The Valet
by Michael C. Keith
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: Some mild ones.
Description: A young man in a BMW finds a permanent parking space.
_____________________________________________________________________
Experience teaches slowly, and at the cost of mistakes. – J.A. Froude
For lack of a better opportunity after college, Percy Barron had started parking cars for Café Balthazar on Wednesday. Soon he learned that Friday and Saturday nights were twice as busy.
“You’ll have to park at one of the annexes,” he was told by the valet supervisor, Mark Gorley. When he was told that there were six of them sprawled across the city, he was taken aback.
“How do I get back to the restaurant from the ones across town?” he had asked, and was told he would have to use public transportation.
“The subway?” he had replied, nonplussed.
“If you’re near one. Mostly you got to take the bus. Don’t worry. You can usually find a stop at the closer lots. Then you just jog your ass back.”
His fellow valets did not instill confidence that he would find a ride close to the remote lots.
“The farther out ones are harder. On weekends the closer lots are usually solid, but once you’re here a while, the attendants at those will help you out. Of course, at first, you got to help them out.”
“Help them out?” asked Percy.
“Yeah, you know. Grease their palm,” said his coworker, rubbing his fingers over his thumb.
“You mean you’ve got to tip them to get a place?”
“Yeah, and that comes out of your gratuities.”
“That doesn’t sound fair,” complained Percy.
“Well, it evens out, because if you have to take city transportation to get back from one of the far off lots, it will cost you almost as much, especially if you take a cab.”
“Still . . .”
By the time Friday night arrived, Percy had somewhat come to terms with the arrangement, although he remained unhappy with it. Maybe I’ll get lucky and there’ll be spaces at the nearby lots without having to tip for one, he thought, climbing into the BMW X6 he had to park away from the restaurant’s own lot.
At the first lot, a sign read ‘full,’ but rather than negotiate for a parking spot, he drove on to the next closest lot. Again, he encountered a sign indicating the absence of available space. I’ll be damned if I’m going to pay to park the restaurant’s customers’ cars. That’s bull, he thought, heading to the next designated lot. It, too, was full, but this time Percy decided to see what he could do to get a place for the BMW.
Not going to drive around all night.
“I might have someplace for the Beemer. It depends,” said the attendant, with a knowing smirk.
Percy pulled two singles from this pocket and held them out. The attendant snickered and made a face.
“Ten bucks, man.”
Without responding, Percy drove off. “Ten dollars! That’s nuts! It’s going to cost me to work at Café Balthazar at this rate. No freaking way!” grumbled Percy.
He met the same fate at the next two lots and reluctantly headed to the last lot on the list, which happened to be in a rundown part of the city known for its high crime rates. I’m going to have to walk miles to catch a bus if I make it through this slum without being jumped, Percy moaned. To his further chagrin, that last lot––squeezed between two abandoned buildings––also displayed a sign indicating a lack of parking spots.
Percy entered the dilapidated attendant’s shack and peered through its dim light for the person on duty.
“Hello . . . anybody here?”
“Yeah, what you want? Lot’s full, man,” growled a voice from behind the counter.
A disheveled head supported by a squat body slowly emerged.
“Need a space for a vehicle from Café Balthazar.”
“Ain’t got none. You didn’t see the sign, dude?”
Percy removed a five-dollar bill from his pocket and waved it in front of the unshaven attendant.
“Ten, man. Take it or leave it.”
Shit . . . fine. What else can I do? Boy, I’m going to bitch about this when I get back to the restaurant, thought Percy, his anger surging.
“You got change? I only have a twenty,” asked Percy.
“Hold on. Let me check,” said the attendant, opening a small metal box. Minutes passed as he searched for change.
C’mon, for God’s sake. You can’t count? What’s up with you? Percy wondered.
“Hey, man, I got to get back to the restaurant.”
“You want the space or not, dude? I’m looking for the ten bucks you need back, but I only got eight. Here, I’ll give you the other two bucks I owe you when you come back again.”
Yeah, like that will happen. Damned if I’ll ever come back here.
Percy reluctantly took the eight dollars.
“Keys in the ignition,” he said, turning to leave.
“Hold on. You need a receipt.”
Shit, it’ll be sunrise before I get back . . . if I get back at all, thought Percy. “Fine, fine, give me the receipt,” he snapped.
“Where the hell’s my pen,” grumbled the middle-aged man, rummaging through a stack of papers.”
This a-hole is deliberately delaying me! Frigging jerk!
The attendant finally wrote out the receipt and handed it to Percy.
“You want an IOU for the two bucks? I’ll give you one if you want it. It’s a lot of dough,” said the attendant, with a snide grin.
“Where do I get a bus around here?” asked Percy, coldly.
“There’s a stop up on Claremont.”
“Where’s that?”
“About six blocks that way,” said the attendant, pointing his finger. “But I ain’t sure they run this late.”
“That’s great!” spit Percy, on his way out of the shack.
As soon as he emerged from it, he stopped in his tracks. “What the . . .?”
The BMW had already been stripped of its tires and was up on blocks. Percy turned back to the shack, but the door was now locked.
“Hey, open up! The car has been vandalized . . . stripped. C’mon!”
There was no response, and Percy kicked at the door in a rage. “You son of a bitch. I’m going to call the cops!”
“Get out of here, or I’m going to call the cops on you! This is private property!” returned a voice from inside the shack.
Percy stood in the dark contemplating his next move. He then took a photo of the dismantled Beemer with his cellphone and forwarded it to his boss with the following text:
“Finally found a parking space. Come and get the car. You can use public transportation to get here. I quit!”
Swearwords: Some mild ones.
Description: A young man in a BMW finds a permanent parking space.
_____________________________________________________________________
Experience teaches slowly, and at the cost of mistakes. – J.A. Froude
For lack of a better opportunity after college, Percy Barron had started parking cars for Café Balthazar on Wednesday. Soon he learned that Friday and Saturday nights were twice as busy.
“You’ll have to park at one of the annexes,” he was told by the valet supervisor, Mark Gorley. When he was told that there were six of them sprawled across the city, he was taken aback.
“How do I get back to the restaurant from the ones across town?” he had asked, and was told he would have to use public transportation.
“The subway?” he had replied, nonplussed.
“If you’re near one. Mostly you got to take the bus. Don’t worry. You can usually find a stop at the closer lots. Then you just jog your ass back.”
His fellow valets did not instill confidence that he would find a ride close to the remote lots.
“The farther out ones are harder. On weekends the closer lots are usually solid, but once you’re here a while, the attendants at those will help you out. Of course, at first, you got to help them out.”
“Help them out?” asked Percy.
“Yeah, you know. Grease their palm,” said his coworker, rubbing his fingers over his thumb.
“You mean you’ve got to tip them to get a place?”
“Yeah, and that comes out of your gratuities.”
“That doesn’t sound fair,” complained Percy.
“Well, it evens out, because if you have to take city transportation to get back from one of the far off lots, it will cost you almost as much, especially if you take a cab.”
“Still . . .”
By the time Friday night arrived, Percy had somewhat come to terms with the arrangement, although he remained unhappy with it. Maybe I’ll get lucky and there’ll be spaces at the nearby lots without having to tip for one, he thought, climbing into the BMW X6 he had to park away from the restaurant’s own lot.
At the first lot, a sign read ‘full,’ but rather than negotiate for a parking spot, he drove on to the next closest lot. Again, he encountered a sign indicating the absence of available space. I’ll be damned if I’m going to pay to park the restaurant’s customers’ cars. That’s bull, he thought, heading to the next designated lot. It, too, was full, but this time Percy decided to see what he could do to get a place for the BMW.
Not going to drive around all night.
“I might have someplace for the Beemer. It depends,” said the attendant, with a knowing smirk.
Percy pulled two singles from this pocket and held them out. The attendant snickered and made a face.
“Ten bucks, man.”
Without responding, Percy drove off. “Ten dollars! That’s nuts! It’s going to cost me to work at Café Balthazar at this rate. No freaking way!” grumbled Percy.
He met the same fate at the next two lots and reluctantly headed to the last lot on the list, which happened to be in a rundown part of the city known for its high crime rates. I’m going to have to walk miles to catch a bus if I make it through this slum without being jumped, Percy moaned. To his further chagrin, that last lot––squeezed between two abandoned buildings––also displayed a sign indicating a lack of parking spots.
Percy entered the dilapidated attendant’s shack and peered through its dim light for the person on duty.
“Hello . . . anybody here?”
“Yeah, what you want? Lot’s full, man,” growled a voice from behind the counter.
A disheveled head supported by a squat body slowly emerged.
“Need a space for a vehicle from Café Balthazar.”
“Ain’t got none. You didn’t see the sign, dude?”
Percy removed a five-dollar bill from his pocket and waved it in front of the unshaven attendant.
“Ten, man. Take it or leave it.”
Shit . . . fine. What else can I do? Boy, I’m going to bitch about this when I get back to the restaurant, thought Percy, his anger surging.
“You got change? I only have a twenty,” asked Percy.
“Hold on. Let me check,” said the attendant, opening a small metal box. Minutes passed as he searched for change.
C’mon, for God’s sake. You can’t count? What’s up with you? Percy wondered.
“Hey, man, I got to get back to the restaurant.”
“You want the space or not, dude? I’m looking for the ten bucks you need back, but I only got eight. Here, I’ll give you the other two bucks I owe you when you come back again.”
Yeah, like that will happen. Damned if I’ll ever come back here.
Percy reluctantly took the eight dollars.
“Keys in the ignition,” he said, turning to leave.
“Hold on. You need a receipt.”
Shit, it’ll be sunrise before I get back . . . if I get back at all, thought Percy. “Fine, fine, give me the receipt,” he snapped.
“Where the hell’s my pen,” grumbled the middle-aged man, rummaging through a stack of papers.”
This a-hole is deliberately delaying me! Frigging jerk!
The attendant finally wrote out the receipt and handed it to Percy.
“You want an IOU for the two bucks? I’ll give you one if you want it. It’s a lot of dough,” said the attendant, with a snide grin.
“Where do I get a bus around here?” asked Percy, coldly.
“There’s a stop up on Claremont.”
“Where’s that?”
“About six blocks that way,” said the attendant, pointing his finger. “But I ain’t sure they run this late.”
“That’s great!” spit Percy, on his way out of the shack.
As soon as he emerged from it, he stopped in his tracks. “What the . . .?”
The BMW had already been stripped of its tires and was up on blocks. Percy turned back to the shack, but the door was now locked.
“Hey, open up! The car has been vandalized . . . stripped. C’mon!”
There was no response, and Percy kicked at the door in a rage. “You son of a bitch. I’m going to call the cops!”
“Get out of here, or I’m going to call the cops on you! This is private property!” returned a voice from inside the shack.
Percy stood in the dark contemplating his next move. He then took a photo of the dismantled Beemer with his cellphone and forwarded it to his boss with the following text:
“Finally found a parking space. Come and get the car. You can use public transportation to get here. I quit!”
About the Author
Originally from Albany, New York, Michael C. Keith has paternal family roots stretching back to Clan Keith of Caithness and Aberdeenshire. A leading scholar in electronic media in the United States, he is the author of over 20 books on electronic media, as well as a memoir and three books of fiction. Much more about Michael and his publications can be found on his website: http://www.michaelckeith.com