Dude, Where's My Car? An Awful Journey in Getting My Towed Ride Back

If you find yourself looking for a parking spot on the corner of 5^th Ave and 1^st Street, driver beware.
On the side of the old Great Lakes building (and soon to be new wine bar, Terroir), is an incredibly deceptive parking spot.  ure, it’s kind of near a fire hydrant, but there’s a parking sign right above it, which leads one to think it’s fair game. Plus there’s a yellow line near the hydrant, indicating as long as you’re behind the line you’re in the clear. But if you adhered to the yellow line rule you’d block this driveway that's there, and that would be no good for anybody. Lastly, know that you will nearly always find a car parked in this spot. I know this because my window looks out on it. You won’t be the full 15 feet from the hydrant, but who’s getting out the tape measure?

Certainly not me as I drove in circles in a downpour, with mom, sis and my very cranky co-pilots: Dexter & Morgan (my cats, not the likable serial killer). We were driving from Albany after the holiday break and had a car full of crap to unload, so naturally I was thrilled to find this spot empty for once. I marveled at my good fortune.

A few days later my mom was looking out the window and noticed that my car was gone. I didn’t really think much of it at first because, while my mom has a lot of great qualities, “awareness of one’s surroundings” is not one of them.

She proved me wrong. That perfectly misleading parking spot was now as empty as the lenses on a hipster’s glasses. After a few (thousand) expletives, so began the quest to locate my towed car. 

First order of business: remember license plate number.

Do you know yours? Learn it, along with your blood type. It was a relatively new car, so I figured that I'd stored it somewhere electronically. I scoured various repositories for this sort of info on my phone and computer to no avail (though I would later find it on my new Password Keeper app). Oh how I longed for the days of a scrap of paper tucked underneath a fridge magnet.

So, who do you call when you forget your plate? Your car insurance carrier, you say? Not so much. GEICO doesn’t keep plate numbers on file -- no insurance carrier does, they assured me. I called my old insurance company in Massachusetts, and they confirmed this ridiculous rule. Turns out your only option to retrieve the plate number is through the DMV, and I’d rather be pistol whipped than wait for their savvy and motivated personnel to take my call.

I finally got my plate number from Golden Touch Car Wash on 4th Avenue, believe it or not. Not only do they offer a free car wash with every oil change, but if you've used their services they'll provide you with your license plate number, if you ask really nicely. And maybe cry.

Armed with this invaluable string of characters that sounded remarkably like Dolly Parton’s bra size, I turned to the interwebs to finally resolve the burning question: “dude, where’s my car?”  NYC.gov has a handy dandy feature in which you can input your license plate number and instantly locate your car. In theory. You see, in New York City, cars may be towed for various reasons by several different government agencies, including but not limited to: the NYPD, the City Marshall, and the Sheriff. I started to think I’d have better luck finding a sale at Union Market.

The NYC.gov website failed to produce the location of my car. I called 311 and they referred me to two mysterious agencies whose phones do nothing but ring off the hook. I finally called the police. The dispatcher laughed when I said I was looking to locate my towed car. Because, ya know, it’s all very hilarious.

Someone I’ve been transferred to tells me my car might have been stolen. Great, just how I wanted to ring in 2012. But before we jump to conclusions (I’m sorry, who mentioned stolen here?) they advised me to contact the Brooklyn Navy Yard – my last resort. 

I finally got in touch with some lady at the Brooklyn Navy Yard, who won’t look up my car until getting in her two cents:  “You parked near a fire hydrant?!” she asked. It's now pushing 3 hours since the beginning of this ordeal, and I didn’t have the wherewithal to explain the extenuating circumstances of this crazy parking spot.  I’m then lectured on “the five cardinal sins of parking: fire hydrants, hospitals, schools, churches and..." I forget the last one.  I’m sure I’ll learn it the hard way though.

Upon realizing the call wasn't going anywhere, I hung up and cabbed it over to this Brooklyn Navy Yard to take matters into my own hands. Wikipedia will tell you this place is a “modern industrial park in a historical setting," but it's not. It’s the waiting room to hell.

I stood frozen in a long, snaking line of disgruntled New Yorkers until it was finally my turn to be mocked and judged. “How long has your car been missing?” a woman asked in a monotone cadence that would make Ben Stein’s “Bueller” sound inspiring.  I replied, “I don’t know -- one or two days.” “You don’t know?" she asked. "You don’t check on your car? Your car means nothing to you?”  I wanted to repeat this sentence back to her and replace the word “car” with “hygiene.” But I decided to save it all for my Yelp review of this happening joint.

Miss manners charged my credit card $185 and told me to wait outside to be escorted to the tow yard, but not before taunting me with “there goes your New Year’s Eve drinking money.”

I waited outside with a young man who had the same drained, baffled look on his face, when what can only be described as a god damn paddy wagon pulls up. Meet your escort. The uniformed driver waded us through a sea of abandoned cars so that we may retrieve our titles and registration. Then we needed to go back to the office, wait in line, and continue the paper work. At this point I was convinced they are deliberately making this as slow and painful as humanly possible. 

When we finally got to my car I see yellow chalk scribbled on my windows and a bright orange ticket tucked under my wipers:  $115! We’d now reached a grand total of $300, plus 5 hours of my life I’d never get back. I think my dignity is still in the back of the paddy wagon.