“Some” may see my seething hatred for valets as illogical.
“Some” can sexually experiment with ninja stars for all I care.
But I feel it is my solemn duty (well, not really solemn, I’m writing and I’m loud as fuck) to share my first unpleasant valet story.
Generally, I had sympathy for valets. They work a generally-thankless job for meager tips and have to deal with rude and dickish customers.
Which is fine.
Except that description could fit damn-near-anyone in the service industry. So there’s no reason for them to be singled-out for anything special.
PLUS, they get to drive exceptionally cool cars that few of us have the opportunity to, and depending on the distance of the door to the parking area, with reckless abandon and no supervision.
When was the last time a waiter felt superior to other service jobs because he served plates of expensive steak?
This story begins about a year and a half ago, when I had to make frequent doctor visits due to an unfortunate bout of strep throat. Three rounds of antibiotics later and I (fortunately for you folks) survived, but was left 145lbs and emaciated, just in time for college graduation pictures that my dad still insists on sharing with people despite the fact that I look like a melanin-deficient Aid-for-Africa poster boy.
My doctors’ offices were in a large medical plaza in Century City, with an underground garage. The garage always had plenty of parking, none of which was tandem. I thought it was kind that they offered valet service in case someone needed it (elderly, blind, querulous people) but I and most could manage just fine.
So whenever I pulled up past their booth I would always politely decline, and they would point me towards a spot. We had a good system going.
That was, until, one afternoon. I was in the middle of my roughest bout of antibiotics, and I pulled up as usual to inform them that I could find my own spot. There were at least 3 or 4 available, and nobody was manning the booth.
I pulled forward, when immediately one of the valets (one I hadn’t seen before) ran over and rapped on my window. I politely informed him that I was parking in the spot *pointed towards it* and thanked him.
He proceeded to try to unlock my door and yelled that I needed to give him my keys for him to park it.
It would seem we had reached an impasse.
So I raised my voice and repeated myself. He started gesturing and yelling even more wildly, making a scene in front of everyone.
Since I was already late for an appointment and didn’t seek to waste my life in Socratic dialogue with a valet over a clearly solvable issue, I rolled my window up and proceeded forward to park into my spot.
He followed me and came over to take my keys. I stuffed them into my pocket and told him where he could stuff something else.
And then the best part happened.
Some loudmouth heifer parked next to me in a Corolla grabbed her labial expulsion by the wrist and marched over towards me, saying I parked too close and proceeded to call me a “jackass” who “thought [he] could do whatever [he] wanted”.
I put my sunglasses on and walked inside, ignoring this ghastly wench, pausing to look back to verify that I had left her more than enough room to WD-40 her enormous ass out of her clown car.
She yanked the kid with her and followed me into the elevator, complaining up and down. She tugged at the kid’s arm and forced him to say that he could “bawely get out of the dwoor” because I parked too close.
I felt like vomiting. How could someone manipulate their kid against a certain stranger? I felt sorry for the poor bitch’s husband/hopefully ex-husband/sperm donor.
I continued to ignore her, until we got to the top level, when this Biff-in-a-wig continued her tirade as the doors opened to my floor (she had missed hers just so she could follow me up 18 floors to harass me). I looked down at the poor kid, who was shifting uncomfortably on his feet, signifying that this wasn’t the first time that “mommy” had done this. What a terrifying existence.
“YOU KNOW WHAT? YOU’RE JUST A FUCKING ASSHOLE!” she shouted as the elevator doors opened and she had jiggled her way to a crescendo.
I blacked out.
On pure adrenalin, I turned around and looked right into her beady little eyes as I walked out the door.
“You shouldn’t use language like that in front of your child, you FAT BITCH.”
And as the doors closed, the only glimpse I had was the look of horror on her face.
Had the valet not put up such a goddamn fuss and tried to Gollum my keys away from me, all that never would’ve happened.
And that’s why valets are worse than Hitler.