Valet Days

“Off The Tracks”

Memoirs of a Valet in Buffalo, NY

When my Father was a kid he blew the tip of his thumb off with a shotgun.

He was in the woods that bordered his parent’s tomato farm and shot it off taking aim at some Chase and Sanborn coffee cans.

“Idiot.” My Mother would say.

Still, he evolved into one of those classic, hard-as-nails tough guys with a big heart. You know the ones- they drank out of a garden hose on a hot summer’s day back in the 70’s, or could casually change a flat tire in the most miserable downpour imaginable or maybe even fish a bullet out of their inner thigh with a pair of needle-nosed pliers if they had too. Christ, once in a nursing home I witnessed my Father swish his Mother’s shit out of a bedpan with his bare hands. Holy fucking scarred-for-life. I was 17 years old.

He also had a nasty temper. According to “Mararian lore”, before my folks were married, they were driving around on a romantic afternoon date when some jerk cut them off in a car. Dad laid on the horn, the man gave him the finger and that was all it took. Tight gripped on the wheel, my Father menacingly followed him along some back roads until the poor fellow pulled into a nearby seminary, no doubt thinking he would be safe, only to find himself dragged from the driver’s seat and punched in the face in front of a faction of flabbergasted nuns.

My Dad, the original “Road-Rager”

Now contrastingly, I only witnessed him cry a single time in my life. In Florida. He was 82 years old and his heart was bad and his days were numbered. I had to get back to work in New York after a lengthy visit and he knew he’d never see me again. Perched upright in bed, his hospital gown all twisted and askew, I could see he was starting to well up. He asked out loud to my Mother “How do I say goodbye to Michael?” and began to sob.

There was another time however, that I saw him upset. There were no tears in this case but it was just as impactful especially since it has to do with my present situation

Dad was a fleet mechanic for oil trucks most of his life and after he retired he still wanted to keep working. He took a part time job at a friend’s trucking company and he was happy to continue to be a mechanic. He even took night classes to learn about the new cars and their computers but he couldn’t really keep up so he stopped. No big deal, he was happy to at least have this new part time job.

And then one day, a month or two later, he made a mistake.

He miscalculated moving one of the trucks and backed into a large garage door, knocking it off it’s tracks.

They fired him.

He was devastated. I remember him sitting at our small kitchen table in his undershirt lost in thought, his thick hairy forearms sticking to the plastic placemats. The table’s dome light above illuminating his sadness like a spot light in a stage play. He was muttering “I don’t understand how I did that…I just didn’t see it…I just didn’t see it.”

My mother, from the kitchen sink, her back to him “Mike get over it”

But he didn’t. He couldn’t. He was having the once in a lifetime realization that in one poorly executed move, a move he had done a thousand times before, he had become old and obsolete.

He never worked on cars again after that.

Well, a few weeks ago I also made a mistake at my work.

Our regular hotel shuttle was being serviced so in its place they gave us a Cadillac SUV as a loaner car. I wasn’t completely used to handling it, especially in the snow which was now piling up as I pulled into the busy valet lot. I parked the car abruptly and in doing so it slid forward slightly bumping into the Volvo in front of me. The slightest bump you can imagine. Not even a bump really, a tap. A child hurling a beach ball could have hit this thing harder. Regardless, I backed up as quick as I could but the owner happened to see the whole thing. He was checking out, suitcase in tow and was now walking over to me…

Shit. Okay, play it cool

“Hello” I said, my voice curiously cracking. I remember thinking I sounded like a parrot.

He doesn’t respond but joins me behind the car and folds his arms. He is a smallish chap. I watch a few snow flakes touch his forehead and dissolve. He would make a great Bob Balaban impersonator if you ever needed one. Which, of course, you wouldn’t. Ever.

“Yeah it’s little slippery in this area” I explain, “I just tapped it when I pulled in. I think it’s okay”

I wipe some dirt off the bumper. It was filthy with road salt and soot, but fine, thank God.

He scrutinizes it and says “ok…so I guess we should take some pictures then. Exchange information.”

I almost laughed. Actually I think I did laugh.

But Bob Balaban was serious.

He started yipping about how his car was brand new and only had 2,000 miles on it.

“Okay relax” I’m thinking to myself, “It’s fine….”

“It’s only got 2,000 miles on it!” He pleas.

THERE’S NOTHING WRONG WITH IT!

Seeing this was not going to end, I told him he should of speak to the manager and I pointed him to the main office and walked off.

Bob was gone for quite awhile. He was filling out insurance paperwork with the hotel and oddly upon leaving, he tipped us five dollars. I looked at the other valet working alongside me and we both shrugged.

Cut to a few weeks later.

One of the Valet boys texts the group that someone is getting fired for a shuttle accident. Shuttle accident? The big shuttle had been returned for weeks now, there was certainly no recent accident. Then I remember Bob with the dirty white Volvo. Turns out he had finally left a bad review on the hotel’s website.

So here I am thinking maybe I will be fired after all. And there it is…the beginning of the slow degradation that follows with time.

I think about “time” and I get mad.

I think about the garage door getting knocked off it’s tracks and my poor old man at the kitchen table with those tacky blue placemats with the flower patterns that I always hated sticking to his tanned workhorse arms and my Mother telling him to get over it- turn around from the kitchen sink and console your suffering Goddamned husband! — and I want to scream out loud and slam Bob Balaban’s snow-flake dissolving fucking face against his filthy Volvo bumper enough to actually do damage this time as a protest to every person who has lost their will to thrive because of time. Because of relentless time.

Pause.

Breathe.

I have always enjoyed being creative and I wonder when I’ll get to a point where I can’t do that anymore either.

This little shuttle bump (or tap) was a tiny reminder- a wink- that I’ll have to ask the hard question of myself someday…the sad question…

“How do I say goodbye to Michael?”

End

Here’s a picture of my dad, actually at our kitchen table. Miss you Dad.

And here’s the damage to Bob Balaban’s Volvo. You be the judge. My finger points to the only blemish I could find on it. A hairline scuff.