Towing in justice
Justice is often elusive but very rarely comical. Last week it was both within 24 hours in South Boston and Somerville.
On Thursday night, a friend and I emerged from a doorway to find South Boston exactly as it was an hour earlier. Except that her car was gone. Which in my experience meant one of three things — it had been towed, stolen or, in the embarrassingly oft-repeated saga of my aunt Sylvie, actually parked somewhere else she would only remember after the police and curious onlookers showed up.
Since Sylvie was not involved, since we’d driven around for ages avoiding illegal spots and since you can park anywhere in South Boston that’s not somebody’s lawn, we feared it had been pilfered. But called the nearest towing company — D&D — and, lo and behold, they had it.
The chaps on the night shift were awfully sympathetic. “Talk to the manager tomorrow,” they said. Explain the absence of “No Parking” signage and a refund of the money would be possible, we were told. They, of course, had to take $110 right then. Naturally.
Conversation with the manager comprised my friend asking how she could be expected to obey signs that weren’t there with replies suggesting that she “use her mind or something,” and patient explanations of how he “didn’t care.” I’ve had friends mugged in the past and you can at least reason with thieves — and have later opportunity for recourse. But towing companies are apparently above law and logic. My subsequent call produced “No comment.”
The next night, I was wandering solo in the streets of Somerville seeking sustenance. Revelers were exiting a bar opposite a parking lot where a pair of spiffy lads were remonstrating with a tow truck driver levitating their vehicle. One chatted to him and seemingly struck a deal to pay right then and have his car lowered to liberty.
But before a cent changed paws his pal leapt into the front seat, put his foot to floor, hurdled the curb separating lot from street, and sped off with a screaming screech. His mate sprinted like a cheetah into the milieu of startled imbibers only to be pursued by the would-be tower brandishing a spanner, a broad lexicon of truly colorful expletives and not a hope in Highland Avenue of catching up. I whistled all the way home.
Thomas Keown is a freelance writer living in Somerville.
