Views from the Denver Valet: Late Night Chatter Downtown

I valet at a high-profile location in the heart of downtown Denver’s busiest intersection, and I often enjoy people watching as the city gets darker. 

The families and dog walkers of the daytime get substituted for the bar hoppers and dumpster divers of the night. I am less likely to approach people for conversation as soon as the sun goes down, and I have learned quickly that this is for my safety and well-being when I am by myself.

They recently cut hours at the valet stand, so I have to work most shifts alone for the foreseeable future. I know how to stand still, and I enjoy the alone time, but after eight hours, the opportunity for a conversation can seem like a privilege.

Some weeks ago, I was scheduled on a slow night at the valet. I parked eight cars during the 3 p.m. to 11 p.m. shift. The city looked as if it had gone to bed early, and by 8 p.m., the streets were empty. By 9 p.m., I was counting the minutes and seconds of the next two hours.

Maybe ten minutes later, a small, scruffy gentleman whom I recognized parked his bike next to a rail by the stand. I had seen him a handful of times, but never got his name. 

The man was about five feet and two inches tall. He had on a pair of trail running shoes that were 10k miles past the extended warranty, and his flimsy t-shirt and jacket looked the same. He also wore a tight-fitting hat that had the logo of a tavern in the nearby downtown.

Mr. Tavern Hat walked straight over to me and struck up a conversation. “How old are you? 25? 27?” he questioned.

“I am 23 years old, sir,” I responded. He slapped the stand with his hand and bent over laughing. 

“What I would do to be 23 years old again,” he said. “You have so many years to go, so many things to experience. It goes by like that.” He snapped his fingers and then made sure I was looking and snapped them together again.

If he had not shown such a contagious smile, I would have put on a scowl to let him know that he was wasting time trying to talk to me. I felt led to hear out whatever sob story was most likely to follow or an explanation for his current, unhoused situation that I unfairly assumed.

“You know I had a business,” Mr. Tavern Hat said. “I was an architect in Aspen.”

Genuinely amazed, I responded with a smirk and a “Wow!”

“I lost it all,” Mr. Tavern Hat continued. “My mother was an artist, I was an artist and my son is a tattoo artist—one of the best in Colorado.”

I asked him about his son, and he explained that he missed out on most of his life because he never knew he was born. “I found out I had an adult son living in Colorado, now he’s not much older than you,” he said. “His name is Forrest.”

I asked Mr. Tavern Hat if he was still in contact with Forrest’s mother. “No, I met her when I was in Aspen a long time ago. Forrest was conceived in the woods somewhere by the mountains, though,” he responded, followed by a loud chuckle.

I laughed at this point, too, because I realized the irony. 

“Wait. Your son’s name is Forrest, and he was conceived in the woods?” I questioned. 

“Yeah,” Mr. Tavern Hat said with a straight face. He stopped laughing and just slid into the next topic, so I think he missed the irony completely.

Mr. Tavern Hat must have mistaken our conversation for a confessional hour because he began to list all the terrible things that occurred in his life from that point. 

“I have never been good with relationships,” he said. “You know my father was married four times before I turned sixteen—first, to my mother, then to two of my schoolteachers, and then lastly, to our next-door neighbor.”

He started to lose his train of thought and blamed his fogginess on multiple head injuries. 

“Sorry, sometimes I get lost when I talk,” he said. “I got beat up a lot from being out on the streets for so long. I remember one time, my friend actually saved my life when someone tried to jump me for my bike. I was on the ground, bleeding from my head, and my ribs were broken. My friend threw the guy off me and had to fight him while also trying to resuscitate me. I worked hard for that bike, too. I’ve been cleaning up and bussing tables at the tavern for almost a year now, and I have been working my ass off to almost become un-homeless.”

“Oh, you work at the tavern; that explains the hat,” I responded.

“Yeah! I worked any job you can think of. I was an EMT, architect, construction, interior designer, maintenance, ski patrol,” Mr. Tavern Hat said proudly. “You name it, I have most likely done it.”

Then he slapped the stand again and looked up at me. “What was I talking about again?”

“You asked me how old I was?” I answered.

“Oh yes, yes, yes,” he said as he regathered his thoughts. “You snap your fingers, and you become fifty. Sorry, I get kind of cloudy with my memory. It might be from all the weed, too. But anyway, you will learn so many things and experience so much life at this young age. Savor it. Enjoy it.”

Then he asked how to get upstairs to the bar and walked off. “Thank you for listening, man. That means a lot to me,” he said as he opened the doors. 

I hope Mr. Tavern Hat feels fulfilled in the long life he discussed with me. I feel fulfilled because I have a job, a warm bed, and everything else I could possibly want or afford. 

Yet, I recognize the lack of presence that I have in the stage of life that I am living in. He wanted me to understand the unique perspective of looking ahead and seeing miles of trail remaining.

One thing that bothered me after our conversation was that I am already reflecting on missed opportunities at such a young age. I have all the time in the world, but I still waste it in large quantities. I complain and moan about the current stresses of my daily life, but I also complain about missing it when things change. 

I hold so many responsibilities that become privileges at a different age, and Mr. Tavern Hat wishes he could be doing some of the things I am right now. My interaction with the man taught me a valuable lesson: for better or worse, we tend to desire what we lack.