A Million Stories

If you've lived here long enough, you've probably heard this story before.

by Carolyn Huckabay

DUDE, WHERE'S MY FUCKING CAR?

Here at A Million Stories HQ, we're always on the lookout for quintessential Philadelphia stories — tales that cut to the heart of what it means to be a Philadelphian. Run-ins with the PPA, for instance. Or getting grazed by a SEPTA bus on your bicycle. Or maybe getting shot at in North Philly. You know — defining moments. This week, we didn't have to look very far. City Paper arts editor/copy chief Carolyn Huckabay files the following report:

A public service announcement to the unfortunate Philadelphians whose cars have been "relocated" for paving: Call the Streets Department . They are the only breathing human beings in the city who have any interest in helping you.

On Oct. 18, at the tail end of a seven-hour haul from Boston, I drove around my East Passyunk neighborhood in search of the ever-elusive parking space. I finally found one, on the 900 block of teeny-tiny Fernon (which is pronounced "fer-NON" if you live south of Washington). The next morning, my silver Honda was gone — as were the rest of the vehicles on that block that'd been there the night before — replaced by monster street-destroying trucks, sitting there munching the very asphalt on which I'd treaded just 12 hours before.

A few very bad thoughts later (the car was stolen; the car was moved and then stolen; the car was towed and holy hell I would rather slit my wrists in a warm tub than go to the impound lot; the car was towed to an illegal parking space and then towed to the impound lot), I dialed 311, our city's non-emergency "connection to City Hall" hotline. The cranky-pants lady on the phone told me that sometimes the city relocates cars for paving purposes, and that my car probably hadn't been towed, just moved around the corner or something. I should poke around the neighborhood, she said.

If you've lived here long enough, you've probably heard this story before. No big deal, right? Just go walk around and find your car and stop complaining, you're thinking. But consider South Philly for a minute. "Around the neighborhood" could mean any number of back alleys, one-way streets or major thoroughfares. So I crossed my fingers and poked. Up 10th Street, down Ninth, in and out of the little alleyways I couldn't imagine a tow truck could even squeeze through without the use of magic. I even walked up and down the aisles of the Acme parking lot. No Honda, just what-the-fuck-are-you-doing stares from grocery shoppers. I went home, deflated. The next morning I called the Fourth District Police Department, and another cranky-pants told me that the tow companies who relocate cars for paving don't record plate numbers, or where they put the cars.

(Just think about that for a second. I'll wait. ... Continuing, then.)

"It's probably in a five-block radius of where you parked it," she said. (Key word: "Probably.") "Or you can report it stolen if you want." 

Academy of Natural Sciences: Family Four-Pack of Tickets | Mango Moon | Prive | Bliss | Raw Dawgs Saloon | Cream and Sugar | S & H Kebab House | Cafe Nola | Copabanana | Hollywood Tans: $50 for $25

HALF OFF DEPOT

Why live life at full price?

Now, I don't really consider this an emergency emergency — I don't rely on my car, I just kinda wanted to, y' know, know where it was — so instead of calling 911 I spent the evening combing the streets of South Philly in a PhillyCarShare car with my supportive but annoyed boyfriend. This is so ridiculous, he said. This city is so screwed up, I said.

I printed a Google Map the next morning to trace our pathetic, unsuccessful route. We'd covered every major street from Sixth to 13th, Reed to McKean, plus two municipal lots, the Passyunk Square CVS and a shitload of alleyways. We were convinced the Honda had vanished.

I called the PPA to make sure my car hadn't been towed. It hadn't . Next up was the Fourth District, which I called in the hopes that they'd have some information on what company towed the cars . They didn't.

Then I called the Streets Department . I didn't see any move-your-car-or-we'll-move-it-for-you signs, I said. Turns out there were a few, completely invisible from the sidewalk. How can you people move cars and not write anything down? I thought, but didn't say, because the lady on the other end of this line was not cranky . She was sweet. She took down my information, and told me she'd get in touch with the Highway Patrol, and they'd dispatch a tow truck to find my car.

After one final hiccup (in which the tow truck driver called me to say he'd found my car at Sixth and Morris, although it looked more gray to him than silver — maybe because it wasn't my car), I got my Honda back: It was at 11th and Wharton, one measly block from where I'd been searching the night before. It was parked across the street from the Police Department, covered in dirt. No tickets, no damage.

Except, y'know, to my faith in the city.

And my soul. Just a little.