When we moved to New York from Boston nine years ago, I was fairly certain that the only people who kept cars in Manhattan had a great deal of money…and absolutely no sense.
What with $500 monthly garage parking fees, steep insurance premiums, and $65 parking tickets if you fail to navigate complicated street parking, I didn’t understand how any rational person could want a car in the city.
Then I met Marty, a fellow pre-K mom at my son’s local school. Had her bank account matched her creativity and resourcefulness, she’d have used $20 bills for scrap paper. Instead, the yogi/actress/academic spent those $20s on unleaded for The Green Machine—a 1998 Saturn with 198,000 miles, manual transmission, and a bicep-toning steering wheel. It had been parked on the street for the past decade.
While she loved having a car in the city, she didn’t use it all that much, and the twice weekly routine of moving it for street cleaners was no longer a kick. She was going to give it up.
Since the husband and I wanted access to car (but not FT responsibility for one), Marty and I decided to share her car. The car would stay in her name, and we would split the upcoming $490 worth of repairs, renewal, and inspection. We each carried our own insurance and agreed to cover our own fender benders, parking tickets and E-ZPass tolls. We’d divide street parking responsibilities and weekend custody and would leave the tank full for the other person.
Truth be told, it was a big risk for Marty. She only had my word that I’d abide by our deal. As the legal owner of the Green Machine, she ultimately would’ve been responsible had I decided to collect unpaid parking tickets, refused to settle up for bills I’d agreed to halve, or injured someone while I was driving her car.
My only risk was that Marty would decide to buy some titanium wheel rims and swap the cloth seats for leather—and I knew she wouldn’t. My family got constant the convenience of a car, without the cost and pre-planning of a rental. Marty got to keep her car—and only had to park it half of the time and pay for half of the upkeep.
Save for a few minor transgressions (all mine), the car share worked out swimmingly. Once, I forgot where I’d parked the car and sent Marty to the wrong block looking for it. (She was characteristically Zen about it.) The other was when I couldn’t get the plastic baggie to my car-sick five-year-old in time as we hurtled down the New Jersey Turnpike. (Should you find yourself in a similar situation, you might want to bypass the car detailing and invest instead in a bottle of vinegar-water and a few roles of Bounty.)
By the time Marty moved out West the following year, I’d become such a pro at city parking that we bought the Green Machine from her. We ended up keeping it for about 10 months before the cost of an 11-year-old car began to exceed its Blue Book value. Nonetheless, the experience had emboldened us sufficiently that we were able to resume ownership of the Avalon we’d lent to my parents when we moved to New York. Truth be told, the car had gotten so dinged up on my parents’ visits to see us in NYC that they were glad to have it out of their driveway.
For anyone considering car ownership in this fine city, I’d recommend a car share with a trustworthy friend or neighbor. Ultimately, I think the arrangement worked because Marty and I had clear rules on how money would be spent (on maintenance, only if we both agreed; for everything else, on an a la carte basis). That we lived close to each other and could pick up the slack should the other be unable to move the car or take it to the mechanic was a perk. The fact that the car was worth less than two months of UES garage parking, well, that was icing.
Though demi-ownership of a car is more of a risk for the car owner than for the newcomer, it apparently isn’t a no-brainer for the other driver. When Marty moved and we were left in sole custody of the car, I tried to interest some of our non-mobile friends in a car share. No takers. Granted, most of them worked full-time and couldn’t juggle alternate side parking. But I can’t blame even the uninitiated who have flexible schedules. Had anyone suggested a similar deal to me seven years ago, I’d have balked. A car in the city? No way.
As for Marty, we’re still friends. And I still pick her up at LaGuardia when she comes to visit.
Hillary Chura lives in New York with her husband and their two sons.
