Valet Boy

You never know when you’ll need to drive stick!

Article by Will Garrett Art by Kristopher Ligtenberg

I stand at attention behind the “bell stand,” an outdoor valet booth containing check-in and name information for every guest on the property. There are thirty hotel check-ins to go; today’s busier because it's a Friday and one hundred degrees in Napa Valley. Worldwide vacationers have driven here in their rental BMWs and are ready for a weekend of poolside cocktails, spa treatments, and wine tastings. “Detoxify and Retoxify,” the mantra of Solara Resort & Spa, is embedded into our heads by our managers for the sake of job awareness. This is how rich people have fun. 

As bellman and valet driver, I’m cropped at the front of the property. Guests drive the bend of the circular driveway, past an oval median of shrubs and palm trees. I open their car doors and take them to reception. If their room is ready, I escort them to one of four neighborhoods: Oak, Orchard, Pool, or Creek. These private studio clusters surpass any normal preconceptions of a hotel room. Backyard patios with fire pits and chairs, hot tubs, outdoor showers, and a fireplace in the living room. The Oak and Creek studios lie beneath ancient oak trees. Nestled in their corner is a spa with mud baths, a cold plunge, and four geothermal pools. A cobblestone pathway with wind chimes marks the entrance. Eyes at half-mast, hotel guests on this side of the property clop along in bathrobes and slippers, content with their removal from the families by the pool. 

Two neighborhoods over on the poolside, a dad watches his son shove another kid face first into the water. The dad is unbothered, loudly sucking at air with a paper straw in his margarita. A waiter asks if he’d like a refill. Couldn’t hurt. 

From behind the bell stand I snap out of my daze. I run my hands over the wooden booth and open a drawer filled with valet car keys. Taped to every key fob is a paper slip representing its owner in ink; Martin Keeley: red Tesla on E-charger; Jack Fairfield: white BMW. I shuffle my hand through the loose pile of vehicle remotes like a kid fishing through a basket of hot wheel cars, landing on a red, hard plastic fob with a bucking horse and Italian stripes. A tap on the side button releases the ignition switchblade. When I hear footsteps, I sheath the Ferrari key and close the drawer. Before I can give the hotel guests a wave, they disappear into the parking lot. Bored, I draw a mini skateboard from my pocket and begin jumping it with my index and ring finger across the bell stand, hurdling over the Ferrari key. Every time it lands on the desk it makes a hollow clunk. Suddenly, the hotel reception doors at my four o’clock swoosh open. I sweep the key into the drawer and stow my toy skateboard in my back pocket, standing straighter than the two palm trees in front of me. 

“You have swamp ass.” 

“Fuck off, Pete.” It’s just my coworker. 

He passes behind me and leans over the drawer, yawning as he jerks it open. Check-in sheets, pens, golf cart keys, valet keys, and apparently, his tin of mustache wax all shift an inch in momentum. He picks up his prized possession, screws off the cap and liberally applies. It looks like Vaseline and it makes his mustache wiry. Pete, facial hair glistening, dons sunglasses and nods toward a middle-aged lady on a call in the parking lot.

“She wants me.” 

“Shut up,” I manage. His beady eyes glaze over

“You make any tips today?” he says, still watching her. 

“Some.” 

“I do all the work around here,” he sighs, plopping a wad of bills into the drawer.

Pete is a part-time firefighter, full-time bellman and valet driver. He calls himself the captain of the bell team, a fake position he orders his coworkers (me) to refer to him by. 

A black Chevy Suburban rounds the corner and pulls in front of us. I slide away from the desk, circle around the car, and open the driver's door. 

“Hello, welcome to Solara! You may leave your car here as we get you checked in. Reception is just inside these doors."

I walk back to my post. Pete grins. “Did you see who you were talking to?” 

“Barely. Was she cute?”

“Does Dolly Parton sleep on her back?”

Another car pulls up behind the Chevy. Pete takes this one, leading a man in his seventies who stinks of cigarettes and has braided gray hair tucked under a cowboy hat. For all I know, it could be Willie Nelson. Just outside reception, he interrupts Pete’s welcome spiel by holding up a finger and saying, “Would you mind showing me the little boys room?” Pete blabs out five different directional markers for a twenty-foot walk. Old man Willie gives him a thumbs up and gingerly leans into his steps. 

Pete returns to our post. “Old bastard.” 

I shake my head. “Young, legitimate child.”

Straight-faced, he scans my face with scrutiny. I force a laugh and look away.

“Will, for these two room check-ins, I’ll take that first Argentine lady that you failed to notice. I want her to have the best service. Try bonding with that old guy a bit, it’ll be good practice for you.”

Before I can answer, one of our managers struts over and interrupts: “Pete, we need you to make a delivery to room 118. Someone forgot their body lotion by the pool and they need it ASAP. Can you take these next two check-ins, Will?”

“Of course.” 

The manager leaves and Pete hops in a golf cart. As he drives by, he smiles at me and mouths a kiss. “Earn that tip, Will. Make Daddy proud.” He takes a right and speeds out of the driveway toward a back entry of the pool. 

I hear through the open doors of reception that the Argentine lady is confirmed as a guest and that her room is ready. A receptionist leads her over to me.

“Ms. Di Tella, this is Will, your bellman. You’re in good hands.”

“Thank you,” she says brightly.

“Hi Ms. Di Tella, great to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you, Will! Call me Isabela.” 

“Hi, Isabela. Are your bags over there in your car?” My neck twitches and I spastically point to her Chevy. 

“Yes, I believe so,” she smiles, her eyes calmly fighting discomfort. “You seem young. Are you from around here?”

“Yes, I live 15 minutes down the road.” We head toward her car. 

“Oh, lovely! So you must know all the best wineries.” 

“Of course.”

“Tell me, in your opinion, where can I find the best Cabernet?”

I answer with Sterling Vineyards, a tourist trap that Solara forces us to recommend, a gondola ride up to fancy hors d'oeuvres and sub-par wines. 

“It’s a truly stunning view of the valley. Whenever you are ready, I’d be happy to show you to your room.”

“Ready!” She urges a bit carelessly, but not impatiently. 

“Great. I’m going to hop on this bicycle. Just follow me in the car. Once we get to your room, I’ll unload your bags.” I swing my leg over the bike seat.

“Okay, Will. And what if I hit you?” She starts the car.

I sit on the seat and my toy skateboard snaps in my back pocket. “Ah!”

“I won’t actually hit you.” 

“No! I know, it’s not that. Something just broke.” 

I pull out the split deck from my back pocket and toss it in the basket on my handlebars. Wood splinters jut out across its middle like ripped stitches. It shifts in the mesh basket as I start forward, threatening to slip through the cracks. 

I try to look smooth with each pedal stroke as I balance in front of her car. Sticking my left hand out, we turn out of the valet driveway and to the Oak studios, past the highway entrance, and turn left at the spa, under a grove of oaks. I park my bike and she opens the trunk, revealing a small black suitcase and a red hat. Ducking under the trunk, I see the hat’s insignia. 

“Are you part of a Ferrari club?” I ask excitedly.

“My friends arrive later in my 250 GT Spyder,” she answers. 

Rolling her Eiffel Tower-stamped bag, we reach a winding path and its wheels start clicking against concrete lines. She follows behind in disjunctive clicks from her flats. At the door stoop, I scan the room key and wait for a green light before entering into a cold blast of AC. Talking through the basic room amenities, I explain how to turn on the backyard firepit, how to adjust the AC, and how to use the remote for the roll-tracked window blinds. She nods politely and I speed up the process.

“By your bathroom is a minibar. The water, coffee, and tea are all complimentary, but the alcohol will be charged to your room. Let me know if you have any questions. Would you like me to put your bag on a luggage rack?” 

“No, thanks. But I do have a question,” she pauses. “Can I hire you as a driver for tonight?” 

“Um—” 

“Just to the bar a mile away. To Suzie's.” 

“I’m off work at 7 p.m.”

“Hmm, that won’t work,” she mumbles. “If you stayed after, I would pay extra.” 

“I can’t technically drive your car on or off property since our insurance doesn’t cover that.” 

Undeterred, Isabela claims, “You can meet me off property on the side street over there.” She points south beyond the property’s hedges from our backyard view. “That way, your managers will have no jurisdiction over your whereabouts. Meet me after you get off, at 7:30.”

“Ok… sure. Thank you,” I stutter. 

Riding the cruiser bike back to the front of the property, I watch my broken tech-deck clutter around in the front basket. Back at my station, I flick the kickstand on my bike and slump back over my wooden booth. The sun beats down on my neck through the olive trees. I drum my fingers on the table, pining for my grippy tech-deck. 

Fake Willie Nelson stumbles out of the outdoor bathroom and spits. He passes the outdoor sink, completely missing it, and heads for me. 

“Hi sir, can I help with anything?” I offer.

“You minimum wage workers have no dreams.” From ten feet away, his breath smells like whiskey.

“I’m sorry to hear that, sir.” 

“Where is the service? I was calling for help from the bathroom for five minutes. There’s no more goddamn toilet paper in there. Is this all a joke?” He gestures into thin air. 

“I’m sorry if it appears that way. I’ll get you some toilet paper right now.”

“No, no. You know what?” He flips his braided gray hair behind his shoulder and extends a mangled finger toward his car. “I’m going home.” 

“I don’t think that's a good idea. Is there any way we could call an Uber?” He ignores my question, sauntering over to the wrong side of his car. Someone must have seen the interaction from inside because a manager approaches and tells me to take a lunch break. 

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Old Man Willie was kept safely on property and given a fresh new roll of TP, and the rest of my day went slowly. I replaced my tech-deck with a pencil and notepad, drawing stick figure skateboarders soaring off wooden ramps over shark-infested waters. Pete left early. 

At a quarter to seven, I’m doodling side profiles of the Ferrari that Isabela claimed her friends would be bringing. I draw the thinly spoked rims, the fish gill side vents, and the slight curve of the ceilingless windshield. With no red colors to use, I leave the outline slightly filled in with black ink. Rotating the paper to see the portrait from different angles, I realize I might be driving this car tonight. 

I clock out from my shift and walk back to my Toyota Camry. Kneeling on the driver's seat I reach into the center console and pull out my Old Spice. Like Pete with his cosmetics, I apply liberally. As I drive to our meeting spot, I pray to Our Father that the car will be a Ferrari and a Hail Mary that I won’t crash it.

I pull onto a side street and see the outline of her black hair moving down the sidewalk. I park across from her. Isabella stops her stride behind a Ford F-350 but from my angle I can’t see around it. I get out of my car. 

“Isabela!” No answer. “Isabela!” My feet mash acorns into asphalt and my neck stiffens. I reach into my back pocket and feel my snapped tech-deck.  

“Will? Is that you?” 

I stride forward, “Yes!” and put my hand in the air like I’m hailing a taxi. She steps out from behind the Ford in a black cocktail dress. 

“You’re two minutes late!” she chides. “My friends are waiting for me. Chop chop!” 

“Sorry.” I blush. My hands go from my back pockets to my front ones. 

She waves me over and outstretches her arms to showcase whatever’s behind the Ford F-350. I crane my neck, stunned.

A wooden steering wheel like a ship’s helm is perched over cream seats. Leather pouches caress the inside doors. A shiny black gear shifter… The color drains from my face. “I don’t know how to drive stick shift.”

She takes a second. 

“What?”

“I know everything about cars, but I never learned stick.” 

“But this is supposed to be when you say, ‘Don’t worry, I’m a professional,’” she protests.

I shake my head. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, don’t worry about it,” she says with a look of pity. “Should I call an Uber?”

“Maybe,” I mutter, holding myself up by the bed of the F-350 for support. I shyly brush my shoes off on the edge of the curb. “We could also take my car, if you want.” 

“Really?” Her eyes perk up. “I’d love to.” 

“It’s just right over there. The 2009 Toyota Camry, hybrid, with traction control.” 

Isabela shushes me. “Please don’t make me regret this.” She hops from the curb and spins around. Pedaling backward, she sighs at the Ferrari receding from her vision. Across the street, I open the passenger door to my car and wait until she slips inside. I turn my head and mouth curse words into the air. When I open the driver's door I feel like shouting again; it smells deeply of Old Spice. I roll down the windows and Isabela laughs to herself a little bit.  

In five minutes, we are outside a brick building with a neon martini glass. I tell her that I’ll be parked here until she’s done. 

“Thank you, Will, you are very sweet.” 

The three-hour wait was no issue. I didn’t even need my mini skateboard.