind of ailment we have here, I’m thinking.
SUV is an acronym for “sport utility vehicle,” not the kind of thing you’d expect to be piloted by an edema-sodden invalid. I strained to get a look at the driver through the smoked glass. She looked to be in her mid thirties and was affixing the requisite tag to the rearview mirror. Hey, maybe she was short a limb, having lost it in a violent shopping spree. Maybe she was allergic to asphalt. Maybe fuck her, the lazy bitch.
I’ve become sensitized to this scenario. The plenitude of this prime real estate would make you think handicappers outnumber healthy Americans. When the slots do get occupied, they rarely go to actual victims of poor health. More often they’re commandeered by the kind of assholes who make this nation a legitimate terrorist target.
She hopped out of her Cadillac Escalade, went to the rear side door and occupied herself with something out of view. Hey, maybe she was assembling her walker. Maybe her osteoporotic grandmother was folded over in the cargo area. Maybe… She picked something up and moved with no sign of an asthmatic condition past the front of the car. At that point I could see she was toting an infant carrier with normal effort. Clearly nothing wrong with her twat.
Newborn in tow, our handicapper trotted into Red Hots Spa. Hey, maybe she had a skin problem that made her emotionally unstable. Maybe without the ameliorative effects of that parking spot she’d feel compelled to toss her offspring into a pond and bolt for the nearest Equinox. I certainly can understand the urge to throw someone into a pond.
I looked back at the tag hanging from the mirror and then noticed a sticker lower down on the windshield. Ah! NYPD. There was the answer. The wife of a cop felled in the line of duty, dunked by too many donuts. Case closed.
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