The last straw—and I mean, there were several “last straws” in my mind but this was the very last, final straw—was when a Port Authority cop kicked my car out of a tunnel. The old BMW sedan was limping home, as it had been for several weeks, lurching forward and slowing to a crawl like a runner out of breath. I stood on the gas pedal, made my shifts as smooth and seamless as possible. No dice. No power. I had just paid about $500 to a shop in Queens to fix this problem, and in the end drove away with a new fuel filter and no guarantee from said shop that said repair would, indeed, fix said problem. From there I drove into Manhattan and approached the Battery Tunnel to go home to Brooklyn. “Yeah,” I said, realizing what was about to happen. “But she’ll make it. She’s got this. Trust me.” “Not my problem,” he said, and I limped away to park on the street and wait for a tow truck. It’d only be a mere three hours until it arrived, after all. I couldn’t be mad at the cop. I got it. I probably would’ve made the same call in his shoes. Tens of thousands of cars use that tunnel every day and one stalled vehicle inside is enough to ruin a lot of people’s commutes. No, I was mad at the c...