Sylvia has good parking karma. Always had. She sails past parking spaces that the more timid among us would seize, all the while singing hallelujah while marveling at our good fortune. If she’s headed to say, fifty-six and Fifth, she starts looking for a parking spot, at rush hour mind you, at fifty-fifth and Sixth, explaining that she prefers to be close to her destination as if it were unique to her.  You might think, this being a story about Sylvia, that fortune smiles on her and that her amazing parking karma is evidence of her ease in the world. But that’s not the case. Her teenage son, in a fit of defiance, defriended Sylvia on Facebook while her checking account idles permanently in the red. But the confidence she exudes while on the hunt for a spot is irresistible. Men particularly fall under her spell. Two of her ex’s proposed on a midtown corner, following bravado displays of her amazing good luck.  As a consequence, the gates of the city are always open to Sylvia. That is, assuming her car is finally out of the shop. But that’s another story.