"Well, the Jerk Store Called..."
As we meandered down Lafayette Street, we passed three rough-looking guys outside of what we believed to be a rehab center. They were visibly and audibly disturbed by something.
"He's a fucking jerk!" one guy wearing chains and khaki-colored sweats yelled, gesturing at the street. "He's bumped into all the cars already!"
The Boyf and I turned to see some guy in a tiny vintage Porsche that was sandwiched between a green sedan and a white minivan with Florida license plates. And when I say "sandwiched," I mean sandwiched. He was trying to parallel park his penismobile where a parking space did not exist. You couldn't slide a sheet of paper in between this Porsche's bumper and either of the two cars.
And then Porsche guy hit the gas. Hard.
It was like watching a bad comic farce in action: As he jimmied his Porsche back and forth between the two cars, he would ram one car at least a foot, brake, put his car into drive, wait until the minivan rolled back to resting position, then he'd do it over again, in the opposite direction, with the sedan. This continued for at least three minutes.
All the while, the Boyf and I were watching in horror, not believing we were actually seeing this, and the bedraggled rehab guys are yelling at the street: "He's a fucking jerk! No! No! Don't do that! He's a fucking jerk!"
Porsche guy finally decided he had wedged his vintage automobile so tightly between the cars so that no one -- not even him -- would be able to pull out, and he exited his vehicle, with his longish brown hair and professorial green blazer, to inspect his job. The Boyf and I scurried along because we thought he was going to come after us, but no. He circled his car, and, apparently satisfied, left.
I think the lesson I learned is this: When rough-and-tumble rehab-center guys are repeatedly yelling on the streets of New York that you're a jerk, you probably are. And how.