A late model Dodge Durango has been parked in front of our house for a couple of weeks now. My husband and I live on a short, narrow street in the historical section of Sag Harbor. I have a general disdain of SUVs for obvious, gas-guzzling reasons. I assume their drivers are hoggy, inconsiderate, and motivated by self-entitlement. I rarely admit that I used to own one and loved it. But now, like a reformed smoker (I used to do that too) who hates cigarettes (the worst kind) I have turned on SUVs and their owners with self-satisfied, self-righteous indignation. But my nasty feelings for this particular Durango have more to do with the space it has been claiming on our street.
I want to leave a mean, anonymous note for its owner but I never do. Each day I imagine something clever to say in the note I never write. Like many houses in the village, we don’t have a driveway or a garage. And since there are two major “remodels” happening on either side of us—there has been a shortage of available parking space for those who live on the street.
Who would be so self-involved to park this big honking thing in front of our house and leave it for days? While the rest of us (good citizens, we are) cleared our vehicles from the street for the snow plows to do their jobs last week in the storm, the Durango taunted at the curb. Where was its owner? On vacation? In the city? For days, it sat covered in snow—a parking ticket poking from its windshield. Even when the snow melted it remained—ticket be damned.
I eventually peered through the tinted windows hoping to find some identification. I was ready to call the owner and give him or her a piece of my mind. On the passenger seat was a fashionable pair of sunglasses and a lipstick. Two empty coffee cups sat in the cup holder. A business card from a local hair salon had an appointment written across it. In the rear cab, a cozy old quilt was spread for a dog. The same stuff anyone might find on any day in my car.
