At Least I Got to Drive for Five Hours in a Blizzard

Late in the evening of November 14th of 2010, one of my favorite bands, The Decemberists, released their tour schedule for 2011. When I woke the next day to discover this, purchasing a single for the Toronto show (02/01/11) was virtually the first thing I did. I was still wearing my glasses. My breath still smelled like old onions and gym socks. The price wasn’t outrageous—thirty bucks for the ticket, seven for “service” (even though I didn’t get mailed a ticket, or even emailed an image to print, and was told to pick up my stub at the Will Call window), and another two or three in bank fees for foreign currency conversion (despite the fact that the exchange rate of U.S. to Canadian dollars is pretty much 1:1). Then, around the 31st of January, some sinister blizzard was announced. Nature was revving its engine, ready to lambaste not only the Greater Rochester Area, but also Buffalo and Toronto—my entire route was to be buried. I considered how terribly my car drives in the snow (navigating in even the slightest dusting becomes less a science and more an artform), but nevertheless determined I should soldier on. I left at quarter after three, hoping I might sneak through Toronto before rush hour. Toronto’s Gardiner Expressway is a dreadful beast; it’s merciless and equipped with no-warning-style, misleading signage and implausibly poky traffic jams—the latter of which are uncannily always worst when I’ve been on the road for hours, can’t change lanes to exit much less get off without getting lost, and have to pee so badly that going out the window has seemed the most reasonable option. I checked the radar before crossing the border and saw that, if all went according to plan, I’d beat the storm home. On the way up, I didn’t drink more than a liter of water, so I never had to dangle my boy parts out the window and wave apologetically to a neighboring vehicle. I made it to the city without even seeing a snowflake.

Doors opened at eight, and I found the venue by 6:30. It sat right on the shore of Lake Ontario. Things were looking good. Except I couldn’t seem to figure out where to park.

The venue was at the end of a dimly lit alley which was flanked by warehouses with cameras and most of their small gravel back (front?) lots were fenced off, clearly labeled with yellow signs emblazoned in all caps: KEEP OUT. Both sides of the street boasted a plethora of posted signs which warned of imminent towing for those who dared abandon their automobiles. I got the general impression that this was not an empty threat after I turned around, confused, and drove back to the nearby market. The market had ample parking, sure, but was also host to a small armada of tow trucks that I hadn’t noticed when first I cruised by. And so I drove the other way; past the venue and towards a docking area for yachts and cruise ships (which, again, I found gated and locked). A uniformed guard walked around in a lit second story window two or three buildings in from the road. I pressed on.

I crossed a railroad bridge onto an unlit stretch of rough terrain and found at its end a cul de sac with a small sign which said “Cherry Beach.” There were parking spaces, some occupied, but no warning signs, tow trucks, or cops. From there, it would be a twenty-five or thirty minute walk to the venue and it was 14°F. “I’ve suffered worse,” I figured, and made to park. While I sat, debating whether to lock my bag in the trunk or take it with me, I noticed a guttering blue light hovering within a nearby sedan.I stared into it, like a tiny UFO, wondering what in hell it was. About then, the interior lights of the car came on and I saw a blonde brandishing a syringe, and a man with his head tipped back. I started my car, thinking twice about my parking choice. I turned my key and, when my headlights and heat came on, a pair of men who—let’s say I can tell from years of knowing the wrong people—were clearly not officers of the law, but nevertheless armed. I left the junkies to their high, and drove back from the shooting gallery to the venue.

It was seven. Other cars had finally arrived. A great deal of milling about was taking place between idling vehicles. It seemed that, from each auto, one passenger had exited and was wandering aimlessly, bumping into other amblers, all asking where in the hell we were supposed to park. I rolled down my window to eavesdrop and learned that, within five minutes, a gate at the end of the alley would open and the venue’s lot would receive us. When this came to pass, I pulled up to the booth where a twentysomething, embittered by the cold, demanded fifteen dollars.

“Hm. I don’t have any cash. Can you take a card?” I asked.

“Cash only,” he said.

I sighed. “Do you know where in the area there’s an ATM?”

“The market down the way might have one. Otherwise, drive around ’til you find a gas station. There’s one inside, but I can’t let you in to use it since security’s not set up.” I sighed more deeply; made a U-Turn; drove back down the alley and made a left on Cherry St. to again visit the supermarket. Perhaps here a brief aside is in order.

I don’t carry cash. Ever. Usually, I’ll have a small amount on me—$20 or less—in case of “emergency” (which, in my experience, is a category which has since the invention of the cell phone and the end of my drug-buying days includes only “lattes” and “unexpected road tolls”). Unexpectedly increased road tolls en route to Toronto had depleted my already limited paper and coinage funds to $2.75. This cashlessness may seem idiotic, and perhaps it is. But I’ve been mugged three times. I’ve lost teeth, broken ribs, had my nose broken, my knee hyperextended, my cornea lacerated. I’ve had my wallet emptied, a new phone swiped, and, when I was just eighteen, some jerk in a windbreaker with a semiautomatic jammed in his waistband took my twenty bucks and my meth and cigarettes. When stolen, cash is gone. A credit card can be canceled, as can a phone. Besides, when you need quick cash, there’s always an ATM. And when was the last time you said, “Before I take this day trip, I had better check the structural integrity of all my bank and credit cards”?

At T&T, the Asian supermarket a block away, I discovered my ATM card had snapped smack in the middle of its magnetic strip. Twice. Uneven pressure in my wallet had caused this never-removed card to become extremely fragile. Attempting to extricate it, I tore it apart like perforated paper. Easier, actually. This was a problem. I tried Scotch tape but the machine wouldn’t read my card the first time I tried it; the second, it tore the bloody thing apart (and I think I may have ruined its reader slot). I was left with $2.75 and a credit card. I rubbed my temples. I knew what I had to do. I got back in my car, cranked the heat, flipped over my credit card, and called the 800 service number to ask how one goes about getting a cash advance.

No one, except idiots and addicts, uses the 19% interest + 3% service fee cash advance feature of a credit card, but I didn’t seem to have any other choice. The friendly gentleman on the other end of the call informed me that I could get a cash advance in one of two ways. I could bring the card into any financial institution and ask for the cash. No dice: ten after seven, the bankers were at their homes. The second method was to insert the credit card into any ATM and use its PIN. Simple as that. Except I’d accidentally done it once, put my credit card into an ATM instead of my ATM card, and I learned the hard way (after the machine ate my credit card because of one too many unsuccessful attempts) that my credit card’s PIN was assuredly not the same as my bank card. I never bothered to find out the correct PIN because, again, only an idiot would use the card for a cash advance. I told the gentleman I didn’t know my credit card’s PIN. He told me that the best he could do was to issue me a replacement PIN, which would arrive in my mailbox in about two business days.

“So you’re telling me, basically, that I’m screwed.”

“Well, you could try to buy something in a store and see if they’ll give you cash back.”

“That works with credit cards?”

“Oh sure,” he said.

I hung up and went to work. I drove for over an hour, hit a few convenience stores to no avail. I hit up four gas stations, asked if they’d give me cash back with a purchase. Four strikes. I hit a fifth (with the same result), but this time waited in the parking lot for other patrons to pull in. I offered to fuel up their cars with $30 of gasoline in exchange for $15 cash. I was met with three wordless shakes of the head before the attendant chased me off the premises. I tried to see myself from the outside and came to a pair of realizations: #1) Sensibly, I never give money to That Guy who shuffles up with some hard luck story about needing a few bucks for a bus/cab ride/gas/a snack; #2) These people were being slightly less reasonable, since That Guy is never brandishing a platinum card with two additional forms of photo ID to prove it isn’t stolen. I drove back toward the venue, hoping maybe for the clemency of the attendant. On the way, I stopped some hipsters and asked if maybe I could pick them up some swag from the merch table in exchange for cash. “Vinyl, tee shirt, bumper stickers, buttons—whatever.” I’m good, dude, was the first kid’s reply. The second didn’t even let me finish my story.

It was eight-forty. I returned to the gate and found a different attendant. I pled my case. No ATM will take a credit card; my ATM card was in shreds; I had no cash and had driven 150 miles to make the show. The kid wouldn’t even look at me. I said, “Dude, I will cheerfully charge $30 to park. $45. I just don’t want to have driven all the way up here for nothing.”

“Can’t help you,” he said.

“Is there anything I can do? Do you have any ideas? Is there anywhere else to park where I won’t get towed?”

“Can’t help you,” he said. “I need to get to the people behind you.” He waved me off.

I drove slowly away from the venue. Looked left and saw the gates and cameras and No Parking signs. Looked right and saw the blocked driveways of other businesses’ unwelcoming lots. I drove up and down the main strip, Cherry, looking for anyplace I wouldn’t get towed. The roads didn’t even have shoulders. The trucks loomed, as I said, and I didn’t relish the prospect of an on-foot, cashless, midnight search to find out which Canadian auto impound lot had seized my vehicle. I drove back to the shooting gallery in the cul de sac past the marina. Still a few cars with folks inside. Still a few goons shambling between them. It was nine. The opening act would be half over. I drove down some dead end roads farther away. I found a gated salt mine with cameras. Motion-activated lights. And the walk would be forty minutes or more. Shoulderless roads still sported the occasional No Parking: You WILL be towed sign.

I drove back towards the venue one last time. That same attendant sat ready. I drove into the market’s lot. Three tow trucks rumbled. There had been a fourth and fifth. It was nine-thirty when I finally decided it was time to drive home. Which is when the snow began to fall. My three-hour drive became a five; I crawled home between thirty and forty, white-knuckled, and fishtailing; almost nudged off the road on more than one occasion by someone in a hurry with a four-by-four. At the border, the customs agent asked me for my ticket stub. He examined the confirmation receipt I was to have presented to Will Call and he was, to his credit, perceptive enough to ask, “Aren’t you a little early coming back from an 8:00 concert?” I told him the story. He asked me to produce the ATM card; I had to explain three times that my credit card would not work in an ATM. He asked incredulously why I couldn’t scrape together fifteen dollars from inside the car somehow. It was another ten minutes, a search of the trunk, and some very pointed questions about my missing spare tire before he let me go.

Elapsed Time: 10 hours

Itemized Bill: $40 for ticket; $40 for gas to Toronto; $40 for gas home from Toronto; $8 in bridge and thruway tolls; and one can’t forget the six hours of wages and tips I missed out on to take the trip.

Total Cost: ≥$218

Thanks to the Sound Academy, at 11 Polson St., for mentioning on its website that parking is either expensive or impossible.