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CAR EXPERIENCE  |
Sometimes the privileges
of rank aren't worth it
of TheColumnists.com
About 100 years ago--ahh, it was only 50 years ago--I
was a corporal in the United States Army serving in Japan at
a place called Camp Drake.
I worked in a public information office for the Army and wrote
occasional articles for the Army newspaper Stars and Stripes.
This was in the days when we all served our country in something
called the draft. Everybody went unless you were dead or very
rich.
It was only eight or nine years after the end of World War II.
The Soviets were making lots of noise in those days and we kept
a big Army going so that the Cold War never became hot.
Somewhere along the line, the draft ended. A big mistake. Every
kid in this country should be forced to serve for a couple of
years so we don’t have a Vietnam Army of lottery-stricken
grunts or volunteers or the minority, poverty stricken volunteer
military of the Iraq era.
In the World War II Army, Korean Army in which I served, the
Vietnam Army or today’s Iraq Army, one thing has not changed:
Rank has its privileges. Maybe a lot like life. We used to explain
away every discomfort with the expression, “RHIP.”
That meant corporals like me had better been places and better
hot dogs at cheaper prices in the NCO club. Non-commissioned
officers for you civilian types.
Of course the officers, lieutenants and up, always lived better,
worked cleaner and lounged easier than we did because of their
rank.
I often interviewed officers up to generals in their offices
and quarters, so got a good sense of how they lived. I once interviewed
General Matthew Ridgeway in Korea and in later years actually
interviewed General Douglas MacArthur. That was after he had
left the Army--his “Old soldiers never die” period--and
moved into the luxury of the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel in New York
City.
He had been asked to mediate an athletic battle between the Amateur
Athletic Union and the National Collegiate Athletic Association.
It was fun to see how this old soldier lived on our tax money.
His wife, Jean, lived there until she died at the age of 101
on tax money a few years back.
RHIP.
All of this military memory came back to me recently in the strangest
way possible. My car was boosted by the New York City Police
Department off a busy Manhattan Street.
We working reporters in New York City can obtain special license
plates with an "NYP" on the tag standing for "New
York press." It allows us to sneak close to the scene of
the story.
It also allows us to park our cars in busy Manhattan, even when
not on a story, in special reserved spots. The city puts up signs
reading NYP plates only. We park in those spots with those special
license plates. Anyone else tries it and the city removes their
car to a pound. That’s $185 bucks to get it back, thank
you.
So using my RHIP privilege I parked my car the other day on one
of Manhattan's busiest streets at this time of the year, Sixth
Avenue, a block away from the huge Rockefeller Center Christmas
tree, one of New York’s most thrilling and traditional holiday
sights.
It was a beautful New York fall afternoon, mild temperatures,
kids chatting with Santa Claus, chestnuts roasting in the open
fires. You know the New York holiday drill.
My wife and I were off to a Saturday theater matinee with a wonderful
dinner scheduled at a fashionable restaurant in the earlier evening.
This was just the kind of day old newspaper guys like me dream
about in our leisurely years.
No deadlines, no pressures, nothing to write. Just fun in the
New York fall sun.
We walked casually back from the theater late in the afternoon
as the sun was setting to drive over to the restaurant. The crowds
were huge. The traffic was incredible. The lines formed at the
tree location. This was December in New York City.
No car.
What a shocker. The NYP parking spots were all empty. Just a
small panic. I knew where the parking pound was. We hailed a
cab and went there. It was going to be an extra $185 day.
When we made it to the grubby pound, the car was nowhere in any
computer. The cops were understanding of the problem but not
very helpful.
One cop said the car was probably “relocated” because
of the crowds and the traffic. The cop explained that even cars
with NYP plates and in legitimate parking areas are sometimes
“relocated” to ease the traffic flow.
I had never heard the term before and knew nothing of this practice.
One helpful cop said “relocated” cars are usually placed
within four blocks north, south, east or west of where they once
sat.
Try looking for your car in that kind of area without a hint
of where it might be.
The next morning with our son’s car leading us around, my
car was finally located by my sharp-eyed wife, Janet, a couple
of blocks away and reclaimed off a Manhattan street free of charge.
We drove home safely.
The only other time I had ever heard the expression “relocated”
was when Nazi Germany used it to describe the exodus of Jews.
At least, our car survived.
So the next time you civilians are jealous of working newspaper
people and know the old lines about RHIP, think of the downside.
Sometimes the price you pay for privilege isn’t worth the
price you pay.
©2004 by Maury Allen. The Maury Allen caricature is ©2001
by Jim Hummel. The cartoon is from IMSI's Master Clips Collection,
1895 Francisco Blvd. E., San Rafael, CA, 94901-5506, USA.
You
can comment on this column online. Please address your message
to either "The Editors" or Maury Allen. To send an
email, click here: talkback@thecolumnists.com
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