True story:
A stiff November breeze drifted through the double doors at the South end of the hotel lobby. I’d just walked in with my luggage after having driven 400 miles North to give a talk in Walnut Creek. I was exhausted. I wanted my room. The front desk glistened, like an oasis of vodka before an alcoholic lost in the desert. Then, from behind me, she spoke.
“Valet!”
I barely heard her. Unless we’re nosy, people have a way of tuning out anyone who’s not speaking directly to us. Or anyone who’s about to say something we don’t want to hear.
“Hey. HEY! Valet!” she said, this time snapping her fingers and tapping me on the shoulder. I turned around, wondering if she thought I looked like someone she knew named “Valet.” HOPING I looked like someone she knew named “Valet.” Because I’d recently reread my copy of The Delusional Black Man’s Guide to Interpreting the Behavior of Other People.
Then I noticed that in her outstretched hand, the one she’d been using to poke me in my left shoulder (which was already sore from having spent seven hours under a rental car’s twisted seat belt), she held a set of keys.
Later that evening, I would speak at a fundraiser for the Walnut Creek Library Foundation, and it would be televised. A good friend who saw me on TV a week or so later pointed out to me that I have this habit of talking with my hands. I’m not so sure. I think I was waving them around to let the cool air in the room dull the pain of what happened in this hotel hours before.
The woman in the lobby grabbed my drawing hand and JAMMED her keys into it, pointy end down, as if in retribution for my having ignored her when she first bellowed. “I’m in a hurry. Blue Saab. Make sure you park it far enough from another car, I hate how you people don’t care if it gets dings or not.”
“I’m not the valet,” I started before she cut me off with “If you gas it up too, there’s a tip in it for you.”
I started again: “Ma’am… lady… listen, I’m not–”
She interrupted again: “Whatever, just do your job!”
Then as I stood in stunned silence, the forty-something blonde huffed over to the open elevator and stepped inside. That’s when I noticed her maroon shoes were glistening, as if covered in tiny, crushed rubies. Her maroon pants were crisp and pleated, as if life itself were constantly ironing them for fear of pissing her off. Her tight black tank top clung to her for dear life, holding still, trying not to call her attention for fear of being scolded. From out of nowhere, she prestidigitated a pocket mirror and a lip brush, and began brushing lipstick onto her skinny, skinny lips. As she puckered, I could see what must have been a dozen scold-wrinkles form over her upper lip. The color shone under the soft light of the elevator. It was dark red, as if she were brushing the blood of a hapless valet onto her lips.
She smacked her lips three times and admired herself in the mirror that was probably sewn into the palm of her hand all along. She adjusted her blonde hair, and plucked out an unlucky strand. I imagine it had committed the mortal offense of appearing slightly gray. That’s when she noticed me watching her.
“What? WHAT?” she barked. Then, without closing her mirror, she raised the same hand, drew it back slowly, as if she were a conductor about to begin a symphony. She stood frozen, gazing in my general direction, as if posing for a painting; with her be-mirrored hand hovering beside her stiff blonde hair. Then, as if she were cracking a whip, her hand shot forward so fast that it became a blur, and she snapped her fingers at me.
“Nothing” I said as the elevator doors slid shut and she vanished.
In my heart, I held a burning, frustrated hatred for this evil, evil woman. But then I smiled, because I realized… in my hand, I held the evil woman’s car keys.
TO BE CONTINUED…
•••
This week’s theme song is Beyoncé’s “Scared of Lonely”:
Oh Mai Gawd! This reminds me of the button/bumpersticker: "Careful or I'll put you in my novel." I confess that directive finger snaps send me into a blind fury.
Hi Darren,
Thanks for the explanation about colour v. B&W!
Really enjoyed the second part of your story as well and have shared it with some friends.
I am sorry that this happened to you. I know sometimes when I experience this type of disrespect and I try and call out the perpetrator or the person who will get punished is me. Just like if Darren did throw away her keys instead of that disgusting woman being told off for assuming Darren is a valet and also for disregarding him she will get away scot free to poison someone else's day. Even if he is not punished it will be some poor valet who has no idea what has happened. Sometimes this world realy, really sucks.
Assertiveness training would solve that problem. "Oh, you are looking for a valet? Perhaps the clerk can point you to one." Or, "Take your hands off me or I will call security." By saying and doing nothing, one becomes victimized and feels bad about not standing up for one's self, then beats one's self up over it for years to come. Aggression is not productive because it causes yourself stress. Passiveness is not productive because of the victimization mentality. Where is Dr. Noodle when we need him?
Excellent story. Can't wait to read the next installment.
And by the way, how come the strips being posted in B & W? i'm used to reading the strip on a newspaper's website, where it's in colour. i just tuned in here to see if there was a back story to this "Give me my keys" series. (and am excited to learn that there is indeed one.)
Thank you! I draw the comics in black and white during the week and only color them on Sundays. Most syndicated cartoonists do the same because most newspapers only run the comics in color on Sundays. That means that during the rest of the week, we have to use more intricate line art, texturing, and other tricks to produce a richer-looking black and white strip. When we colorize THOSE, a lot of the detail in the line art is lost; and even when it isn't lost, the color causes the reader to ignore it.
More and more newspapers are colorizing the weekday comics themselves, and when most papers start doing that, we'll probably start drawing the comics differently (more in the style of webcomics, with sparse line art and an awful lot of color). But for now the vast majority of newspapers still run them in black and white except on Sundays.
LOL– I wish I knew you threw those damn things in the trash. better yet, down the toilet in the lobby. Unfortunately, I just KNOW you did something responsible. Sigh. My brain is running through the list of what you could and couldn't be held liable for…
and what happens to all that pent up frustration we carry with us, every time we do the right thing in the face of the unbearable?
Can there ever be enuf cartoons/art/working out/scream therapy? Fuck it– I'm having a morning beer with cereal…
Stay tuned for the next installment of "What the hell did Darrin do with those keys?"
Waiting with baited breath for the sequel.
My short attention span is kicking in. How long do we have to wait dude?
Sam I Am, what a jam Darrin would be in if he did that unless he FLUSHED them down.
uh, yes. Indeed. I thought the "flushing" was implicit. Though I don't think Darrin would be in that much of a jam. He's under no (legal) obligation to do (or not do) anything with the keys. The bigger concern would be if something happened to the car, and the keys were found with his prints on them.