The last straw—and I mean, there were several “last straws” in my mind but this was the very last, final straw—was when a Port Authority cop kicked my car out of a tunnel. The old BMW sedan was limping home, as it had been for several weeks, lurching forward and slowing to a crawl like a runner out of breath. I stood on the gas pedal, made my shifts as smooth and seamless as possible. No dice. No power. I had just paid about $500 to a shop in Queens to fix this problem, and in the end drove away with a new fuel filter and no guarantee from said shop that said repair would, indeed, fix said problem. From there I drove into Manhattan and approached the Holland Tunnel to go home to Brooklyn. I immediately knew I should have taken the BQE. “That car struggling?” the cop asked me. “Yeah,” I said, realizing what was about to happen. “But she’ll make it. She’s got this. Trust me.” He pointed to the West Side Highway, right in front of One World Trade Center. “Nope. Get out.” “What do you want me to do? Take the bridge?” I asked him. “How’s that any better?” “Not my problem,” he said, and I limped away to park on the street and wait for a tow truck. It’d only be a mere three hours until it arrived, after all. I couldn’t be mad at the cop. I got it. I probably would’ve made… [Read full story]
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