Pimp My Ride was a blight, an eyesore, and, worst of all, a waste of a good parking spot. It was also a de facto dumping spot for unscrupulous contracting types (is that redundant?), a pissoir for young and old drunkards, and a giant, silver stress ball for any number of neighborhood children, who (as you can see) took the time to slowly denude it of its windows, wipers, mirrors, bumpers, etc.

How it came to rest on our street is somewhat of a mystery--as far as the owners of Pimp My Ride go, no one knows who they were or what they were doing, not unlike the Druids.

Lentz the neighbor* and I often joked that we were going to firebomb it and invite the entire neighborhood to dance in the glow of the flames, singing "Do You Hear the People Sing?"** Surely, if the fire department came, they would take the car away, and rid us of Pimp My Ride, once and for all.

A few months ago, the greenhorn traffic cop who'd been peppering our block with parking tickets (And yeah, like we're going to observe those signs that no one's paid attention to since Abe Beame was in office. Best wishes for all your endeavors, B. Lao!) took note of Pimp My Ride and would leave a new ticket on its sad, cracked windshield daily. Soon, Pimp My Ride was festooned like a forlorn, orange Christmas tree. I had hope. I thought to myself, NOW someone will come tow this mickeyrickey away, what with all these scofflaw citations.

Ha ha ha ha ha. No, see, this is how it works: Private tow companies purchase lists of these most-wanted cars--the ones with two or more unpaid tickets. They drive around looking for these cars. And they tow the best ones. Ergo and thusly, Pimp My Ride remained. What's worse, I began to suspect that B. Lao had tipped off all the other traffic cops to this sweet spot--the go-to vehicle for all your parking-ticket-quota needs.

So imagine my surprise the other night when N and I, coming home from work, walked right past the spot where Pimp My Ride once sat. I froze. "N! It's gone!"

I called Lentz. "It's gone?" he exclaimed, and as I scanned the spot on the pavement where only an smattering of detritus and really tall weeds (who knew?) remained, I couldn't rightly confirm that Pimp My Ride was, in fact, gone. It seemed almost like there was a station-wagon-shaped hole in the fabric of the universe creating this optical illusion.

I realized that although I wasn't exactly sad to see it go, I was feeling a bit disappointed that it just disappeared without any fanfare.

I had scripted, cast, and filmed this day in my mind, you see. First the flatbed truck with the giant speakers and wooden crates would arrive and broadcast the announcement inviting the residents of the block to come down and witness the spectacle. Then the wooden crates would be offloaded and cracked open, revealing fire axes and sledgehammers, which would be handed out to every last man, woman, and child in the crowd. We'd all have our turn taking whacks at Pimp My Ride. A selection of Guns N Roses' greatest hits would be played. After about an hour, a tow truck would take away what was left, and we'd all go back into our apartments.

There wouldn't be any of that, naturally. It's almost more appropriate that Pimp My Ride, its last years spent in silent entropy, ended up fading away rather than burning out. I wonder how many of our neighbors even gave its disappearance--much less its existence--a second thought, though. One has to assume that Pimp My Ride resided on our block for as long as it did for no other reason than total collective ambivalence. I realize now, though, that as much as I hated Pimp My Ride, I also loved it. And I wish I'd taken the time to get to know its history. And to light it on fire.

*I've accused him on more than one occasion of being the owner of PMR, because it did have Vermont plates and ironic bumperstickers on it. His sister insisted that he's never owned a Ford Taurus stationwagon. I suppose his sister wouldn't lie.
**Alternately, we also discussed scenarios in which we doused PMR with accelerant, lit it up, and then both threw ourselves into the flames in an act of double-sati.