Clear Eyes, Full Tank, Can't Lose - Wednesday, August 29, 2012

Every city brought its own challenges.  In Chicago, Ari and Shima clashed with law enforcement.  In Detroit, we wrestled with ticket scalpers.  In Pittsburgh and Philadelphia, we dodged the ushers.  In Cleveland, we battled Cleveland.  But our toughest foe may have been our last: the Ford Focus.

When we rented the car in Kansas City 12 days ago, the Avis rep offered us a deal.  If we pre-paid for one tank of gas, Avis would waive our obligation to return the car with a full tank.  This seemed like a good idea.  Instead of paying New York City gas prices for our last fill-up, we would pay Kansas City prices.  We wouldn't have to make that last, annoying stop at the gas station before we turned in the car.  And, best of all, it turned the rental into a game.  "You'll want to return the car with a tank as close as possible to empty," said the Avis rep.  In the words of Barney Stinson and Danny Dawson, challenge accepted.

Fast forward to late Tuesday night in Philadelphia.  With Ari's Manhattan apartment just two hours away, we forsook a hotel in Philly and opted for the late-night drive to New York.  The Ford Focus said we had 102 miles until empty.  The GPS on Ari's iPhone said we had 91 miles to the Avis in New York.  This was no accident; we had estimated our remaining mileage when we chose how much gas to add earlier that day.  So when we saw that we had only an 11-mile cushion, we didn't even consider refilling.  

Powered by coffee and some outstanding gelato, we started the drive at 11:30 PM.  Ari took the wheel.  I took charge of constantly monitoring our remaining gas and remaining distance.  With 60 miles left in the tank, we had only 45 miles to Manhattan.  With 30 miles left in the tank, we had only 12 miles to Manhattan.  Not only were we winning, but our lead was increasing.  "We got you, Avis," I said.

I celebrated too soon.  As we neared the Lincoln Tunnel, we realized we weren't battling Avis.  We were battling the horrible car we rented.  Without warning or explanation, the "Distance to E" display started dropping precipitously.  For every mile we drove on the road, the "Distance to E" would drop by two or three.  Our lead evaporated.  The math was no longer on our side.  "We need gas," I told Ari.  

We stopped at one of the many toll booths as you approach Manhattan.  The attendant gave us confusing directions to the nearest gas station.  Five minutes later, we found it -- and it was closed.  The Focus said we had two miles before empty.  

We drove around and somehow found ourselves back at the toll both, now with only one mile until empty.  A different attendant gave us even vaguer directions than the first guy had.  

"Where is the closest gas station?" Ari asked.  

"To the right," he said with the interest level of a toll both attendant at 1:30 in the morning.  

Was he saying we should take the first exit on the right?  That we should go right once we left the freeway?  "What do you mean?" Ari asked.  

"To the right," the attendant repeated.  

"We're about to run out of gas.  Can you please be a little more specific?" Ari pleaded. 

The guy spoke more slowly this time, so we could fully comprehend the message.  "To ... the ... right," he said.  What is the worst thing I can wish upon that attendant without being a bad person?  

We considered stopping right there at the toll booth and calling AAA.  At least then we'd be easy for them to find.  But we pushed our luck and picked one of the freeway exits "to the right."  The Distance to E sunk to zero.  The iPhone had no answers; it kept suggesting the gas station we already knew was closed.

Finally, we spotted a few lights and a line of trucks in a parking lot.  We followed the lights.  It was a gas station.  Thank god.  There are probably worse things than running out of gas in the middle of the night in a desolate area of New Jersey, but I can't think of any.

We pulled up to the pump and a guy appeared at my window.  In New Jersey, you're not allowed to pump your own gas.  "Fill it up?" the Texaco man asked.  "No, thanks," I said, handing him a five.

We got to the Avis in Midtown at 2:30 AM.  We parked in the entryway of the facility, turned off the engine, and handed over the keys.  If the Focus hadn't tried to screw us with the remaining mileage, it might have been an emotional goodbye.  

The Avis man gave the car a complete physical, checking the mileage, the trunk, the cabin, the glovebox, even under the hood.  He forgot, however, to do one thing.  Minutes later, after I signed the paperwork  -- and received a statement verifying that we had returned the car in acceptable, working condition -- the Avis man got in the car.  It wouldn't start.  The last sound we heard as we carried our luggage in search of a taxi was the hiss of an engine that had just endured 2,100 miles in less than two weeks.  

The cab dropped us off at Ari's apartment building.  We looked up at the six flights of stairs between us and Ari's door, and we looked at our suitcases, backpacks, souvenirs, and many, many bottles of barbecue sauce.  It took two trips, but we were rewarded with a slobbery welcome.

This is Maximus.  Here are his vital statistics:

Full name: Maximus Decimus Meridius Bernstein

Birthday: December 28, 2008 

Weight: 102 pounds [Ari's Note: He finally grew into his ____.]  [Justin's Note: I won't print that.]

Breed: 50% Labrador Retriever, 35% horse, 15% puma

Occupation: Fake Service Dog

Nicknames: Bubbi, The Wild Animal, 'Mus

Favorite Movies: Gladiator, Seabiscuit, Shawshank Redemption

Level of ferocity: High

Wednesday brought our final game of the trip: Yankees versus Bluejays at the new Yankee Stadium.  I was excited.  Even though I hate the Yankees more than any team in professional sports (I say "professional sports" because I despise USC and Stanford football even more), their ballpark has a special history -- the simple design, the short right field, the retired numbers.  When I lived in New York during law school, I went to seven games at the old Yankee Stadium, including the Bloody Sock Game.  This would be my first trip to the new Yankee Stadium, built in 2009.

But first things first.  We needed food.  I walked from Ari's apartment in Chelsea to Faicco's Pork Store in Greenwich Village.  At Faicco's, they take their meat seriously.

I ordered an appropriate number of sandwiches and headed toward Washington Square Park, right across the street from NYU's law school.  We were meeting Neil Thakore, my former mock trial student at UC Irvine and now a 1L at NYU.  Neil likes tennis, surfing, and accessories that make him look ridiculous.  

Too Cool for School Neil

Newsy Neil

Mariachi Neil

Rudolph Neil, with his girlfriend Sheila

The three of us rode the subway from West Fourth to the 161st Street.  We bought some tickets outside the park, saw an uncomfortable amount of Yankee memorabilia, and found our seats in time for both national anthems -- O Canada for both fans of the Toronto Bluejays, and The Star Spangled Banner for the rest of us.

I hate the Yankees.

Ana, it's your flag!

I have mixed feelings about Yankee Stadium.  It's impressively gigantic; it feels larger than any ballpark I've visited.  It does a great job of honoring the Bronx Bombers' historic success and litany of Hall of Famers.  The grounds crew delivers its famous YMCA performance with gusto.  The crowd is pretty good, turning out for afternoon game on a Wednesday.  But overall, the stadium is a little disappointing.  It feels sterile and corporate.  Billboards, ads, and business logos are everywhere.  The park lacks intimacy.  It mistakes grand for great.  [Ari's Note: Yankee Stadium feels more like a mausoleum than a baseball stadium.  If the Baseball Olympics existed, they would definitely be held here.]

Ari asked me how many corporate logos I could spot from our seats.

I counted more than 60.

It's fun to stay at the YMCA!

In the seventh inning, we snared some empty seats in the field level.  

The game couldn't have gone much better.  The Yankees blew an early lead.  Their ace, CC Sabathia, got knocked around for 5 runs and 9 hits.  Their captain, Derek Jeter, struck out in his last at bat.  The pinstriped pests kept threatening to catch up but, bless their $200M payroll, they came up short.  Bluejays 8, Yankees 5.  

We enjoyed the Yankees loss while snacking on our sandwiches.  Our five sandwiches.  I asked Faicco's to weight them before I left.  They totaled more than seven pounds.  They were so delicious that, two days later, I made sure to  stop at Faicco's on my way to JFK Airport.

Half of an Italian sub: capicola (cured pork shoulder), soppressata (dry salami), prosciutto (thinly sliced ham), thick fresh mozzarella, roasted peppers, lettuce, San Marzano tomatoes, and oil and vinegar.

The other half

Neil is better at mock trial than he is at eating sandwiches.

Meatball sub: sesame roll, red sauce, fresh mozzarella, and beef meatball peaking out to say hello

Chicken parmigiana sandwich: breaded and fried chicken breast, fresh mozzarella, red sauce, sesame roll.  I wonder how it looks in profile.

It looks good.

Amazing sandwiches, a lazy afternoon in New York, and a Yankees loss in the middle of a pennant race.  It was a perfect end to the trip.  

Tune in later this week for the final blog entry: your questions, our answers, and the announcement of who wins the bottle of Joe's barbecue sauce.