{Two Weeks: Giving Notice} to Hoboken, New Jersey

I never lived in Hoboken—could never stomach the property values. Sure, it’s a cool place. But, the same that’s said about owning a boat (What’s better than owning a boat? Having a friend who does.) can be said about the city of Hoboken. I always partook in the city through a sponsor. Let’s walk through a typical non-resident weekend in Hoboken:

Wake up, rub away the black eyeliner that, through capillary action, now appears a third of the way down your cheeks. Stagger into bathroom, brush teeth recklessly. Try to turn on the TV. Fail. (Why has it become impossible to turn on somebody else’s television, unless you’ve completed a webinar on the subject?) Flip through magazine, waiting for host to rise. Finally. Stamp feet into boots, black of course; amble over to Bagel Smashery for a coffee and a sandwich. Inevitably run into someone you know, ask if she wants to join you at Cheap Maggie’s; you need to procure something new for tonight. Spot another associate at Black Bear; stop in for a pint. Lounge from 2-6. More coffee. Preparation for Le Tour de Hoboken: North Jersey’s best known obstacle course through a series of bars and restaurants with an animal, geolocation, or numeral in the name. Rinse. Repeat.

All that’s over now. A few years ago, I quit Hoboken.

I know what you and your raised eyebrow are thinking. Quit? Or did you age out?

Well, before that could happen, I decisively quit HobokenNJ.gov.

There are two types of people in this world: those who are good at directions, and me.

As I write this, I realize I must give a description of where I was instructed to park, and where I actually did. This is information critical to the story, and… I am so totally hopeless about directions that I can’t even find the words to describe the park-and-ride in which my boss wanted me to leave my car for a few hours.

It was silly, really, as we had a meeting later that day in New Jersey; I shouldn’t have to come into our NYC office for an 8 A.M. powwow. She knew it, too, but insisted it would be a breeze to locate this parking lot, somewhere vaguely after the last Turnpike tollbooths, but before the Lincoln Tunnel.

Reader, where do you live? Is it a place with twice daily crippling traffic? Has the following quote ever been uttered about one of the major arteries: “Time for some traffic problems in Fort Lee“?

I need you to, please, visualize predictably awful traffic.

Now think about the predictably awful people who must endure it, every day of their miserable lives. Looks something like this:

Now inject little me into the equation, a virgin in navigating these traffic patterns, late as usual, knowing my limitations on, uh, finding stuff. See the pintsize black car tiptoeing behind a white oversize van, leaving too much space behind the car in front of it? Look hard, it’s a shy little thing, cringing with one headlight. That’s me.

What was intended to happen was that I would successfully traverse these conditions, landing at an unnamed parking lot on either the complete right hand side of the highway, or the complete left hand side. You see where I’m going here; obviously neither happened.

Instead I found myself in Hoboken.

In a state where officials can create traffic problems for their own amusement, it’s no surprise that the parking conditions in Hoboken are treacherous. Permit only zones, street sweeping rules, meters that max out at two hours… supporting a population that’s increased by 30 percent in five years’ time. This was where I’d park my car.

After a half hour of stark raving circling, I found a spot. It required a mile walk to the PATH train—the mode of transportation between Hoboken and New York City—so it seemed reasonable that this, indeed, was a viable parking spot.

Nevertheless, I was experienced enough in the School of Shady Towns to double down on a double check and perform a four-point inspection:

• Hydrant?  No.
• Yellow curb?  Nada.
• Meter?  None.
• Sign?  Nope.

I was in business.

I jogged to the train, slid through the turnstile, and waited for the bantam train car that would wallop me around for this leg of my sojourn.

Fifteen minutes late to the staff meeting, on-time to the client meeting later that day… annndd two hours late back at my car, according to ticket slapped on the windshield. In case I didn’t get the message, there was also a boot clamped onto the back tire.

My boss, you know, the one whose vague directions led me to copiously overshoot her mythical parking lot, deposited me roadside.

“Ooh,” she said, face screwed up into a wince, “That sucks.” She paused. “Welp, see you tomorrow.” I like to remember her driving away in a Mr. Bean-ass car, three cartoon puffs of smoke out the tailpipe.

I cursed her good as soon as she was out of eyesight. But not as good as I cursed the city of Hoboken.

You overrated, pothole-ridden, piss-sodden, down-trodden, dirty, bougee, vomit-infuseé, scapegoating, sin-promoting, crooked hobo haven.

Plus maybe some expletives.

The story does not end here. I mean of course it doesn’t end there. Because I had to wait an hour for the totally legitimate criminal ring to arrive and remove the boot from my car. I especially enjoyed the condescension with which he did so. That fool got cursed too. F*ck all y’all.

The pièce de résistance, though, was the $250 parking ticket I faced.

Two hundred and fifty dollars.

“Oh yeah, that’s the going rate,” said my genius then-boyfriend (now genius husband… and just to clarify, ‘genius’ is in fact his title, not another wry adjective for the sake of this tale). “Yeah, it’s a scam. They want you to park in the garages, which, word is, are mob-owned. So they’re in cahoots with the parking authorities.”

He was sympathetic, though, and helped me prepare for the trial of the century.

Jillakiss v. The City of Hoboken.

I had photographed the location of my car, then walked twenty paces and took another picture. I did this nine times before happening upon the sign that was supposed to indicate this was a permit only zone. If one pace = one yard, the scientifically imperfect, yet totally reliable equation would show:

Essentially, I was expected to take my cues from a sign that Hoboken’s own Eli Manning couldn’t hit with a Hail Mary, much less even read.

I printed out the photos and taped them to a large posterboard. I supplemented Exhibit A with Exhibit B, a Google Maps-assisted diagram that showed exactly how far my car had been parked from the sign—182 yards. It was all very logical.

But my case was missing something.

What it had in substance, it lacked in delicious drama. Where was the A-ha moment? The mouth-watering detail that I could drop and a murmur would rise up from the crowd, rendering the judge to bang his gavel, shouting, “Order! ORDER!”

Genius boyfriend found it.

“Check it out!” he exclaimed, clicking from Google Maps standard view to street view. “There used to be a sign!”

There used to be a sign. There was photo evidence of it.

He went on to explain that a big storm had passed through Hoboken and a lot of the municipal properties had been damaged and not yet replaced. I dunno, I sort of stopped listening at some point. All that mattered was that the sign five yards from my car had at one point existed, but did not presently.

I screengrabbed that ish and added it to my poster. Then I mailed in my appeal to the ticket and got my court date.

The irony of stashing my car in Paulie Walnuts’s parking garage while off fighting the parking authorities was not lost on me. I walked to the courthouse, Hudson River winds whipping. I clutched my bespoke poster with the grip of a 29 year-old adult baby, because that’s exactly what I was.

Court was dreadful.

Impatiently but with a growing degree of confidence, I looked on as two dozen hooligans had their charges reduced from drunk and disorderly to disturbing the peace. And they didn’t even have signs!

Finally it was my turn. I approached the bench, poster in hand. The judge, in the judgiest of ways, peered at us over his spectacles.

“Your court date is set for November tenth, two weeks from today.” Bang.

“N-no,” I stammered. “My court date was set for today.”

“Two weeks!” he bellowed.

Outside the courtroom, I tried to figure out what had just happened. The officer stationed at the check-in area chuckled, striking an impeccable balance of amusement to let me know he thought I was an idiot, but not too much that he could be culpable for it. I showed him the stub from my ticket, the carbon copy of which I’d mailed back with my appeal.

“No, hon, see, the officer who ticketed you would have to be here for you to appeal. He’s not here today.”

“B-b-but doesn’t that mean…” I tried to recall the JV legal education I’d received from one Casey Novak… “Doesn’t that mean that… I win?”

He chuckled some more. “No, hon, you have to set the court date for him to be here. Maybe then you would win.”

Totally crestfallen, I retreated to my car.

I paid $25 to the garage attendant. I thought of it as a 10 percent tip on the $250 ticket I was still on the hook for.

Turns out, I was right—by mailing back my appeal, I had set the court date. The officer’s absence meant the ticket should have been overturned. Let alone, my poster. But alas, when the cops are in bed with the courts and the mafia controls the streets, best believe your girl was still paying the fine.

But I’m a principled lass, and I vote with my wallet. Those were the last dollars I would ever pay to that corrupt-ass city. So on October 27th 2011, I quit Hoboken. 👋 Boy, bye.