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Sue's driver's license was more a formal qualification
than a sign of competence at the wheel. A poor girl
living in New York City has neither the need nor the
opportunity to drive far. Nevertheless, it was sufficient
to land her a job at New York New York Valet Parking
in midtown. She started on the evening shift as people
were coming out of the offices, reclaiming their cars,
and heading for the bridges and tunnels.
The lot was actually a multi-storey building. Her job
was to take the cars up the narrow spiral ramp and park
them as close together as she could. Customers were
not allowed beyond the lobby so they left feeling pampered,
secure in the knowledge that they were wealthy enough
to pay someone to park their car. The glamour was illusory.
If they had seen how the cars were actually parked a
good many of them would have reconsidered the whole
railroad idea.
A parking lot in a shopping mall has a layout designed
for the incompetent. They can afford to paint white
lines between the bays because the profits are made
elsewhere. In a valet lot the designers are forced to
cut the margins much finer. They sometimes find remarkably
clever ways to cut them fine. Sue climbed into a gleaming
eight cylinder, eight seat Chevrolet Suburban and wondered
whether it was possible to get something that big up
to the fourth floor.
She took a deep breath and headed for the ramp. All
went well for the first two right turns but then she
had to brake sharply as the front of the vehicle almost
hit a wall. She turned the wheel harder hearing the
pump for the power steering whine under the strain.
Very slowly she edged the truck forward. It wouldn't
go. She let it run backwards to give herself more space
to turn, and heard a sickening crunch as the rear bumper
hit the wall.
She scuffed the front bumper twice, and the rear twice
more, before she eventually made it to Floor 4. The
space was only just wide enough and she had to climb
out twice to check that she wasn't going to hit the
S-Class Mercedes on either side. Once in the space she
was so close to the neighboring cars she couldn't get
the door open. She tried to squeeze through the gap
but eventually she gave up, lowered the window, and
flew out.
Back in the reception area her boss told her she'd
taken too long. He threw her the keys to a Porsche on
Level 3. As she tramped up the stairs she began to wonder
whether $10 an hour was worth this much trouble.
She squeezed into the new blue Porsche, scraping the
door against a beaten Audi in the next bay. Now there
was a real city car. What kind of idiot would bring
a gleaming new Porsche into the city?
Then she noticed that it had a stick shift. She'd never
driven a stick. In the interview she'd lied about that
bit. She knew the theory of it but she was shaky in
practice. She pressed the clutch pedal all the way down,
pushed the stick into gear, and let the clutch up slowly.
The car jumped forward savagely and stalled just as
the nose hit the wall.
"Oops."
She selected neutral again and started the engine.
This time she found Reverse and let the clutch out even
slower. The engine stalled again. She tried three more
times before she got the hang of it. The car was small
so at least it was easy to get it down the ramp without
scratching it, a mercy for which she was thankful.
She parked it next to reception with the keys in the
ignition. The customer looked agitated and her boss
looked angry.
"What the hell's wrong with you?" he hissed.
The customer threw three $10 bills onto the counter
and left, spinning the tires as he went. The next two
cars were BMWs. Sue managed to fetch them without incident.
Maybe she was beginning to get the hang of this job.
Then a man that she recognized came in and slapped his
receipt onto the counter. It read 3-221. That meant
Level 3, Bay 221. The last time she had seen him was
in a boardroom explaining how many people he needed
to let go.
Sue's heart missed a beat. "Is that a blue Porsche?"
she asked.
"Yes it is! You remember my car! Personal service,
I like that. I like that! Personal service." He
stared at her face and then, with no hint of shame,
at her breasts. "Wanna go fetch it for me?"
For a wonderful moment she thought of turning herself
invisible and just going home but she knew they had
a photocopy of her license.
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