Cops, Snow, Tickets Harry Barefoot Boy From Peach State

The Gainesville, Ga., Dally Times

(Mr. Meyer drives a 1946 Pontiac and is trying to wangle a 1951 Plymouth.)

A Cambridge mayor, now renowned, declared, "God put the snow on the streets and God can take it away."

If this was intended to establish police policy regarding automobiles as well, I would like to inform his honor of its neglect. Now, they even clear the streets of cars.

And, judging from the fender bruises, they haul the cars in with a snowplow, too.

I left Georgia's mellow clime to immerse myself in the study of city planning. I have becomes, and it may be just as well, an authority on the city traffic law of Cambridge.

Parking tickets, especially, are my meat. I have managed to get tagged even when legitimately parked. That one said, "This space is only for people employed at Sanders Theater." Thornton Wilder and I are jointly employed in that hall at ten o'clock on Tuesdays and Thursdays . . . he in talking, and I in listening. Does HE get tickets?

Wuts in the Carburetor

Only an exquisite talent explains a ticket on Quincy street. Of a line of forty cars, many of them sleek, foreign beauties, I acquired the only ticket. An adjacent vehicle had been parked so long the squirrels were storing acorns in its carburetor. Another rested with its front bumper peeling the bark from President Conant's prize hemlock tree. Who got the old tag? Don't ask ridiculous questions.

After the big snow I located my set of wheels by the red plastic tip on the antennae which barely protruded from the drifts. But when I approached it I saw that the police had tunneled in their cute way to the right windshield wiper. Adding insult to injury they tied the tag to the rubber part of the wiper with a knot any boatswain would have admired. It defied knives and fingernails. Finally, I stripped it off and the rubber left the wiper like a peel leaving a banana.

It being the better part of valor to get my car out of there, I held my breath, climbed in through a window and pressed the starter. It wouldn't start. Early the next morning the Cambridge rescue squad dug me out. There was a ticket on the other windshield wiper.

Tickets Can Be Avoided

Tickets can be avoided. Carry in your car a tiny hammer, say four pounds or so. When you park, give the meter a nudge with it and write on the meter "Out of Order." Your car won't be molested for weeks.

Another method is sporting, but involves more risk. When you park leave three nickels on the meter. No police officer has the energy to insert a coin in the meter, but even one who spends his days shouting "don't walk" and "walk now" from the warm comfort of the Harvard Square shack will appreciate your good intentions. Unless some hungry lad from Adams House wanders by you will get both a free park and your nickels back. Of course, the necessity of prior investment takes the keen edge off this tactic.

By far the best way--and at the same time the least obvious--places you in a position of power. Simply double park in front of the main subway entrance, lock your car and walk off. You get double value. No one would dare steal your car from under the very eyes of the law and the novelty and audacity of your strategem will completely bewilder the traffic officer.

If none of these devices proves successful for you, let me tell you what to do with your car. I express my appreciation to the clerk in the Cambridge Police traffic department who told me:

"Sell it!"