Criminals of Park Slope

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“While you are imagining two-year-olds with education consultants, I am imagining deranged, bipolar bankers with kitchen knives hacking the life out of all four of my tires.”

I know what you think of Park Slope, Brooklyn.  You think it’s the kind of place where two-year-olds have education consultants.  You think that because they do.  However, I would like to introduce you to a seedier side of Park Slope, a side that, as a Jersey City resident, I feel I have a duty to inform you about.  While you are imagining two-year-olds with education consultants, I am imagining deranged, bipolar bankers with kitchen knives hacking the life out of all four of my tires.  At least that is the best explanation for the scene of carnage befell us on Saturday night, at the close of a glorious, nine-hour pumpkin party at our friends’ place in the infamous Park Slope, land of nannies, double-wide strollers and Ivy League bound ankle-biters.

The party was something to behold; it even had its own pumpkin-themed Twitter account:

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There were scores of pumpkin beers from all walks of life, well from all walks of hipster-artisanal microbreweries.  Blue Moon and Post Road were strictly prohibited, per the invitation.  There were personalized, pumpkin beer mugs, pumpkin soufflé, Thai pumpkin soup, calabaza en tacha (candied pumpkin), pumpkin chili, pumpkin lasagna, pumpkin kootu (pumpkin lentils with curry leaves & dried red chilies), vanilla & butterscotch pumpkin pie fudge, pumpkin cupcakes and, let’s not forget, pumpkin cheesecake!

After hours of decadent Park Slope fun and hours to recover from it, we left the party on a pumpkin-high.  We piled into our car, preparing ourselves for the long trip home across two rivers.  My husband turned on the car and noticed that the tire light was on.  “Oh, no,” he said, “I think we have a flat.”

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He climbed out of the car to inspect.  What he found was not one flat, but FOUR.  All four of our tires had been slashed by what was apparently a VERY large knife.  My husband called the police, and I called three tow companies and two tire shops.  At this point, it was nearing 1A.M., and that last slice of pumpkin cheesecake caught up with me.  Also, I had no jacket, which is never a good thing.  I turned on the seat warmer and curled into a tight, cat-like ball in the passenger seat, muttering incoherently, “I’m so cold; I’m so cold.”

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The rest of the night is a total blur.  This little cat slept as the NYPD showed up, slept as the tow truck hefted her ten feet into the air and rolled her to the nearest tire shop, a tire shop that incidentally had no tires.  This little cat slept as the tire guy ate chili con carne and watched “Man of Steel” dubbed in Spanish.

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She slept as the other tire guy hoisted her another four feet up to replace three of the four tires.  She slept as they put on the spare, for the lack of a fourth.  She slept across two rivers, all the way to home-sweet-home in the Jersey City ghetto, where things like this NEVER happen.

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