by Doug DeMuro
The killer.
Now, I’m not going to name this guy’s name, because in America you don’t name peoples’ names, for fear that they will slap you with a $400 zillion lawsuit for naming their name, and then you have to hire a high-priced attorney to square off against his high-priced attorney, and they will rack up $467,213.97 in legal fees even though both parties eventually agree to settle the case for approximately the same dollar amount as one annual eye exam. But if you Google a few of the facts of the case, I’m sure you can read it all for yourself. Or I can just tell you what happened.
One night in early 2016, I decided to look up the Carfax report on the G-Wagen, as I do with all my old cars every few months. And there, on the G-Wagen’s Carfax, was a new remark:
October 18, 2015
Florida accident report
Accident reported involving front impact
Airbags did not deploy
Vehicle functional
Vehicle towed
Of course, I was interested the moment I saw that my G-Wagen had been in an accident. But I was especially curious when I saw those last three notes. If the vehicle was functional and the airbags didn’t deploy, why the hell was it towed? Why didn’t the owner just drive it home? Looking further, I noticed a line right below the accident information:
Click here to get the accident report
Now, I don’t generally advocate reading police accident reports, even if you’re very excited to know all the details. There are two main reasons for this. Primarily, it’s because police accident reports are usually tremendously dry and uninteresting to read, because the police are all about function, not form. If the police wrote news stories, the piece from July 21, 1969, would’ve said:
HUMAN BEING STEPS ON GRAY, SPHERICAL OBJECT IN SKY
Subject one landed on gray lunar planet. Subject one looked outside at gray lunar planet. Subject one opened door to lunar lander module number F-7194773AAB. Subject one began descending staircase to gray lunar planet. Staircase included five stairs and hinge at the bottom. Hinge manufactured by Johnson Hinge Company of Murfreesboro, Tennessee. Hinge made of high-strength aluminum. Subject one took first step. Subject one took second step.
And we all would’ve fallen asleep before we ever discovered whether subject one took one small step for man and one giant leap for mankind, because instead we would’ve been told how he took one small step for the Johnson Interplanetary Shoe Company of Murfreesboro, Tennessee, and there were no giant leaps at all, but rather the biggest leap measured 2.4 total feet, or 12 trapezoidal hectares.
The second reason I don’t usually read these reports is that they are surprisingly expensive. While the entire Carfax subscription for unlimited vehicle reports is about $25 per month, one single accident report can cost $20. So I have generally avoided paying $20 to hear about how subject one entered the right turn lane at 11.7 mph with a four-degree turn of the steering wheel. Which, by the way, was manufactured by Johnson Steering Wheel Company of Murfreesboro, Tennessee.
But something about this one got me. The strange description. The odd situation about how the G-Wagen was functional and still towed. And the best part: that this all happened with my old, rusty G-Wagen … in Florida. Even with it written out in police-speak, how could this accident report NOT be interesting?
So I paid the twenty bucks, and I got the report. And I also got the surprise of my life.
As I scrolled through it, these are the words that jumped out at me:
HIT AND RUN
SUBJECT VEHICLE FLED SCENE
FATALITY 1
FATALITY 2
It immediately became clear that my G-Wagen was involved in a hit-and-run with multiple fatalities, which—to be honest—is about the kind of accident you expect from a rusty, 100,000-mile G-Wagen registered in Florida and purchased by the fifth owner at a Ford dealership. So I settled in and began reading. I’ll spare you the painstakingly crafted police details of the accident, but here’s the paraphrased report from an officer with the Clearwater Police Department:
“VEHICLE 1 WAS TRAVELING WESTBOUND IN THE RIGHT LANE. TWO PEDESTRIANS WERE CROSSING NORTHBOUND. THE RIGHT FRONT OF VEHICLE 1 STRUCK BOTH PEDESTRIANS, KNOCKING THEM TO THE GROUND. VEHICLE 1 DID NOT STOP AND CONTINUED EASTBOUND. A TRAFFIC HOMICIDE INVESTIGATION WAS CONDUCTED.”
It won’t surprise you to learn that “VEHICLE 1” was none other than my old G-Wagen.
The moment I read this, I figured there was absolutely no way this story could’ve escaped the local media, even down in Florida, where a typical day for the local media involves reporting that a local man attacked another local man with a samurai sword in a dispute over a barbecue grill. So I Googled a few details of the accident, and lo and behold, the story was widely covered: the pedestrians were crossing a bridge illegally, the G-Wagen hit them, and then the G-Wagen took off.
Not only that, but local news websites actually included grainy security footage from some nearby business that showed the G-Wagen fleeing the scene. My G-Wagen, the one sold to me by the horrible Nashville car dealer, the one that I drove for a month before pawning it off on unsuspecting CarMax, the one that looked like the Robert Ballard souvenir from the Titanic … was now shown on poor-quality Florida restaurant security camera footage, fleeing the scene of a fatal traffic accident with major damage to its front end.
So you might be wondering: If the guy left the scene, how did he get caught?
Well, folks, a little bit of advice if you’re ever thinking about committing a hit-and-run: don’t do it in a Mercedes-Benz G-Wagen. Carrying out a hit-and-run in a G-Wagen is like getting a full-body tattoo in bright green, and then walking up to a random guy on the street and punching him in the face. When the cops come, you won’t be described as “some guy with brown hair” or “some guy with blue eyes.” They will tell the cops that the guy who committed this crime was bright green, and then you will be arrested.
And it’s the same story here. Despite the fact that eye witnesses are perhaps the only thing on this earth less reliable than my used Range Rover, several of them were clearly able to describe the tremendously distinctive, boxy, silver highly unique Mercedes in question, even though this was Florida and they were probably all high on opiates.
The next part of the story is where things get especially impressive. The Clearwater Police Department, armed with witness information about the type of vehicle the suspect was driving, began knocking on the doors of every single Mercedes G-Wagen owner registered in the area. And eventually, they knocked on the door of one guy whose G-Wagen had fresh front-end damage and markings that matched the purse of one of the victims he hit.
You know how people complain when their car gets hit in a parking lot, and the damage is limited to a scuff on the bumper, and they call the police screaming and crying, convinced that this person should be arrested and executed by a firing squad, and why the hell can’t the police watch six hours of surveillance footage to figure out who scuffed my bumper? Because they’re out solving cases like this one.
I wish I could offer a little more closure for this story, but unfortunately I can’t. The accident happened on October 18, 2015, and the guy was arrested on November 3. In mid-November, some local news station posted an article about how the guy’s lawyers were using legal tactics to delay the trial, and that’s the last I’ve heard about the whole case. It’s also the last I heard about the G-Wagen: it hasn’t had a hit on its Carfax report since. Probably because it’s sitting in Clearwater police headquarters, next to a confiscated drug smuggling boat and a style manual for writing police reports. (“STEP 1: LOWER CASE LETTERS SHOW WEAKNESS.”)
And so, ladies and gentlemen, I still think you should run Carfax reports on your old cars, because—as you can see—it’s tremendously interesting to find out where they ended up. But before you do it, you should prepare yourself for a morbid possibility: That old car you loved and cherished and washed and waxed and lovingly maintained? It may have killed someone.
The Joys of Alternate Side Parking
I recently had to travel to New York City, which is the greatest city in the world, according to people who believe “the world” stretches from the Port of Newark to whatever Long Island Rail Road stop their parents live on. I go to New York City a lot, for my job.
“But Doug,” you might be saying. “You don’t have a job.”
To which I would reply: “Yeah.”
So anyway, a few weeks ago, I was traveling to New York City in my car. I always take my car to New York City from my home in Philadelphia, which is absolutely blasphemous to anyone I encounter who has ever lived in either place for more than forty-five minutes. This includes some species of warblers. “You take your CAR to NEW YORK?” people ask. “Don’t you know about the TRAIN?!”
My reply to this is always the same: “Yes, I do know about the train. It’s a large silver thing with tracks.” And then I giggle and giggle and giggle, and a few days later this person stops responding to my text messages.
There are many reasons why I prefer driving to New York City instead of taking the train. The most major reason is that the train has a couple of, shall we say, flaws. For example: it doesn’t leave from where I want it to leave, it doesn’t arrive where I want it to arrive, and it doesn’t go at the times I want it to go. Aside from this, I guess the train is fine.
I’ll explain what I mean. There is no parking lot at the downtown train station in Philadelphia, which means I must either park in some expensive garage nearby ($40 per day) or take an Uber there ($12, plus the mental cost of listening to the driver explain how he doesn’t control surge pricing, Uber does). Then I must purchase a ticket ($60 one way) and wait around for the train to come.
Once the train does come, I’ll sit on it for roughly ninety minutes, which is longer than it takes me to drive to New York City, and it will drop me at Penn Station, which is nowhere near where I need to go. So then I must take a taxi ($14 plus tip) or a subway ($2.75, plus medication for whatever disease I get) to reach my destination. In all, the entire process takes two and a half hours and costs at least $80. Then I have to repeat the entire thing in the afternoon.
But in spite of all this, people still think that the train is the better way to get into New York City, and the reason is parking.
There is a general perception, among people who live near New York City, that parking in New York City is tremendously difficult. Impossibly difficult. I get the sense, when I talk to people who live in suburban New York, that if I asked them to choose between parking in Manhattan every day for a month and eating off their own finger, they might think for a second and then reply: “Which finger?”
But I personally think parking in New York City is relatively easy, and the reason for this is something called alternate side parking.
For those of you who aren’t aware of alternate side parking, allow me to explain how this works. New York is the only major city in the entire country that doesn’t give out residential parking permits, which allow residents of a certain area to park for as long as they want, while simultaneously limiting the amount of time visitors can park to only a few hours.
(NOTE: This will undoubtedly lead to at least one angry e-mail from someone in someplace like Charleston, West Virginia, who will say: I AM FROM CHARLESTON WEST VIRGINIA AND WE ALSO DON’T HAVE RESIDENTIAL PARKING PERMITS, ARE YOU SAYING WE AREN’T A MAJOR CITY, IN ADDITION TO BEING THE CAPITAL OF WEST VIRGINIA WE ALSO LEAD THE NATION IN PRODUCTION OF RECEIPT PAPER, SO F*** YOU!!!! To which I will reply: Thank you for the e-mail, and may I just say that you and your cousin look like a fine couple?)
Anyway, instead of these parking permits, what New York City has is alternate side parking.
Here’s what’s supposed to happen: in every residential area throughout Manhattan, a street-sweeping vehicle comes by every day to clean the streets. This is important in New York City, which has for decades led the nation in annual production of discarded plastic cups filled with either wine or urine.
But a street sweeper cannot come by if there are cars parked on the street. So they’ve developed this thing called alternate side parking, whereby two days out of every week, during a ninety-minute period, you must move your car to the alternate side of the street so the street sweeper can come by.
So each residential street is assigned two times each week where this occurs: Some are Monday/Thursday blocks. Some are Tuesday/Friday blocks. Apparently, there is no street sweeping on Wednesdays, which allows the wine-urine to collect in the gutters and ferment overnight. This is how Staten Island gets its drinking water.
So anyway: if you have a car, and you live in Manhattan, and you park it on the street, you have to constantly be aware of the alternate side restrictions. For instance: if you park your car on a Sunday night, and you’re on a Monday/Thursday block, you will have to move your car to the alternate side of the street during the restricted hours on Monday morning (which are usually something like “8:30 to 10:00” or “9:00 to 10:30”).
Once the hours expire, you can move it right back, and then you’re fine until the same time on Thursday. Then you must repeat the same process the next week, and the next week, and the next week, until you find yourself contemplating a violent, bloody suicide because life in Manhattan is so pathetically miserable, at which point you finally move to another city, some quiet town in the Midwest, where you spend the rest of your life telling people how you used to live in New York.
The theory here is that you don’t need neighborhood parking permits when you have this system, because it ensures that all cars get moved at least twice a week. That prevents people from just driving to New York, taking a flight overseas, and leaving their car to rot on some random side street like it’s the front yard of that guy from West Virginia who wrote me the angry e-mail.
Got it?
Now, the thing to note about these “alternate side” streets is that the entire rest of the time— the entire remainder of the week, when these parking spaces are not dictated by the two ninety-minute parking restrictions—you can park there for free, without any limitations.
You don’t need a pass. You don’t need a permit. As long as you’re not parked there on Tuesday or Friday between 10:00 a.m. and 11:30 a.m., or whatever it is, you could show up in a giant, wheeled river otter with South Dakota license plates, and you could park it in between a dumpster and a 1980s Chrysler minivan that serves as a rolling bathroom fixture store/tire repair shop, just to name some typical vehicles they have in New York City, and nobody will bother you. So I always look for these parking spaces when I drive into New York City.
The other thing to note about this whole situation is that “alternate side parking” is a laughable misnomer. You can’t just move your car to the alternate side of the street on Monday, then move it back on Tuesday. There is no available parking on the alternate side of the street. There is no available parking anywhere. To find the next free parking space, you have to drive to Schenectady.
And this leads us back to my experience a few weeks ago.
I had an appointment in Manhattan at 10:00 a.m. on a Monday morning, which meant that I found myself entering the Holland Tunnel in my Range Rover at approximately 10:10 and frantically texting my colleagues to see if we could push back the appointment because, well, I was already ten minutes late and I wasn’t even on the same body of land they were. Fortunately, they said they weren’t ready either—these are the most satisfying words you can hear, if you’re chronically late—and so I made my way to the very first alternate side parking area I found, which was in Greenwich Village.
At the time, my plan was to find some recently expired alternate side parking street, such as one whose restrictions ended at 9:30, or maybe find a free space
on a Tuesday/Friday block. But there was nothing to be found: all the Tuesday/Friday spots were taken, and people had already piled back into the newly expired Monday/Thursday spaces. Soon it was 10:15. Then 10:20. I was seriously late, and I still had a ten-minute walk to the meeting after I parked my car.
But as I drove around, I started to notice something. Even on the blocks that said “NO PARKING: MONDAY/THURSDAY, 9:00 A.M. – 10:30 A.M.,” there were tons of parked cars. But they weren’t just parked. They were … occupied. There were people inside them. People standing around them. Some were chatting. Some were reading the newspaper. Some were doing work. Some had folding chairs set up next to their cars. One couple was—I swear this is true—sitting in the cargo area of an SUV with a cooler and drinks.