A jogger ran past me a few weeks ago, wearing a t-shirt featuring an orange ticket and the slogan “Welcome to Boston”. Five minutes later I found a similar ticket on my car. The city is a lot like my Uncle Rodney, who asks for money every time you see him; parking tickets are Boston’s way of keeping in touch.

I moved to Boston last year, after accumulating two-years' worth of unpaid Chicago parking tickets. Nobody pays parking tickets in Chicago because the money just goes to the mob, and the mafia doesn’t care because it’s already set up an efficient pay-as-you-go plan called — in government jargon — “Riverboat Gambling”. I’m pretty sure they have something similar here in Boston, except the mob is Irish and goes by a different name. Here, they’re called “Democrats”.

Parking is difficult, but driving is nearly impossible — mostly because once you find a parking space you never want to move your car again. When you do drive, you’ll need a sixth sense, a GPS, and a renewable prescription for Valium, because Boston is the only city in the United States that can list M.C. Escher as its urban planner. You should also have in your car, at all times, a map, a compass, and three days' worth of food and water. (Four if you want to visit Fenway.) Once you successfully navigate the twisting warren of one-way streets, it still takes a lot of bread crumbs to find the way back out. The lucky ones die trying, or become Red Sox fans.

Many people avoid driving completely, investing in walking shoes. Which is smart, because it’s difficult — though, they've proven, not impossible — to ticket a pair of Keds. But unfortunately, pedestrians contribute to the traffic problems because proper Bostonian motorists go to pieces around people on foot. Despite how maniacally Bostonians drive on the turnpike, they are genuinely intimidated by the mass of people milling through the city. Students, tourists, yuppies and the elderly roam the streets like sacred cows that leave drivers to wait nervously for the intersection to clear. I’ve seen this go on for hours. That’s how new parking spaces are born — after three hours stuck at an intersection, squatter’s rights are in effect.

I don’t share Boston’s reticence. When I drive through the city, I leave a wake of shaken pedestrians leaping for the sidewalk. I’ve had a year to ponder and I’m certain my callous disregard for human life is the product of my upbringing. After all, I was raised to believe “pedestrian” is Latin for “hood ornament”.

The Midwest trained me in the accidental art of vehicular manslaughter. I grew up in a city surrounded by farmland, where daredevils had few options for thrill seeking once all the cows were tipped. Staying up after 11 was a good rush for some, but most of us were too hard-core for that. We were the boys that mothers warned their daughters about. We crossed the line between sinner, saint, 53rd, and Jefferson in one fell swoop. We were jaywalkers, and the worst sort. We’d saunter into oncoming traffic and play chicken with Oldsmobiles. For their part, the drivers honestly tried their best to kill us. You see, they grew up dodging Roadsters — and thus, in my Toyota, the great circle of life continues. At least until my insurance rates go up.

Admittedly, I need to tone down my driving. The Democratic National Convention came to Boston over the summer and the delegates kept confusing me with Ted Kennedy. Despite the congestion and road closings, it was good to see the whole city come together like that, to pull my car from the river.

Suddenly parking tickets don’t look so bad. Welcome to Boston.

Copyright © 2005 Andy Murphy
Please do not remove the copyright from this work.

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