Crossing her Rubicon

Editor’s note #1: This blog contains curse words that some subscribers may find upsetting. My apologies. You may want to stop reading now.

***

Lately, if you still watch actual news shows, you’ll hear pundits refer to something as “crossing the Rubicon.” The phrase is an idiom for making an irreversible decision. Passing the point of no return. No going back. It originates from Julius Caesar’s 49 B.C. crossing of the Rubicon River with his army, defying the Roman Senate and triggering a civil war. As Jules uttered on that fateful day, “The die is cast.” Five years later, in 44 B.C., after having appointed himself “dictator for life,” Caesar was assassinated by conspiring senators who stabbed him 23 times on March 15. Beware the Ides of March — and angry politicians who have nothing to lose.

As Timothy Snyder, American historian (and Yale University graduate who went to college with my niece, Mo!), wrote in his small but mighty book “On Tyranny”: “History does not repeat, but it does instruct.”

Take, for example, the ongoing war on journalists and the news media, continually being dubbed “the enemy of the people.” These legendary attacks on the press are nothing new and often the first step in transforming established democracies into dictatorships.

But as most reasonable people believe, journalism is not a crime. When you attack the “public’s right to know,” meaning their access to information, using targeted vendettas against independent journalists (say, reporter Don Lemon) to stop them from doing their work, you have essentially crossed the Rubicon.

On this Presidents’ Day, however, I am here to talk about the true enemy of the people: Morons who cannot park.

It’s not the fall of an empire, but it’s close. Hear me out.

Yesterday, we went with friends to a popular place on Anna Maria Island called the Wicked Cantina. All-day happy hour on Sundays makes it worth the wait for a patio table.

While we were waiting outside, a young couple in their 20s arrived. The guy turned around, apparently to show off his fashionable black T-shirt with big white letters that read “FUCK ICE, FUCK FBI, FUCK ATF,” and a half-dozen other gripes against everything. This guy had no more fucks to give, except to fashion.

His outfit was completed with brown camouflage print shorts, burgundy tube socks and white rubber slides, which used to be called shower shoes until teen-age soccer players made them cool.

And his diminutive girlfriend wore a flowing patchwork skirt and matching crop top reminiscent of Woodstock 1969, minus the peace and love. 

After a fun dinner served by our favorite waiter Dennis, Rebecca and I went to get the car.

I knew the lightness of the evening had left us when I heard her say, “How the heck am I supposed to get in the car?”

There was barely enough room for a ham sandwich to fit through the door.

Turns out the driver of a gray Volkswagen Jetta had created his own makeshift parking spot right next to us blocking a gated walkway. But it was impossible to enter the car through the driver’s side door.

At first I thought about crawling from the front passenger seat over the middle console to the other side. But then I remembered I wasn’t 12. Or even 20. Two knee replacements have ruled out kneeling ever again.

This Olympic feat required someone small, young and limber. Or at least one of those attributes.

Need I remind you that we’re in Southwest Florida with thousands of snowbirds on heart meds and blood thinners who have flocked south for the winter?

Meanwhile, Rebecca went to find the vehicle’s owner. To her surprise, not a soul owned up to having a late model VW Jetta parked illegally next to a crazy lady.

Two women from our group, Mary and Jeanette, were still waiting for us and had wandered away, likely ordering another half-priced margarita. Rebecca made the rounds throughout the cantina using her best former Troy Police Department community volunteer/teacher voice.

“WHO IN HERE DRIVES A GRAY VOLKSWAGEN JETTA? WITH NO PLATES!”

I wouldn’t have answered either.

As the clock ticked, our friend Leslie Martin decided to give it a try. “I’m goin’ in,” she said, removing her phone from her pocket.

To be clear, Leslie is a woman of a certain age who has undoubtedly traversed many obstacles in her day. But not like this: low-crawling in the front seat of a Cadillac XT5 like a Navy SEAL on the ground evading bad guys.

I must say, this woman was stealth-like, tactical even, as she made her way over the passenger seat, across the console, flat on her stomach, keeping her silhouette as low as humanly possible.

The gear shift proved somewhat challenging, but she soldiered on.

It was dark by now, and a cute guy in tight Levi’s — James Dean with facial hair — appeared out of nowhere to offer assistance.

“Fuckin’ cocksucker.”

Hello to you, I said.

“Uh, sorry, but anybody who parks like that is a fuckin’ cocksucker.”

Then I heard our captain yell “Yeah!” while resting between crawls.

“Fuckin’ cocksucker!” we all said in unison.

Mission accomplished. She’d made it to the driver’s seat, started the car and shifted into reverse. (We’ll save those details for another time.)

Then, we picked up the rest of our party and drove them home, laughing and nearly peeing ourselves over the entire fiasco.

I was ready to settle in and watch some TV. But no. Rebecca, in full-blown “Cagney & Lacey” mode, wanted to return to the scene of the crime. To find that fuckin’ cocksucker.

“What?” I said. “You want to go back? For what possible reason? To confront some inconsiderate jerk who hates everything? We could be shot, murdered or worse! Are you insane?”

All she said was “yes.”

My beloved had snapped.

I was not ready to die on this hill. I demanded to be dropped off. Request denied.

We drove back to the cantina, determined to find him. And we did. Because of course we did.

Within five minutes of arriving, we saw a young couple walking toward the VW Jetta. It was them: Mister Zero Fucksgiven and his Woodstock Wannabe.

We pulled up behind their car, preventing its exit.

“Were you at Wicked Cantina? You know you blocked my car in here because you were parked illegally? And where’s your license plate? I should have called the police.”

That was not me speaking. 

After a twilight interrogation worthy of “Law & Order’s” Olivia Benson, the guy from Montana – where he said they don’t need license plates; actually two are required, front and rear! – mumbled something about being “sorry not sorry,” then made the fatal mistake of playing the “maybe-you’ve-had-too-much-to-drink” card against a woman of a certain age who knows her way around a Total Wine & More store. 

Luckily, unlike Kathy Bates’ empowered character Evelyn Couch in the 1991 film “Fried Green Tomatoes,” Rebecca didn’t ram his car simply because she was older and had more insurance.

Heck, she’s not that crazy.

Don’t tell Rebecca, but a part of me kind of felt sorry for the dude. To be so young with your whole life ahead of you and already have zero fucks left to give. Time will tell.

Let’s hope he saw the neon Post-It note I tucked under a wiper on his windshield with this bit of wisdom written in black Sharpie: “NEXT TIME PARK IN AN ACTUAL SPACE, YOU FUCKIN’ COCKSUCKER.”

(Editor’s note #2: Both images for this blog post were created using online Artificial Intelligence apps, Gemini AI and ChatGPT. Chins and hips are much smaller than they appear.)

Main photo at top: This AI-generated caricature of Rebecca didn’t create the image I had requested, which was : “Woman of a certain age wishing she could get photo of guy who blocked her in.” Must have thought I said “fishing” and “dock.” Great hair, though!

(YouTube: The song “No Parking on the Dance Floor” was released in the summer of 1983 by Midnight Star, an American R&B/funk vocal band. It’s a direct order to keep moving, grooving and dancing, rather than standing still and taking up space. In other words, the dance floor is for dancing, and those who stop and “park” should move off to avoid getting a ticket!)