The Parallel Parker
A one-way street in downtown Boston at 5:51 PM on a Friday, where a single parking spot sits between a fire hydrant and a Cadillac Escalade with diplomatic plates, and the meter has exactly nine minutes left on it.
Double and Bust have been circling the Financial District for thirty-seven minutes with a trunk full of raw oysters for a dinner party that starts in twenty-two minutes. The spot is technically legal — the hydrant clearance looks like it might be fifteen feet, but the curb paint is so faded it could be twelve. A parking enforcement officer on a Segway is visible two blocks up, moving their direction with the slow inevitability of a glacier. The Escalade's side mirror is already folded in, like it's been hit before and is tired of fighting.
“I've parallel parked in tighter spots in a U-Haul. That's fifteen feet easy — my body is five-ten and I can see at least three of me between that hydrant and our bumper.”
“Your body is five-eight, you've never correctly estimated a distance in your life, and those are diplomatic plates, which means if we touch that Escalade we're technically committing an act of war.”
Double nailed the parallel park in one fluid motion — seventeen feet of clearance from the hydrant, confirmed by the parking enforcement officer on the Segway, who rolled up just in time to measure it herself and then ticketed the Escalade for an expired diplomatic registration sticker. The oysters made it to the dinner party with four minutes to spare, still cold, and Double told the parking story three times before appetizers.
I told you — three of me, fifteen feet, and honestly I had room for a fourth.
He parked legally ONE time and now he's describing it like the moon landing to a woman holding a cracker.