Loitering
for Cash
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:: When
I moved back to Portland I spent a few nights of the week
standing around on a corner in one of the trendiest/busiest
districts in the city--parking expensive cars for fun, money,
and entertainment. I didn’t really need the gig after
the first couple of months, but I couldn't bring myself
to quit because it was one of the most intriguing social
experiments I've ever conducted. In our auto-centric culture a
person's car is an extension of their personality/psyche/self.
Sliding into someone's whip is like putting
on their personal exoskeleton. In two minutes I can learn
more about you than I could have ever known by simply serving
you food: your political affiliation, sexual orientation,
music preference, whether or not you have a dog, child,
or a drug habit. For a few moments I experience the world
from inside your personal bubble.
At this point you may be thinking: "I'll never be able
to valet park again without feeling violated."
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In order to clear up any misconception otherwise, allow me
to be brutally honest.
Every time I drive a car I check the center console, glove
box, visor flaps, ashtray, and under the seats. I never take
anything, of course (except the occasional stick of gum).
I'm just an insatiable voyeur. I want to know what books you
read, what music you like, what drugs you take, and if you're
armed (you'd be surprised). If the stereo is not already on,
I’ll jab the power button to see if you listen to
NPR, AM talk shows, or Top 40 tripe. If you’re actually
bumping something good, I turn it up and dig your sound system.
I may program your onboard GPS mapping system just to fuck
with you. And, yes, if your car is one that I happen to enjoy
driving, it gets taken to the holding lot via a windy back-road
through the west hills at speeds you probably don't want to
think about while you're eating your osso bucco.
Some interesting things I discovered:
More than 60 percent of Baby Boomers who are listening to
a CD are grooving out to either Coldplay's XY, or Madonna's
Confession From The Dance Floor .... Go fig.
40-something white women listen to more bad hip hop than you
think.
Regardless of age, most people who drive Range Rovers also
smoke weed, listen to decent music, and tip well. Some of
them also do cocaine and pick up random chicks at trendy Italian cocktail
lounges.
For some reason, regardless of ethnicity or demographic, people
who drive Jags are universally bad tippers; and people
who drive around in Hummers are, as you might suspect, assholes.
Yes, it's true, I judge you based on your car.
And, just because everybody asks, my personal favorite is
the Maserati GT coupe (awesome V-8 engine, Italian leather
seats, and a six-speed transmission that shifts via F-1-style
finger paddles on the steering wheel. It has a top end of
175-mph and can do a half mile in under 20 seconds. This is
a car I'm willing to lose my job over). After that .. the
BMW M3, and anything made by Audi. Never underestimate the
power of a German design team. That said, why anyone would
pay the money to own a Benz is beyond me. Even the Kompressor
drives like a pack of stoned blood hounds lost in a snow storm.
And those are just the cars. Then there's the street.
Every night is an endless parade of bag carrying yuppies,
impatient foreign cabbies, pathetic lonely dog walkers, cute
couples holding hands, stressed out moms just trying to get
a latte, bored skate punks, menacing cops, hot chicks in knee-high
boots walking down the street like it’s a fashion
runway, businessmen intensely talking on cell phones unaware
that they look hysterical, enthusiastic concert promoters hanging
posters on light poles, homeless derelicts who want to talk about the meaning
of life, and rich old ladies who think they can walk blindly
into traffic without getting killed. There is seldom a dull
moment.
The other cool thing is that, though technically we worked
for the restaurant, we almost never went inside and the managers
were so busy satisfying the guests that we were left alone
to do our job: Work the corner for cash by controlling parking
at one of the busiest intersections in town by whatever means
necessary. All of our money came from a hand-off in the street.
It's the last true cash economy in the restaurant business.
How much money you make depends on how much you hustle, and
it happens entirely off the books.
One of my favorite parts of the job was the other valet, Garth.
A New York transplant, song writer, and nomadic
bohemian, Garth didn’t give a fuck about your nice car
or your fancy shoes. No matter what impatient "I'm
cold, it's raining, and I want my car now" attitude you
flipped him, Garth ran for no one. He would, however, engage
you with witty conversation, bring his own umbrella for you
to stand under, and take good care of your car if you tipped
him well. Garth had class. He lived in a studio on the second
floor of the sweet 1920s-era apartment building across the
street from the corner and wore a tie every night. He recorded
his last album in this studio and worked for a neighborhood
record store booking shows. He also played bar gigs a few
nights a week. Like me, he was a working artist, a social
observer, and a metaphysical scribe who didn't really need
the gig. A couple nights a week, we just hung out together
exchanging insults, fashion commentary, and car keys just
for the fun of it.
The job title was "valet" but, really, we were just
loitering for cash.
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