Two summers ago, I took a job in downtown Edgartown. “What about parking?” I inquired.

“That can be a problem,” the boss admitted. Within a reasonable walk of Main Street, from mid-May to mid-October, parking is limited to one hour, except where it’s limited to no time at all. Private spots are as rare and costly as small apartments, and I know one rightful tenant who takes glee in calling a tow truck at the first sight of a usurping vehicle.

My new co-workers were ready with advice: I could leave my car at the park-and-ride lot and take the shuttle bus into town. I could park at the Edgartown School, steering clear of the spots “owned” by the cafeteria staff, and walk the shortcut through the cemetery. And until the seasonal rent-a-cops started working the beat, I could darn near park on the steps of the Old Whaling Church without incident.

Even in high season, the police supposedly granted winking immunity to regulars who parked south of * * * Street, signage be damned. My boss all but boxed the ears of one teen cop she knew, just to reinforce the rule. I learned that the qualifying “regular” must not only park on a regular basis – the vehicle must be a four-wheel-drive sort with fishing-rod holders, or maybe a middle-aged Corolla with a bumper sticker from Al’s Package Store: a gleaming Lexus megavan with Jersey plates wouldn’t cut it. My car could easily pass the vehicle-profiling test. To make sure, I slapped on my Islander Preferred decal from the Steamship Authority.    

But as summer burst forth in earnest, spaces south of * * * Street grew scarce, and one astonished colleague even got a ticket in this zone. It was time to consider other options. I nixed the park-and-ride system one steamy afternoon when another co-worker arrived late and sweaty via the climate-uncontrolled shuttle bus. Strolling from the Edgartown School turned out to be lovely by day; I even grew fond of some graveyard residents. But the nighttime return trip was another matter. Skirting the dark cemetery instead of cutting through it made for a longer trek no less threatened by skunks and the prospect of graveyard residents astir.   

But one day I found the parking equivalent of the Twilight Zone. It was a downtown street just off the beaten path, with nary a parking restriction or parked car in sight. Every other street in the immediate vicinity had copious signs telling me “No.” I pulled over to the shoulder, turned off the ignition, and lightning did not strike. I strolled to work in a mere three minutes, and when I returned eight hours later, my car was still there. No ticket, no warning, nothing. Next day, same thing.

“I found the Secret Spot,” I told my boss.

“Where?” she asked.

“You’re not listening,” I gently replied. “Secret Spot.” I didn’t bother to mention it was a whole Secret Street. If word had spread, cars would soon have lined the full length of it. Residents would have petitioned the highway superintendent, and the “No” signs would have been up in a flash.  

Indeed, as the number of regularly parked cars on the street soared to two, a few residents began regarding my arrival as they carried in the groceries or weeded the garden. I was confidently in the right but not comfortably so. So I affected a getaway style, strolling from my car with utmost cool – and all due haste. I nonetheless found a note under the windshield wiper one evening: No parking. Private space.

The heck it was! I started to compose a reply: This street is in the public domain. And besides, every house on this street has a driveway and a garage at its disposal, so what’s the problem? This message never left my head, since I wasn’t sure which house was home to the deserving recipient. Moreover, I imagined acts of retribution. I began parking farther down the street, where within days, I encountered a woman with a scowl most unbecoming of a Vineyarder.

“Are you going to park here all day?” she asked.

“Yes, I am,” I replied and broke into my disguised sprint. Annoyed but weakened, I retreated to the school parking lot the next week and dodged skunks and ghosts for the rest of the season.       

Last summer, I accepted a different Edgartown job. “Do you have employee parking?” I asked the boss.

“Well, no.”

This job was beyond a reasonable walk from the school and too close to the queue for the Chappy ferry, where the rent-a-cops did their duty all too well. The best-sounding tip – “They never ticket cars on # # # Street” – turned out to be bogus, for the remarkably cordial warning I found on my car in June was followed by a flaming purple ticket in July. I finally became a regular park-and-rider. It wasn’t so bad after all.

Yet the Secret Spot is not forgotten. On personal trips to town, that’s where I still park in emergencies – e.g., the movie’s about to start. I’m especially emboldened if I’m in someone else’s car. I choose my footwear carefully, foregoing slippery mules and the like. They don’t travel well in the nonchalant hundred-yard dash.