I watched as Jake pulled away in the Audi, a newer model sedan, and winced as the tires screeched around the corner of the row of cars.
Overhead the lampposts dominated the stars that should have been visible although one or two fought to get through.
That’s a fight. Old, old light getting all the way here just for me to see it.
The palms that similarly towered over the lot would be kitsch if we weren’t in Florida but even this much closer to the equator they seemed out of place for someone not from the tropics like me.
The road out past the lot was quiet, which I appreciated. That’s what money gets you. A nice piece of property off the main drag where people still know where to find you but the traffic’s not too busy and not too loud. And money was what the owners of Decant had, although they didn’t seem to want more of it as the restaurant business is a bad way to make money and they definitely didn’t want to spend it on more valets.
Jake took his time coming back.
“What was that?”
“What?” he said.
“They’re not our cars but it’s our job to take care of them. If they hear you doing that and they complain to the manager then I’m going to hear about it then you’re going to hear two little words such as ‘you’re’ and ‘fired.’”
“They were already inside. They didn’t hear a thing.”
“Ahuh. And you’re sure about that?”
“They won’t fire me. My uncle’s the manager.”
Jake had a stupid face that looked even dumber at the moment with the smug expression slapped across it. He looked quite ridiculous actually. With a snub nose and a bowl cut he looked like something out of a Saturday morning cartoon. And he was the manager’s nephew. How cliché.
I wondered if the owner would feel the same way as Jake thought his uncle the manager would if he knew that Jake spent his time on the job peeling out in the parking lot, smoking in customers’ cars, and carelessly dinging doors.
But it wasn’t my place to inform them, even if I was his immediate supervisor. They’d probably can me just for opening my mouth and I needed the job.
There was something abhorrent about Jake’s behavior. Sure they were rich people who spent more money in an evening than I saw in two weeks but however they’d gotten it, they’d bought these fancy cars with it and the cars were their property. Civil society breaks down if you can’t respect someone else’s property.
I wondered how Jake would feel if I helped myself to whatever passed as personal possessions in his room. Presumably he still lived with his parents but I didn’t know.
I was standing behind the little valet kiosk trying to look professional while Jake had slithered off to sit on the low stone wall that surrounded the garden bed to the side of the fancy wood and glass front doors.
He looked ridiculous in his khakis and red polo with an unlit cigarette bouncing on his lip oscillating from almost touching his weak chin to almost touching his nose.
An orange Lamborghini screamed into the parking lot, breaking the stillness of the night.
I liked to play a game where I’d guess who was going to step out of a car. Classic muscle car? Old guy in a polo and khakis. Maybe his wife or mid-life girlfriend. Corvette? Old guy in a polo and khakis. Maybe his wife or mid-life girlfriend.
Orange Lambo? Young guy with a stuck-up face, the sides of his head shaved, hair sticking up, wearing sunglasses no matter the time of day, a too-tight designer shirt, too-tight designer pants, and designer boots that fight right because no one wears shoes that don’t fit.
Then the girlfriend would emerge wearing too little clothing (designer of course) and too much makeup, fake nails, and fifty thousand dollars worth of plastic surgery.
The orange Lamborghini screeched around the drive and came to a sudden halt in front of us. As if he had stepped directly from my imagination, the driver emerged from the car. He was, however, sans girlfriend.
Batting .500 isn’t bad.
I went to take his keys but Jake beat me to it.
They were arguing already and walked past us and inside without so much as a look at either of us or back at the car. He probably had three of them.
A mix of perfume and cologne temporarily ruined the delicious Florida evening air in a five mile radius.
“Jake, be care—”
Jake rolled down the window, revved the engine, and lurched away cackling. He tooled around the parking lot and then disappeared out onto the street.
I stood in disbelief. I figured I’d never be nice to or even associate with that designer piece of work or his girlfriend but driving a car that was at the very least two-hundred thousand dollars off the lot and possibly wrecking it was not what you might call a good idea and certainly disrespectful of the rich jerk’s property, however I felt about him personally.
Most normal people take grand theft auto pretty seriously.
“Grant.”
I jumped ten feet in the air.
It was the manager, who bore a distinct resemblance to Jake but didn’t look quite as dumb and cartoony in a suit and tie and with thirty years on Jake.
“Didn’t mean to scare you. Where’s Jake?”
“Parking a car.”
Why was I covering for that idiot?
“Alright. Tell him to come see me when he gets back,” he said, turning and leaving without waiting for an answer.
“Sure. No problem.”
A Jag, a Range Rover, and a Tesla drove up almost simultaneously and I had no time to imagine who the owners might be, much less breathe for the next ten minutes as I ran around on my own grabbing keys, parking the car, running back, grabbing more keys, parking, and so on.
I was standing at the valet kiosk catching my breath when Jake came waltzing up from the street.
“Where’s the Lambo?”
“What?” he said, as if he’d never heard of such a thing.
“Where is the super car worth half a million dollars that you drove out of here?”
“Oh, yeah. Ran out of gas.”
“It ran out of gas?”
“Yeah. No gas.”
“You expect me to believe the guy drove here with the tank on ‘E’?”
Jake shrugged. “I guess.”
“So go get some gas.”
“Can you do it? I’m pretty tired from walking.”
“I’m tired from running back and forth like a dog. A bunch of cars came while you were gone. And your uncle’s looking for you.”
“Oh, cool. Thanks.”
He walked past me and through the doors.
At a loss for words, I merely made unintelligible sounds with my mouth hanging open and my chin touching the ground.
I would have stayed standing there but several more cars pulled up as it was now the dinner rush.
Jake came back out ten minutes later, of course while there was a lull in traffic, his stupid face glowing and a dumb grin painted across it.
“My uncle’s making me assistant general manager. He said he was impressed with my efforts out here.”
I fell back into my apparently new habit of staring speechless at Jake, whether the front of him or his retreating back.
I was distinctly aware that he was now my boss. “That’s really great. Good for you.”
“Thanks, man.”
“Were you going to get gas for that Lamborghini? I don’t know when they’re coming back out.”
“I’d rather you did it.”
“Jake, you took it out, stole it, essentially, and somehow managed to drive it so hard in a half hour that it ran out of gas. I think you should go get it.”
“No, you need to go get it. I’m general manager now—”
“Assistant.”
“Assistant general manager is still higher up than you. You can use the gas can out back that Rick keeps around for emergencies.”
“Yeah, no problem,” I said, swallowing the anger in my throat. “Can you keep watch out here for cars? Otherwise we’ll have no one working valet.”
Jake checked his watch self-importantly. “Yeah, I should be able to,” he said as if he had somewhere else to be and tossed me the keys. “Hop to it.”
I ran around the side of the restaurant, then slowed to a walk. Jake made this mess, he can wait for me to clean it up.
With some difficulty I found the gas can between two dumpsters behind the building. It was mercifully at least half full judging by the weight. I suppressed the desire to light the building on fire and instead headed back to the front, only breaking out into a run once I emerged from the palms and tropical scrub that dotted the landscaped space on the side of the building.
I waved to Jake who shouted, “It’s about a half mile down the road that way,” pointing to the right.
Out of the parking lot and on the winding palm-lined road I slowed to a walk again. I tried not to grumble to myself about Jake getting promoted to be my new boss and instead enjoy the pleasantly warm Florida evening but I only partially succeeded.
“How fast did he have to drive to run that car empty?” I wondered aloud, imagining Jake revving the supercar to four, five, six thousand RPM on the quiet back roads that crisscrossed the area near the restaurant.
I found the ridiculous orange Lambo sitting quiet and dark on the side of the road. I unlocked the car, found the gas cap on the passenger side, and dumped the rest of the fuel in from the can. I closed the gas tank and stood there awkwardly for a minute debating whether or not to leave the gas can or to risk putting it in the car and making it smell like gas, or worse, dripping gas on the seat.
I decided I wasn’t going to be the one to tell Rick his gas can had been left on the side of the road so I wiped off the spout as best I could with some leaves and put it gingerly on the floor of the passenger seat.
Crawling into the driver’s seat I felt deliciously low to the ground. The supercar roared to life and I spun it around expertly and enjoyed a bit of speed getting it back to the restaurant.
I parked and locked it.
As I walked back through the lot to the valet kiosk, gas can in tow, I started to get uneasy.
Jake was standing out front talking to his uncle, Dennis. At least Jake had kept watch like I’d asked him but now Dennis had seen me drive the Lamborghini in from the road.
I shifted the gas can to my other hand and wiped the sweat on my shirt.
Trying to act natural I took the gas can around back then resumed my post at the kiosk, all without looking at Jake or Dennis.
I heard someone clear their throat behind me.
“Um, Grant…why were you driving that Lamborghini off of the lot?”
I could feel my blood curdling. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and turned around.
“Well, Dennis, I didn’t drive the Lamborghini off of the lot. I drove it back onto the lot. Maybe you should ask Jake how it got to be out on the road.”
I looked at Jake meaningfully.
“What’s he talking about, Jake?”
“I have no idea.”
“Oh come on. You took it for a joyride until it ran out of gas then made me go get it.”
He half smiled in a deprecating manner. “I don’t know what he’s talking about, Uncle Dennis. He said he wanted to drive it out on the road so he could get some speed, see what it could do. Maybe drive it through town.”
I don’t know why I was surprised. My whole body tensed. My hands clenched and unclenched. My eyes bulged and my eyelids touched the back of my brain.
“You miserable liar.”
“He’s been a problem since day one,” Jake said. “Can we just get rid of him?”
Dennis looked at me. “Grant, you’re fired. I’ll mail you your last paycheck.”
I wasn’t quite speechless. I bubbled and hissed like air escaping from an in-ground sprinkler system being winterized by having all the water forced out.
Just then the Lamborghini owner, gelled hair and all, emerged from the restaurant.
He walked at a forty-five degree angle, his knees preceded his feet, his head rested on one shoulder, and, in order to seem completely normal and unsoused, he was wearing his sunglasses.
He held out his valet ticket in front of him.
“Orjj Lammo.”
The stench of bourbon torpedoed through me so hard I found it difficult to stand.
“Sir?” Dennis said.
“Orrjj Lammbo.”
“Sir, we can’t let you drive.”
“Nah, godda get outta here. Gonna go.”
“Sir, I think you’ve had too much to drink. We can’t let you drive. We can call you a cab if you want, or an Uber.”
“Nah, nah, man. You guys are a bunch of commies. Commies stealing my car. I need my Lammbogheenee.”
“Sir—”
“Commie,” the drunk said, jabbing Dennis in the chest.
Having forgotten my troubles, I watched with amusement as the ‘Don’t poke me, sir’/’You’re a commie’ routine continued for a bit.
Sometimes he mixed it up and called Dennis a socialist. I thought that was a nice touch.
“Listen, guys. Gentlemen. Dudes. Might I make a suggestion?” Everyone looked at me like I was an unwanted apparition of Gary Busey on a piece of burnt toast. Surprise and alarm, etc, etc.
“Hey, I yam a gentleman,” said the drunk man. “Not evry day I get stood up.” He hiccuped.
“With a bright orange Lamborghini, I can imagine that wouldn’t happen often. Listen—what’s your name?”
He said something I didn’t catch.
“One more time?”
“Octavius.”
“Well, Octavius, my Roman friend,” (I was beginning to enjoy myself despite the shock of losing my job) “how about I drive you home? That way, you get your Lamborghini, you get home safe and sound, and you don’t kill anyone else or yourself out on the road tonight.”
“You can’t leave.” It was Uncle Dennis butting in.
“Why not, Dennis? You fired me. I’m not a valet. I don’t work for you anymore.”
This retort proved to be the proverbial sock in his figurative mouth.
Jake just stood there like a fish gasping for water.
“Keys.”
Jake handed them over.
“Come on, Octavius.”
He leaned against me, one arm around my neck, as we made our way to the car.
“Thanks, man. I owe you one,” he said, but it kind of all came out all at once as ‘eye-woe-you-won.’ I got the gist. “I can’t believe she stood me up. Man, I can’t believe she stood me up.”
This became a familiar refrain during our trip to the car, while I unlocked the car, while I helped him into the passenger seat, and while I pulled the car around to where Dennis and Jake still stood dumbfounded.
I looked at them, Jake in his stupid khakis and red polo (yes, I know I was still wearing the same thing), Dennis in his ill-fitting suit.
“So long. I’ll send you a postcard from the French Riviera.”
I gunned the engine and peeled out leaving the uncle and nephew duo in a cloud of smoke.
I drifted out onto the road. The camera panned out. The music played.
“Woah, take it easy. Pull over, pull over.” Octavius got out then came back a minute later wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “Much better. You know your way around a Lamborghini, huh? Driven one before?”
I grinned. “Many, many times. But it had been a while ‘til tonight.”
The engine roared. The speed pushed me back in my seat.
The camera panned out. The music played.
It had been a long time. The investigation, the lawsuit, the no-fault settlement, the foreclosure, the divorce, the second investigation, the second lawsuit, the prison time.
I was back.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, strictly a product of the author’s imagination. Any perceived resemblance or similarity to any other fictional works, to actual events or persons, living or dead, and any perceived slights of people, places, or organizations are products
of the reader’s imagination. This fiction is the result of a partnership between a human writer and the character(s) he accessed with his creative subconscious as he raced through the story with them. No generative AI was used in any way to write this story.