Overview:
In this humorous personal essay, a Denver valet at a busy intersection explains how appearances can be deceiving.
I valet cars at one of the busiest intersections in Downtown Denver, and being a valet has taught me two valuable skills: 1) How to drive stick and 2) How to harbor entertaining information about someone else’s personal life.
People who stay at hotels rarely seem to recognize how intimate the entire process is. Hotel staff will ask why you’re staying, who you’re staying with and for how long. Usually, that’s enough to get a glimpse into the private life of a stranger, especially for a valet; I see how many candy wrappers are in your cupholder, what brand of cigarettes you like and how many curbs your tires have hit.
Some valets don’t go through the same depths that I do to get the full picture of the people staying at the hotel, but I need more than a handshake and a name. Parking your car with me will require the daily rate, plus the tax of at least three minutes of persistent small talk.
Over the years of parking cars, I have developed a knack for finding one detail about a person that would engage them in a conversation with me. I see tattoos, hats, accents, brands—you name it, I will investigate.
Recently, I met a tall, slick-looking businessman with a tiger tattoo on his arm. He had on a casual polo with slacks and a shiny watch. I gave him the “how to valet” spiel and helped him get his luggage out of the trunk. The tiger tattoo was soon paired with custom LSU embroidery on all his suitcases.
Sensing a pattern, I asked him, “Did you go to LSU? I see the badges.”
He gleamed and said, “Yessir!”
“So that explains the tiger on your arm,” I said. “Are you from Louisiana, too?”
“Born and raised! I’m from New Iberia,” he replied with the utmost pride.
I then rolled up my sleeve to reveal a fleur-de-lis wrapped by magnolia flowers tattooed across my forearm. This Louisiana Man and I might as well have been family at that point. We discussed our Cajun and Creole roots and all the things that only a Louisianan would find familiar.
As he handed me the keys, I prophesied a hefty cash tip floating my way on his way out. Just then, my manager popped her head out to check on the drive. I relayed my excitement about meeting Louisiana Man and trading stories about our tattoos. She immediately recognized the description.
“Oh yeah, he’s come by here a few times on work trips,” my manager said. “He cheats on his wife.”
My radiant smile immediately turned into a deep frown. I was flooded with disappointment. It felt like my favorite baseball player got caught for juicing. I wish I could have grabbed Mr. Louisiana Man by the shoulders and said, “Do better, man!” Sadly, there was an obvious boundary that needed to be kept, and we were only five minutes into our valet-valeter friendship.
I asked my manager to back up her claims with circumstantial evidence before revealing any more scoops on customer activities. She described to me an unfortunate run-in with one of Louisiana Man’s mistresses on the drive.
Louisiana Man had apparently discussed his wife in other instances while passing over his keys, but he had also made arrangements to have other women park their cars under his reservation. My manager recalled grabbing the keys from a mysterious woman who seemed not to be sure what name should be written on her valet ticket.
She didn’t know her last name or room number, but she knew that she was supposed to meet Louisiana Man for a late-night rendezvous.
“I don’t remember his name off the top of my head,” the mysterious woman had explained to my manager. “I met him last night.”
She finally placed a name for my manager to write down, and my manager made the easy connection. Word spreads fast among the hotel employees, and the word on the street is that Louisiana Man was a philanderer.
It was a scene from a movie. A well-to-do businessman has too much idle time on his work trips and picks up unassuming women to meet him at his hotel room. Not only that, but he was well-dressed, tall and had a charisma that made him easy to talk to—the apparent wealth did not hurt at all, either.
People will often show me a great first impression, but I never assume their character from a handshake and a smile. Even so, a self-proclaimed master of reading people can be fooled. I learned my lesson from that experience, so I’ll stick to my policy of unwavering nosiness, and if I see Louisiana Man again, I’ll park his car in the back.
