As a child of the '60s, I remain a big fan of the "demonstration." You know what I mean: the grand, principled act of defiance doomed to spectacular but noble failure. My generation was weaned on these things. It's all about earnestly protesting injustice while making things worse. By God, we closed down Chicago! Which got Nixon elected!
Sure, we are older and softer now. But the urge to perpetrate a futile, suicidal act remains in our gut, under the fat rolls. It doesn't take much of an affront to trigger that urge, though nowadays the affront is less likely to be about a threat to democracy than about a threat to, like, our lawn. Or, to the case in point, our parking privileges.
In my neighborhood in downtown Washington — just a block or two from a Metro stop — many people own cars and park them on the streets, but drive them only on weekends. Unfortunately, every once in a while the city schedules street maintenance, requiring a specific thoroughfare to be cleared of cars. The city informs the residents of this by putting out signs near the parked cars on a Tuesday, ordering all vehicles to be gone by Thursday. But since we do not visit our cars during the workweek, we do not see the signs. So, inevitably, on the day of the scheduled maintenance, there are many cars still left on the street. They are towed.
I know what you are thinking. You are thinking: "That's so unfair! It's time to shackle yourself to a fire hydrant for a month and urinate into Coke cans!"
Relax. The city is not without a heart. In such a case, the cops do not tow your car to an impound lot, where you'd have to ransom it from guys with more tattoos than teeth. They merely tow your car to a vacant spot on an adjoining street.
So, really, it is not that big a deal, except for the disconsolate reconnaissance-trudge around the neighborhood to find your car.
When this happened to me last month, however, there was a new wrinkle: The cops had towed my car to an illegal parking spot, where, the next day, it received a $50 ticket. NOW was the time for the shackles and Coke cans.
Sure, I could have paid the ticket, but that would have been Buckling Under to The Man. I decided instead on a two-tier approach. Tier One was to dither around for weeks until the fine doubled, thereby raising the stakes in an exciting fashion. Tier Two was to take a day off from work and go to D.C. traffic court to protest.
The first case that was called involved a guy who wore a sweatshirt that said "Gallaudet" on the front. On the back, across the shoulders, it said "Harvard." I had never seen a double-college sweatshirt before. It seemed to make no sense, though it turned out there was a logical explanation. (See how smart you are. I'll give it up at the end of the column.)
Anyway, the hearing examiner seemed to be a reasonably lenient person. The young woman before me was challenging a ticket for an expired meter. She claimed she had put plenty of money in the meter, and her only explanation for her ticket was: "Maybe it didn't accept my change or sumpin'." She got a reduced fine.
You are thinking: "Hey! This seems like an okay judge! Possibly a simple, straightforward explanation will do the trick."
You idiot. Haven't you been reading this? "Doing the trick" is not the point. Winning was not nearly as important as Questioning Authority.
I informed the hearing examiner that although a strict reading of the law might imply my guilt, "I am going to argue for the triumph of reason and enlightenment over dogma. I contend that we must adhere to the Platonic ideal of pure justice, as opposed to the mindless and conscienceless imposition of the will of the state."
The hearing examiner began looking at her watch.
I narrated the circumstances of my ticket, emphasizing the terrible unfairness of it all.
"I have a meeting to attend," the hearing examiner said.
I continued: "Ours is a troubled world, plagued by the tyranny of fundamentalist thinking that allows no dissent and no appeal to reason. I'm not saying that if you rule against me, it is a victory for the terrorists, but . . ."
"Okay," she interrupted. "I'll give you the benefit of the doubt."
No, wait!
"Case dismissed."
But I had so many important points that had gone unsaid!
I won, but I lost. It was a paradox, just like the sweatshirt on that guy.
His name was Russell Harvard.
