Tag Archives: parking lot

Aug18

Locked Door

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I usually only share stories I’ve witnessed, but my co-worker told me this one immediately after it happened, and it’s too good to keep to myself.

Our restrooms are in a small building in the middle of the parking area.IMG_6725

On one side of the building are two doors. Each door opens to a wheelchair accessible room housing a pit toilet. The doors remain unlocked unless someone goes into the room and locks the door behind him/herself.

IMG_6727 Next to each door is a sign. Each sign has the word “Restroom” on it, as well as pictures to communicate the restroom’s suitability for all genders, as well as folks who use wheelchairs or other devices to help with mobility limitations.

On the other side of the building is one door, which remains locked unless someone with a key (me, my co-worker, our boss) unlocks it. My old boss called the area behind the door the “B room,” and my new boss calls it the “breezeway.” It’s essentially a small storage room where we keep cleaning supplies, toilet paper, and extra day passes. There is no sign of any kind outside the B room.IMG_6724

One Friday, my co-worker walked down to the building in the middle of the parking lot to do the midmorning cleaning of the restrooms. He went over to the side with the door to the B room to get the supplies he needed. As he approached the door, he saw a woman or middle age leaning on the door to the B room. She was slumped over and mumbling to herself. When she saw my co-worker heading in her direction, she told him, Somebody’s been in there a long time!

My co-worker had to bear to her the bad news that no one was ever going to come out of the room, that, in fact, there was no toilet in the room. He escorted her around to the other side of the building where her urgency impressed the people in the queue, and everyone agreed to allow her to jump to the head of the line.

I took the photos in this post.

Aug16

Excuse Me, Sir

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As I’ve mentioned before, the forest I’m in is experiencing a very strict fire ban. One of the restrictions is that people are not allowed to smoke outside. Smoking is only allowed in a vehicle with the windows rolled up to within an inch or so of the top. (Although smoking is allowed in buildings, neither my campground or the parking lot has a building suitable for smoking.)

The ban on outside smoking was not my decision. It was not the decision of my boss or his boss. The Forest Service made this rule, and I’m just doing my job telling people what’s up.

I hate having to approach people in the process of smoking cigarettes. (It’s always cigarettes people are smoking, never pipes or cigars.) I know people are addicted to the things, and I know they’re not going to be happy when I tell them they can’t get their fix in the open air. (See http://www.rubbertrampartist.com/2016/08/06/no-smoking/ to read about a woman who went from overly friendly to vicious when I told her she had to get into her car to smoke.) I approach smokers very, very cautiously when I’m about to tell them what they’re doing is against the rules.

I don’t yell across the parking lot at smokers. I get within speaking distance, but not close enough to get hit if the smoker gets violent. I am extra polite right before I thwart smokers. Usually I say, Excuse me, sir (or ma’am). I have to tell you (meaning, I certainly don’t want to tell you this, but I am required to), we are in a very strict fire ban right now (giving them the reason for the upcoming bad news.) You are only allowed to smoke in your vehicle with the windows rolled up. Then I try to get away from the smoker as quickly as possible.

Most smokers comply, probably because most of them think I’m a ranger or at least a Forest Service employee who can write a ticket. But no one has said, What wonderful news! I’ve been looking for a reason to quit.

On the second Saturday in August, I had to speak to two men puffing away.

The first guy was a senior citizen with white hair and a short white beard. He was wearing fancy hiking clothes, and looked sort of like Santa Claus on a forest vacation. I glanced over at the Santa man standing by his car and thought I saw smoke. (With the popularity of vaporizers, sometimes what I originally think is smoke turns out to be vapor. Asking a person vaping to quit smoking is embarrassing, so I try not to make that mistake.) I looked over again and was pretty sure it was a cigarette Santa man had going on over there.

I got out of my chair and walked toward the man. When I was within speaking range, I said, Excuse me, sir. I have to tell you, we’re in a very strict fire ban right now.

Before I could say anything else, he started walking toward me and said, I’m very cautious.

I’m sure any person smoking in a National Forest would tell me s/he is very cautious. Saying it–believing it–does not make it true. I didn’t see what–if anything–Santa man was using as an ashtray. I’m not sure he was letting his ashes fall to the ground, but I’m also not sure he was catching them in a container. He was standing on the asphalt while he smoked–maybe that was his idea of cautious.

As I went on to tell him he was only allowed to smoke in his car with the windows rolled up, he walked over to the trashcan and threw away his cigarette butt. Apparently, I’d noticed him at the end of his cigarette.

The second smoker was middle aged and completely bald. He was wearing what I can only describe as “dressy casual” clothing–long shorts and a shirt with a collar. Perhaps his clothing was suitable for golfing? He was standing on the asphalt too, but near the entrance gate, puffing away in front of God and everybody.

I walked up to him. Excuse me, sir. I have to tell you, we’re in the middle of a strict fire ban. You’re only allowed to smoke in your car with the windows rolled up.

I saw the look of unhappiness on his face as he stalked away from the gate. (I think he was heading back to his vehicle to finish the cigarette, since he didn’t stub it out.)

There should be a sign! he spat at me.

I thought about pointing out the press release about the fire ban posted on one of the information boards, but I couldn’t remember if it addressed smoking or just campfires. I didn’t really want to have a discussion with the guy; I just wanted him to stop smoking out in the open. So I said, Yes, you’re right, there should be.

Then he said, because you’re defying one’s privacy!

What? Defying one’s privacy? Defying his privacy? Ummm, how is it private to smoke a cigarette out in the open, in front of God and everybody? Did he mean I was defying his privacy by speaking to him? How is a sign telling him smoking is prohibited different from me telling him smoking is prohibited? Since I didn’t want to have a discussion with the man, I didn’t question him.

My boss came by later, and I told him about the interaction, told him the man had said we need a No Smoking sign. My boss laughed and said soon we’d have more signs than trees. He probably won’t get us a sign, and I’ll have to continue to defy people’s privacy.

IMG_3370

I took this photo of Smokey the Bear.

Aug13

Grumpy Lady Returns

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The lady who was mad because a) her Golden Age pass didn’t waive the parking fee and b) the $5 she paid for parking didn’t get her a trail guide returned to the parking lot a week and a day later. I recognized the expression of displeasure and the 80s-era glasses on her face immediately, but even though she snapped, I’m back! when I approached her car, I acted as if I’d never seen her before. I didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of being memorable.

The comment card I’d giver her the week before was lying on her dashboard, so I guess she hadn’t been upset enough to dash off her thoughts and drop it in a mailbox right away. She’d acted as if not getting a trail guide was the most important event of her day, so I was surprised to see the comment card casually lying upon her otherwise pristine dash.

The first time I encountered the grumpy lady, a young woman had been with her. The young woman had spoken nary a word while the older woman complained. This time the grumpy lady had two passengers, both of whom remained silent.

After snapping I’m back, the grumpy woman thrust a $20 bill at me. I accepted it. I handed her the day pass, then proceeded to get her change.

A lot of people pay their parking fee with $1 bills. If I don’t give those $1 bills people who pay with $20 bills, my little plastic accordion file ends up bulging, and at the end of the day, I might have 50 or 100 dollar bills to count. If I’ve accumulated a lot of ones, I’ll sometimes give one person $15 change in ones, especially if that person’s pissed me off. Sometimes people make snide remarks when I hand over a bunch of singles, but I figure money’s money and if they don’t want a bunch of ones, why do they expect me to want them? I wouldn’t say it aloud, but my attitude about change is you get what I give you and quit complaining.

So when it came time to give the grumpy woman her change, I decided to get rid of some ones. I gave her ten singles (because I didn’t have fifteen) and a $5 bill, but she wasn’t happy about all the ones.

Don’t you have many $5 bills, she demanded.

Not too many, I said. People have been giving me twenties today. I’ve been having to make a lot of change.

It was the truth. The trend on Fridays is $20 bills. I guess people hit the ATM at the beginning of the weekend and the machine spits out twenties. It was early in the day, and I had ten singles and maybe $25 in fives. Someone was going to end up with the ones anyway. Why not this nag?

What do you do when you run out of change? she wanted to know.

First of all, it’s none of her business what I do when I run out of change. But saying none of your business would have seemed rude and sketchy.

Secondly, what I do when I run out of change depends on the situation. If my co-worker is in the parking lot when I run out, I can ask him to change a twenty, or I can ask him to handle things while I go to the van and get change from my money bag. However, on Fridays, once I’ve done my cash out, I don’t have any smaller bills in the van. Sometimes if I can’t make change, I’ll tell people to see me after they walk the trail, by which time I may have smaller bills. Sometimes if people have a couple of ones and a twenty and I can’t change the twenty, I’ll just take the ones. And on rare occasions when I’ve had no change, I’ve let drivers park for free. (What else can I do? I can’t shoot $5 bills out of my ass, but OH! how glorious life would be if I could.)

But all of that is a lot to explain to a grumpy woman who seemingly wanted to find fault with everything I did, so I just said, People have to dig a little deeper.

By then she had her day pass and her $15, and she drove off to park.

I ran right over to my co-worker and said, That was the woman… and filled him in. He’d overheard some of our conversation and said about the woman, What a sour person.

Five or ten minutes later, the grumpy woman marched up to where my co-worker and I were sitting while we waited for incoming cars. The woman was carrying a disposable plastic water bottle, and she demanded, Where’s the water spigot? (Not excuse me or could you tell me or please, but with the attitude and tone of voice of You will fulfill my need for water RIGHT NOW!)

My co-worker calmly explained there is no water in the parking lot because the drought has caused the well to run dry. He had to explain the situation to the woman at least twice before she stopped demanding he tell her where the water spigot was. Then she said she guessed she’d have to go to the campground next door to get water. So my co-worker explained there is no water at the campground next door or at my campground down the road. She kept insisting she’d gotten water from the campground next door. My co-worker said it must have been more than three years ago because the campground hadn’t had water for at least that long.

Finally, she marched off and my co-worker made the victory gesture of arm bent at the elbow, hand balled into a fist, arm dropping while whispering, Yes! Usually denying people water is not a cause for celebration, but this woman’s unpleasantness made us want to thwart her.

Quite some time later, my co-worker and I realized we hadn’t seen the woman or her passengers cross the street to the trail, nor had we seen them drive away.

Maybe she’s out divining water, my co-worker said. I got a good laugh from the picture that produced in my head.

Maybe her passengers beat her with sticks and now they’re burying her in the meadow, I offered.

In any case, I was glad she didn’t feel the need to talk to me again.

 

Aug8

Trail Guides

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Last season, my co-worker and I handed out a trail guide to the driver of every car that parked in the parking lot. These were nice trail guides: trifold, printed on both sides in color on heavy, glossy paper. We had trail guides early this season too, until right after Memorial Day.

The company I work for doesn’t provide the trail guides; they’re provided by an association promoting giant sequoias. The association recently did some work on the trial, and my boss told me the plan is to mount informational plaques on wood in front of the featured trees. He doesn’t know if this plan will do away with the trail guides or when the informational plaques will appear. In the meantime, as I told my boss, visitors are sad every day when I tell them I have no trail guide to give them.

My co-worker and I were discussing the possible demise of the paper trail guide. I noted they must cost a pretty penny, so doing away with them would save someone money. Also, I speculated 95% of them (a number I pulled right out of my ass) end up in the landfill, so doing away with them would be an environmentally sound step.

However, my co-worker countered, people like getting the trail guide. Being handed the trail guide makes them feel as if they’re getting something for the $5 they pay to park. I couldn’t argue with him there because I knew he was right.

My co-worker left for the day, and I was in the parking lot alone.

A car pulled in, and I approached the driver’s side. Through the window, I saw a driver who looked like a retired junior high school teacher–very uptight. When I told her about the $5 parking fee, she wanted to use her Golden Age pass. I explained we accept no passes and offer no discounts in the parking lot. She was surly, so I explained further that the private company I work for has a concession with the Forest Service and is allowed to charge the $5 fee to maintain the restrooms and the parking lot.

She snapped, The Forest Service maintains all the restrooms!

(I love setting people straight when they speak with authority but obviously don’t know what they’re talking about.)

I stayed very calm and said in a friendly voice, No ma’am. The Forest Service does not maintain these restrooms. The private company I work for maintains the restrooms and buys the toilet paper.

She had no retort on the topic of restrooms, so she asked about the campground next door. I gave her the information, even told her she could use her Golden Age pass there to get 50% off the camping fee. She said she was going to look at the campground.

I said something like Ok, Great! but in the privacy of my brain, I was thinking, Good riddance.

It wasn’t good riddance for long; she was back in the parking lot a few minutes later. I guess she hadn’t like what she saw in the campground.

I took the woman’s $5 and handed her a day pass.

Don’t I get a trail guide? she demanded.

We’ve been out of trail guides for about six weeks, I told her calmly. I don’t have any to give.

Can’t you make photocopies? she demanded.

This question made me chuckle aloud. I don’t even have electricity at the campground where I’m the camp host. I don’t have any way to make photocopies, I told her.

She was quite exasperated now. Surely the company you work for has an office, she said. They could make photocopies there.

The company I work for doesn’t provide the trail guides, I told her. They’re provided by an association…

I realized the conversation was unworkable. She would have a counterargument or another question in response to anything I said. I decided to try a new tactic.

Would you like a comment card? I offered.

My new tactic for complainers I can’t seem to placate is to offer a comment card. If the complainer accepts the card, the heat’s off me. Not only does the card distract them, but they quit complaining to me because their complaint is now moving on to a higher power. If the complainer does not accept a comment card, we both knows/he is not adequately invested in the complaint. The complainer usually quits talking at that point, and I certainly quit listening.

Oh yes, the uptight woman said. She certainly did want a comment card. If I’m paying $5, I want a trail guide, she told me.

Just like my co-worker had said.

I got the comment card for her. She didn’t hand it back to me, so she must have mailed it in to the president of the company for which I work. She wasn’t the type to decide it was no big deal after all.

 

Aug7

Big Hands

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It was almost the end of my shift when the car pulled in. A Latino man was driving. A man of undetermined heritage wearing a big straw hat was in the passenger’s seat.

When I asked, Are y’all here for the trail? the man wearing the big hat said, I’m from [nearby town].

I’m not sure if he thought he’d get special treatment because he was a local, but I immediately replied, There’s a $5 parking fee.

As he began fumbling for his money, he told me his friend (the driver) was visiting from Mexico City, and he (the passenger) wanted to show him (the driver) the big trees.

There was something a little odd going on with the passenger, although I couldn’t quite put my finger on what. He was oversharing a bit (I didn’t really care where he lived or why he’d decided to visit the trail on that particular day), and while he was moving a little slowly, he also seemed somewhat frantic.

The driver never said a word, barely looked at me.

I collected the $5, handed over the day pass, and sent them on their way. I sat in my chair and continued working on the letter I was writing. I almost forgot I’d ever seen the guy wearing the big straw hat.

I became aware of someone standing in front of me, silently watching me. I looked up. There was the guy wearing the big straw hat.

He told me he was sad about all the dead trees.

I told him the drought had killed them.

He told me the trees at his place were dying too, trees he’d planted with his own two hands.

(I really don’t think I get paid near enough to be a grief counselor helping people work through their sadness at the death of trees, but I was trying to be polite.)

Then he asked why so many trees had been cut down in the parking lot.

I explained those trees had been dead or dying and had been deemed hazardous.

He pointed to a nearby tree that had been felled. He said the tree looked healthy to him. He wanted to know why a tree that seemed healthy to him had been cut.

I’m not tree expert. (That’s probably why I wasn’t hired to determine what trees in the parking lot needed to be taken down before they fell on a car or a person.) I don’t know specifically why the tree the man wearing the big straw hat thought was healthy had been cut down. I don’t even know why the man wearing the big straw hat thought the tree in question had been healthy. Presumably, the man in front of me wasn’t a tree expert either, since he hadn’t presented his credentials, verbally or otherwise. I can only guess that even if the tree on the ground looked fine, some sickness had been detected, and it was in danger of falling.

I’m fairly distrustful of the government, but I hardly think there’s a conspiracy in my parking lot to cut down healthy trees. What would be the point?

You’d have to talk to someone from the Forest Service about that, I told him in reply to his question about why the particular tree of interest had been felled.

The man wearing the big straw hat became more animated.

I work for the LA Times! he exclaimed.

(Oh yeah? In what capacity? I should have asked. But really, I didn’t want to engage him. I really just wanted to get back to writing my letter.)

He insinuated he could get to the bottom of this.

He said, I’m a writer. I have big hands! He held up his hands for me to see. They didn’t look particularly big to me. And what if they were? What’s hand size got to do with being a writer? Nothing, as far as I can tell.

And you know what else? he asked.

(If this man says something about the size of his dick, I’m going to lose my shit, I thought. That’s how weird he was getting–weird enough that I thought he might start talking about his penis.)

I love this place! He was really excited now. You let anyone around here doing anything wrong know that I will find out! he told me. Because I am a writer! And I love this place!

Ok, I said, and pointed out to him his friend from Mexico City leaving him behind, rapidly crossing the street and heading for the trail.

You better catch up, I told the man in the big straw hat.

He just stood there and looked at me, clearly wanting to rant some more.

I looked down at the letter in my lap, trying to signal the end of our interaction.

Finally (finally!) he walked away, but as he crossed the street, he continued to shout about being a writer and loving this place and having big hands.

Thankfully, my shift ended and I was gone before he returned to the parking lot.

IMG_6350

I took this photo of felled hazard trees.

Aug6

No Smoking

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addict, addiction, ashtrayShe was suspiciously happy when she drove her car into the parking lot. She was practically bouncing up and down in her seat when I asked her if she were there to see the trees. I was glad to see someone so excited to walk the trail.

She was polite to me, answering my questions with yes, ma’am and no, ma’am.

She was concerned with the people in the car behind her, which included her passenger’s mother. She wondered if the mother had money to pay the parking fee, seemed ready to pony up if the folks in the other car had no cash.

She was acting like a really nice person.

She parked her vehicle near the front of the lot. All I had to do was turn my head, and I could see it. She and her passenger got out of her car and gave parking advice to the driver of the second vehicle.

I glanced over and saw a plume of smoke. My eyes followed the smoke to the cigarette, followed the cigarette to the mouth of the suspiciously happy woman.

I took a few steps closer to the smoking woman.

Excuse me, ma’am, I said. I have to tell you that smoking is only allowed in your car with the windows rolled up. The fire ban is very strict right now.

The woman wasn’t happy anymore.

She said something along the lines of Are you shitting me? She sounded angry.

Then she spat out, I have a five month old baby! I can’t smoke in the car!

Since 2008, it’s been illegal in California for adults to smoke in a car when people under 18 are present.

Maybe the once happy, now angry, woman was referencing that law, or maybe she was concerned about the infant’s health. Or maybe she was just using the baby as an excuse because she didn’t want to smoke in the car with the windows rolled up. In any case, she seemed really mad.

Well, you could not smoke, I told her mildly. Or you could sit in the other vehicle (I gestured to the small pickup the passenger’s mother had arrived in) to smoke. Or you could take the baby out of your car before you get in to smoke. (The passenger could have supervised the baby while the driver sat in the car and smoked.)

She’d quit listening to me. She was pissed off because she couldn’t have her cigarette when and where she wanted it.

I went back to my chair. I wasn’t glad I’d ruined her day, but I was glad I’d stopped her from adding to the fire danger.

Image courtesy of https://www.pexels.com/photo/dirty-addiction-cigarette-unhealthy-46183/.

Aug4

Second Most Popular Attraction

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It was Independence Day weekend and the parking lot was quite busy.

A car carrying three women pulled in. A brunette–probably in her 50s–was driving. The woman in the passenger seat seemed to be the driver’s mother. I didn’t get a good look at the woman in the back seat.

The mother-age woman tried to use her Golden Age card to avoid the parking fee. I explained we accept no passes and offer no discounts in the parking lot. The mother-age woman seemed mildly disgruntled, but the woman driving took it all in stride and stayed friendly.

I further explained the lot was quite crowded and they might not be able to find a parking spot. I sent them on their way to look for a place to park, telling them to pay the parking fee up front on their way to trail if they found a place to leave the car.

My co-worker was off cleaning restrooms when the women showed up at the front of the parking lot, three little dogs in tow. The third woman was blond, and I picked up the info she was the cousin of the brunette, who was the daughter of the woman with the Golden Age card.

The brunette cheerfully paid the parking fee and went off to use the restroom, leaving her dog with the other two women who hovered near me and vied for my attention. I was not standing around idly entertaining tourists, but collecting parking fees and explaining the lay of the land to new arrivals.

The blond cousin and the mother were not scintillating conversationalists. Every time I got to walk away from them felt like an escape. They both seemed rather out of it, slow even, but I don’t know if that was due to age, medication, or genetics. Honestly, they were making me nervous and uptight.

Finally, the brunette returned and collected her little dog. Something was said about the restrooms, maybe a comment was made about how long the brunette had stood in line.

I said, My co-worker says the restrooms are the second most popular attraction here.

What’s the most popular? the blond asked.

I was stunned, both by the question and my inability to think of a smart-ass response.

I just answered, The trees ma’am. The trees.

The most popular attraction.

I took this photo of the most popular attraction.

 

 

 

Jul31

Giant RV

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It was a busy Sunday in the parking lot, but the fever pitch of the late morning was mellowing a bit in the early afternoon. My co-worker had gone for the day, and I was on my own.

Bus, 3D Modeling, Motor Home, Travel, Render, TouristI saw a giant motor home approach the parking lot. By giant, I mean as big as a bus. This RV was literally the size of a Greyhound and didn’t look shiny enough to be rented. While it looked neither old nor trashy, it had dings and scratches. The people in the front were relatively young, probably in their mid-30s. The man in the passenger seat was blond and wore glasses. The driver was a woman with long, dark hair.

The little voice in my head was a bit late in whispering this is a bad idea, and I didn’t sprint over to send them down to the long, narrow overflow parking lot. The giant RV made the turn into my parking lot, and I waved them in.

My co-worker maintains we can get a bus through the parking lot, so my faith wasn’t entirely misplaced. He’s seen buses as big as Greyhounds enter, park, and later exit, so I was confident it could be done if the driver had adequate skill.

I told the driver of the giant RV I wasn’t sure if she’d find a place to park the behemoth. I told her if she did, she could pay me the $5 parking fee on the way to the trail. Then I sent her on her way, hoping she could get the huge vehicle through the lot and out again.

Some time passed, but I don’t know if it was five or ten or fifteen minutes. A man in his thirties approached me. He had blond hair and glasses. He told me he was with the RV. He said the RV could not get through because of car(s) parked in designated no parking areas. I asked him what he meant by designated no parking areas. He said a car (or maybe multiple cars) were parked on the pavement in areas not marked with lines as parking spaces. (None of the spaces in our parking lot are marked by signs saying no parking.) He said there wasn’t enough space for the motor home to get through, and they couldn’t back it up around the loop’s curves.

I told him all they could do was wait until the driver(s) of the car(s) blocking them returned. The blond man with glasses looked sad and walked back to his ride.

I wasn’t too concerned with the giant RV being temporarily stuck. I knew the people in the blocking cars would eventually return, at which time, according to the blond man, the driver of the giant RV would be able to swing it through the loop and out. My immediate concern was for the people trying to leave who were stuck behind the giant RV. My next concern was for people who arrived and wanted to park while the giant RV was stuck.

Cars parked on the exit side of the traffic jam were able to leave. Some of the drivers of those cars gave me reports on the RV as they left.

One young woman told me the RV was stuck because some asshole(s) had parked where they shouldn’t have. I told her we’d just have to wait until the asshole(s) returned to those vehicles.

Slowly, cars began to exit from the wrong way of the one-way loop. I guess the drivers stuck behind the giant RV realized breaking the rules was the only way they were going to get out. One by one, they were figuring out how to turn around so they could leave.

Thankfully, we’d hit a slow time in the flow of the parking lot. Only seven cars arrived during the time of the RV blockage. I was able to get them parked at the front of the lot, in spaces I could see from where I stood.

At some point, I received word that the driver of the giant motor home was trying to back it out.

How’s that going to work? I wondered.

I never went to the back of the lot to look at the stuck motor home. There was nothing I could do to help. I couldn’t move the offending cars. I didn’t want to give the driver of the RV bad advice that would make the situation worse. Also, I felt I was needed to keep things flowing smoothly in the front of the parking lot and get new arrivals safely parked while not adding to the logjam behind the giant RV.

Several groups of people exited the trail, and vehicles began leaving the lot. Then I saw the giant motor home approaching the exit. Success!

The driver of the giant RV stopped next to me and opened her window. We saw a spot where we’ll fit, she said to me. We’re going to make the loop again.

This time, the little voice in my head shouted Are you kidding me? NO!!! This time, the rest of me listened.

I shook my head and told her they’d be much better off in the overflow lot down the road. I was awfully glad to see them go.

Image courtesy of https://pixabay.com/en/bus-3d-modeling-motor-home-travel-1959433/.

 

Jul28

Road Builder

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The parking lot was intensely busy, and I was already quite grumpy. I was trying to hold it together and be polite, but it seemed like the best I could do was concentrate on not getting myself fired.

A pickup truck pulled into the the lot; several other vehicles were behind it. The pickup truck was going abnormally slow. Sure, I don’t want people driving like Dale Earnhardt Jr. in the parking lot, but folks need to keep up a brisk pace, or there’s going to be a logjam.

I could see the driver of the pickup ruck was a very old man. I thought maybe he didn’t know where to go (people are often confused by the parking lot’s one-way traffic), so I went from my regular hand motion signally this way and come on down into broad, sweeping arm gestures. The truck continued to put-put-putter in, and I was worried the old man might swerve any minute and start going the wrong way on the loop. I added to my sweeping arm gestures shouts of This way! This way! Neither the driver nor his passengers seemed to notice me until the driver’s side window was next to my head.

After determining the crew in the truck (the old man driver, a younger woman squashed in the middle, and a young man in the passenger seat) was in fact there for the trail, I gave my little speech: The trail begins across the street. You are on a one-way loop. Look for a place to park. Once you’re parked, pay the $5 parking fee on your way to the trail.

The very old man driving finally showed some animation. You’re going to charge me to park, he demanded, when I’m the one who built this road?

That’s one I’d never heard before!

I wonder if he tries that at the supermarket. You’re going to charge me for these groceries when I’m the one who built the road out there?

I wonder if he has a certificate listing all the road he’s built so he can prove himself to skeptics.

I wonder if he’s ever built a road in his life, or if this is just a ploy he uses to get into places for free.

In any case, I was surprised and stammered that my boss told me I had to charge everyone who parks in the parking lot.

Then he just sat there, his truck blocking the traffic flow. I tried to shoo him away, told him to go and park, and then just walked away from the truck to talk to the next driver in line.

I realized later I’d not seen the truck leave the parking lot, nor had I seen the old man or either of his passengers step up to pay me or my co-worker. But the parking lot was really busy, and it was conceivable the truck had left or the male passenger (of whom I hadn’t gotten a good look) had paid my co-worker while I was involved with another visitor.

Much later, I saw a truck approach the lot’s exit. I saw the old man driving that truck was the man who’d claimed to have built the road. He was dangling money out of his window. I guess he’d finally decided to pay his parking fee. I immediately became quite interested in looking in the direction opposite of the old man. He was closer to my co-worker anyway, and I figured it was my co-worker’s turn to deal with him.

My co-worker said the old guy told him, I built this road, and my co-worker thought I know who you are. As the guy paid his parking fee, he demanded to know where the money went. My co-worker said he handed over the money to his supervisor every week. From there, (shrug) he guessed the Forest Service got a cut…

The old guy must have been ready to go because he didn’t linger to share his road-building credentials. He just slowly pulled the pickup out of the lot.

 

Jul27

Valid Parking

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It was Saturday and the parking lot was intensely busy. By 10:30, my co-worker and I were telling people to find a place to park before they paid us the parking fee.

A car pulled in, and I approached it. A young blond woman was driving. Before I could say anything, she started talking. She had an accent my untrained ear pegged as Russian, but I don’t really know her ethnic/geographic origin.

She said, Is this valid parking?

I looked at her silently, confused, then said, What?

She said again, Is this valid parking?

I thought she meant Is this a legitimate/legal place to park?

Then I realized she was asking, Is this valet parking?

I busted out laughing.

I suppose some people do frequent establishments where they hand over their keys to a uniformed attendant who parks the car, but that’s not anyone I know. I’ve never once had a valet park my car. I’m not even sure where I’d go if I wanted to experience valet parking. (On second thought, I guess I’d try Las Vegas if I wanted to experience valet parking.) If I were on Family Feud and Steve Harvey said, Name a place where a valet parks your car, I might save the day by saying A casino, but probably I’d stand there silently and get a big fat X.

So when I realized this young woman had asked Is this valet parking? it was just about the funniest thing I’d heard all morning.

Who expects valet parking in a National Forest? At a casino, maybe. Or at a restaurant or hotel. (I guess I do have some idea of where valet parking occurs.) But at a National Forest? Is valet parking at a National Forest a thing?

A better question is, who would look at me in my dirty, stained uniform (probably with crushed mosquito remains over my left eye and ash smeared on my chin) and think I should be trusted with her/his car?

Through my laughter, I said to the young blond woman, Yeah, you give me your keys and go walk the trail, and I’ll drive your car around. (I waved my hand around, indicating I would drive her car not in the parking lot, but in the wider world of roads.)

She said, Then just tell me where to park!

I don’t blame her for being testy; I was being an asshole. But valet parking in the National Forest? That’s rich!

When the young woman walked up to pay her parking fee, I became very interested in the contents of my backpack and let my co-worker deal with her.

I think I’ll let the president of the company I work for know that what the parking lot needs is valet parking.