So yesterday a famous person was slated to make an appearance at the building across the street from where my kids have class. To make it more exciting, the proposed schedule was this:
- I drop kids off at class: 5:00 pm.
- Celebrity event begins: 6:00 pm.
- I pick up kids, u-turn, and dash down the road to religious ed which is already starting: 6:30 pm.
This does not bode well. Adding to the excitement, I still haven’t checked the oil in the minivan, which leaks oil, so even though the SuperHusband replaced the door handle that had broken off in my daughter’s hand, and fixed the one that threatened to break off in my hand, and generally made all our doors work pretty well, the minivan was right out. Which meant bringing the full-sized work truck, which is fun to drive but not your friend in tight traffic.
Also, I think celebrity security guards have a bias against work trucks.
By which miracle I can’t explain, drop-off goes just fine. I find a meter and park, and then get back for the pick-up line about fifteen minutes early. Just in time, I get the last open slot in the line in front of the building, and I position myself so I’m ready for that u-turn as soon as two little people come out.
There’s a cop guarding the back door of the celebrity-land, and I watch him take his sunglasses on and off a few times. There’s no sign of any event traffic, which is weird because usually big events jam up the place.
A bike cop stops in to chat with the back-door cop. Then a guy in a blue jacket and tie joins them. Security. He’s surveying the scene.
Biased against housewives in work trucks, I’m sure.
He crosses four lanes of no-traffic and approaches my window. It’s already open. “Hey,” I say. “How’s it going?”
He’s got one of those clear spiral cords hanging down the back of his ear and into his shirt, which is how in the movies you know it’s a security guy, and in real life too, apparently. “You know your truck is blocking the road there?” he says.
“Nah, this isn’t blocking the road. Last year it was all double-parked during student pick-up. This is nothing. The kids have a class. All the parents wait here to pick up their kids. This happens every week. It’s a program. This is a classroom building.”
“Your truck is kind of blocking the road.”
In five years of coming to this building, no police officer has ever told the parents we can’t wait along the pick-up lane. I have no reason to think the law has changed this afternoon.
“This is how it works. This is the car line. In five minutes, two little girls are going to come out of that building and we’ll be out of here.”
“You’re blocking the road.”
I look. My truck is maybe taking up 25% of one of the two lanes going in our direction, and they aren’t narrow lanes. No one’s ever had any trouble getting around.
“Nah. I don’t think so. There’s plenty of room.”
“Wouldn’t it be better if you parked on the next block?”
Other than that there are no open spaces down the block, trust me I know my meters and legal parking spaces — because police officers and their allies will ticket you for illegal parking — there’s the small matter of getting two children quickly into the vehicle and off to religious ed.
“No. It would not be better. In just a couple minutes, kids are going to come out of that building, and as soon as mine are loaded I’m going to make a fast u-turn and be down the road.”
I’m not even sure what traffic he’s talking about. I think our celebrity might have over-guessed his fame.
Security guy looks up and down the road. It is virtually empty, because although there are two lanes in either direction, it’s not a busy road. “If traffic picks up, I’m going to have to ask you to move,” he says.
Yeah, okay. I’ve seen a lot of events clog of up the roads in this part of town, and I’m not seeing anything remotely like event traffic. It’s even emptier than usual, really. I give him my ask all you want look, and he jaywalks the 3.75 lanes back to standing with the cop up the hill opposite us.
And then, to my intense pleasure, the city trash truck comes up the other side of the road and stops right in front of him, right in front of the entry drive to that back door he’s guarding so jealously. A trash truck can block far more traffic than I’ll ever do, and they aren’t in a hurry.
No one told the trash guys important people were coming to claim the road, either.
The girls show up, climb in the car, and we’re off. U-turn, done. No sign of anyone trying to claim the back thoroughfare of the rich and famous.
Trash truck is still there.
This is maybe the not the place you want to visit if you’re looking for an awestruck welcome. We don’t scurry quite so easily as all that.
Image: U.S. National Archives and Records Administration [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
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