Parking cars is simple and there’s quick cash in the valet business. It is a convenient money cushion for an aspiring writer who also needs to pay bills while he climbs the scribing ladders of America.
As much as I enjoy making money without breaking my back, the best perks of my job are the relationships I formed along the way. In terms of coworkers, I hit the jackpot. It’s the first job where I have a genuine love for every member of the team, from my boss to the newest member of our cohort.
However, it only takes one deviant to stir up the pot.
Last summer, our valet station needed to increase its staff, so our boss went searching for new employees. Our station is in the center of the city at one of the busiest intersections in Denver, so it was a frenzy selecting the five new valets that would be onboarded to the most desired location downtown. Four out of five of these guys were a perfect fit.
To protect myself and preserve the identity of the bad apple, I’m giving our summer deviant an alias: Rocky Balboa.
I had the privilege of meeting Rocky on his fifth day on the job. He had a curly mop and a kind set of eyes that would compliment a wide, narrow smile. My advice to Rocky in our initial interactions was to keep the main thing the main thing—get the cars into the garage and back without crashing them, and hopefully, that’s enough to get a tip and a high-five.
He seemed to understand, and my coworker Elroy made sure that Rocky was properly trained and could contribute to the pot before the weekend shift, where he left him to me. Rocky’s voice had the tone of Fred Jones from “Scooby-Doo,” and his laugh echoed for three blocks like a chuckle that he rehearsed in the mirror before he started the day.
I asked him an open-ended question as we started our shift together, “What’s your story?” I expected him to give me a short answer, but I walked into a series of traumas and Homer-like escapades.
He responded with, “Well, I came to the United States from El Salvador when I was very young… because my parents were murdered.” Then he laughed at full volume with his head tilted up to the sky—mouth gaping open—then abruptly cut the wind from his chuckle and brought his face forward to continue his story.
I instantly dropped the grin from my face and tried to show sympathy for the earth-shattering news that he had shared within five minutes of telling me his name.
He then quickly prattled off his journey from adoption to being locked in a tiny closet by his adoptive mother, which sounded eerily similar to Harry Potter’s origin story. It was then that I realized his “life story” might not be entirely accurate since it sounded like a combination of memorable scenes from movies I had seen.
Before coming to Denver, he apparently was a young prizefighter for a senile boxing trainer who let him train for free in exchange for cleaning the gym. In a story that sounded almost identical to the events of Sylvester Stallone’s classic film “Rocky,” he claimed that this trainer helped him to rise through the ranks and make enough to get off the streets.
Nearly an hour into the longest answer for a three-word question, Rocky had somehow made it to Denver and was adopted out of homelessness by a police officer who now lives in Lone Tree. Sometime after becoming an investment banker for an account worth hundreds of thousands of dollars, ala Jordan Belfort, the Wolf of Wall Street, he landed himself in the car parking business in downtown Denver.
Regardless of his past, in the present, Rocky began to wreak absolute havoc over the rest of the valet team during my off days. Within weeks, our coworker, Logan, had gotten suspended over an all-out screaming match with Rocky in the middle of the street.
Three sets of keys had been lost. Nearly four chains of emails and written statements had been sent. He had called down curses on two of our coworkers, especially Elroy, whom he made sure to tell, “God is watching you,” while pointing to the sky.
I did not care if he was Rocky, “The Wolf of Wall Street” or Harry Potter—if you can park a car, we have no qualms.
The problem was that he couldn’t, or rather wouldn’t, park cars.
One of the long Saturday mornings that I worked with Rocky, he showed up 30 minutes late. He then took 15 minutes to put his backpack in a locker and returned to the stand to walk to the middle of the lane and spread his feet out three feet beyond his shoulder width. Then he stared into the soul of every single car windshield that drove down the street.
He did not move for another 30 minutes and refused to say a word. In the middle of a rush of cars, I found myself parking and retrieving nearly four cars by myself during Rocky’s ritualistic 60-minute lunch breaks. Eventually, he leisurely strolled past the valet stand and completely misordered every car that needed to be pulled.
At the close of the rush, I was lucky to have had my coworker, Riley, from the mid-shift, clock in and help out, but the damage had been done. The street was clogged with unparked cars and people were getting impatient while we hustled to grab their keys.
After parking the last car, my boss texted me and said, “Are you not following procedure right now?” Apparently Rocky had texted him a message that accused me of handing keys to someone on the road instead of inside the lane.
At this point, I had reached the last ounce of patience that I could give. I can withstand the clumsiness, the lateness and even the ripping off of Hollywood flicks to piece together his apparently remarkable biopic of a life, but snitching is where I draw the line.
My boss was catching on to Rocky’s antics at this point, so he knew the text was either embellished or a complete lie. I relayed to him how the shift had gone at this point and he gave me full autonomy to speak my piece. I confronted Rocky for the first time and it turned into a screaming match, which turned into yet another set of emails and statements.
It seemed as if Rocky’s new ambition was to destroy the ranks from the inside. He began to record all of the conversations at the stand and take photos that he would add to a line of emails and statements. Rocky made it clear that he “would do anything to keep our stand running” and told me that he was on the manager’s track. For someone who would leave in between shifts to do his laundry, this did not seem likely.
Using my freshly acquired journalistic skills, I began to investigate deeper into the secret life of Rocky Balboa. I started with my supervisors, and Manuel said that he was now in consistent contact with our regional manager and was quoted saying, “I think we need to clean house.” This would usually be a chilling statement, but I imagined this conversation in his cartoon-esque voice and the chills became silent giggles in my head.
My next source was a friend of the valet who gave us free milkshakes from the burger bar. Our friend had apparently had a run-in with Rocky on the 16th Street Mall alongside some other bartenders, which led to an unfortunate walk up to his downtown apartment. Rocky offered his apartment as the home base while they downed some drinks, which led to Rocky grabbing an assault rifle to point at his new friends.
A very long two months later, a victory came for the team when he was caught by security using hotel bathrooms. On top of the piling stack of statements and emails that finally made it to the regional manager, the bathroom offense finally got him suspended and removed from our location.
I cannot explain the euphoria and celebration amongst the group when Rocky’s tenure had been discontinued. It was later revealed that our location was the second transfer for Rocky. There were other valet stands spread throughout the city of Denver with their own stories about working alongside him.
Never before have I prayed for someone else’s downfall, but Rocky taught me that anyone is capable of change. My biggest takeaway is the uncountable blessing it is to enjoy the company of your coworkers. Whether you are parking cars or boxing for your next meal, it’s important to value the people that you trust.
