The Brougham ran a little lean driving through Jersey and into New York, which caused it to run a tad warm. But otherwise, she purred into Manhattan.
New Yorkers are actually friendlier drivers than Washingtonians. Sure, New Yorkers honk and swear and holler to all get-out. Then they let you in. Washingtonians see a turn signal as a sign of weakness: show them your intent and they suddenly seem determined to do whatever it is that you are doing.
Driving the Brougham through the Holland Tunnel, I prayed that I wouldn’t be one of those people you hear about on “10-10 Wins.” In other words, “There’s a stalled car in the Holland Tunnel which has backed up traffic to New Jersey and caused $10 billion in lost revenue for everyone stuck in the jam.”
Fortunately, the car performed flawlessly, oozing through the Tunnel and up the West side. Suddenly, a NYPD cop car surged up beside the Brougham. “Yo buddy,” the cop said, “Is that a ’58?” I said, “You bet! Good eye!” and he responded, “I gotta ’56 myself!”
I can’t imagine driving a ’56 around Manhattan, but then again, up to this point, I couldn’t imagine driving a 1958 here either.
Waiting to go to dinner with my friend and college roommate, Alex O’Briant, I cruised through Time Square. Tourists stopped and took pictures. A group of Brazilian teenagers posed next to the Cadillac. Tourists, jaywalkers, street performers, and even the most jaded New Yorkers headed home from work all gave me a thumbs up.
Gurgling down 57th Street, I decided to park in Champion Garage near my mother-in-law’s apartment. I pulled in, talked to the attendant, and started unloading luggage. Suddenly, the manager appeared. “You can’t park this here,” he said, “give me your ticket.”
“What ticket?” I asked.
“The ticket you have,” he said.
“I don’t have a ticket,” I responded.
“Yes, you do.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Check your pockets.”“Check your attitude.”
“You have a ticket.”“You have a problem”
“It’s in your pockets, buddy.”
“No it . . . Oh, here it is.” Oops.
Well, after sheepishly abandoning the Champion Garage (what a bunch of jerks), I tried another three garages, all of which turned down parking an 18-foot Cadillac. You’d think I was trying to bury nuclear waste.
Finally, I remembered the garage in my old employer’s building: the AOL Time Warner towers on Columbus Circle. The garage there welcomed me with open arms and parked the Brougham between a Maybach and a Bentley. “Yo, man, this is the nicest car in the whole garage,” the attendant told me.