San Francisco, 1974
My first SF apartment
was on Union Street, near Octavia, in an area known as "Cow Hollow."
picture of my '65 Volvo (taken from my living room window), you'll notice
the open garage doors.
fellow kept his nice, late '50s Mercedes Benz in there - not unlike this
One day I observed the
car's owner (I'll call him Mr. M) arriving at his garage to find an unauthorized
car blocking his access to it. Now, this was not an unusual situation
for those who used those
garages as "legal" parking in that area was almost impossible to find at
times (it was a very busy neighborhood of shops and restaurants).
On this particular occasion
the guy must have snapped. I watched as he got a screwdriver (or an ice
pick) out of his car, and proceed to puncture and flatten both of
the right side tires
on the offending vehicle. He then drove off, probably to look for parking
somewhere else. A short while later a young woman showed up, got into
the car with the flattened
tires, and drove away. (She certainly couldn't have gone too far before
discovering her problem, but how she dealt with it I cannot say.)
Now, as a rule, when
Mr. M took his car out of the garage, he would close the doors, leaving
his unlocked padlock hanging from its hasp. Soon after the above
incident took place,
I went downstairs and took a look at the padlock he used, a basic Master
Lock variety. It just so happened that I had an identical lock. So,
the next time I was
aware of his Benz being out of its garage, I went downstairs and replaced
his lock with mine. Mr. M returned his car to the garage not too
long afterwards, closed
the doors, and locked them...with my lock! I waited a short while, and
then went downstairs with the key to my lock, and opened his
garage, where I proceeded
to deflate all four tires on his Benz. (I didn't puncture them, I just
removed the valve stems, thereby not doing much, if any real
harm to his tires.)
I finished my "dastardly" task, closed the garage doors again, and re-locked
them using Mr. M's lock.
Unfortunately, I wasn't
around when Mr. M discovered his, er, predicament, but I think he
may have carried the thought of that moment to his grave.
Ah, sweet revenge!
The End =
to my daily drivers page