On New Year’s Day I drove out to Coney Island for a few reasons. To commune with nature, to walk the planks on actual wooden boardwalk, and yes, eat a hot dog from Nathan’s. What I didn’t realize was because of the polar bar plungers (that’s not a tool used by arctic plumbers, but a pastime of those looking for new ways to overcome a hangover). I hadn’t anticipated such difficulty finding parking. But we circled and circled, until I settled on a perfect spot along Surf Avenue.
On the way, I passed a few driveways with a certain cheeky sign. It read, “don’t even think about parking here.” Excuse me? I used to have a driveway, so I know something about the lengths people go to inconvenience you. The idling delivery trucks, the taxis, the clueless drivers who don’t even realize it is a place to park. But I would never impugn someone’s right to think. I think about lots of things I don’t do. That’s my right as a human being. I think about staying home, ordering Chinese food, and watching Apollo 13 on a continuous loop. The key is that I don’t do it.
I think about parking in a driveway because I once had one, and it recalls fond memories of an urban oasis. You can’t enforce it. “Think” is a pointless word. It reminds me of the ubiquitous bathroom sign at restaurants reading “employees must wash their hands.” Must? How about: employees wash their hands. I’d take a bit more comfort in that. Think about that.
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