Let me give you a tip

As the night began to grow chill, and the Subway wrappers were all thrown away, the Boss of the Outfit started prepping us for the pick-ups.

Over eight-hundred cars had been parked before the show. The garage itself had been mapped out on a grid, so that each row of cars was assigned an alphabetical letter, and each space in that row was numbered from left to right. Each car was in a space, with the letter and number of the space written on the ground in chalk. And each set of car keys was labeled with a letter and number to match the space.

The full-time drivers for this company had been busy at work labeling the car keys while the rest of us were eating sandwiches and staring at the wall, and now all the keys were hanging on one of several boards, all of which were set up on a horseshoe-shaped set of folding tables. The same full-time employees were now inside that ring of tables and boards, all of those keys hanging before them with their neat little tags.

As the guests came out of the auditorium, they handed their ticket to the hot-shots behind the table. The hot-shot matched the ticket to a set of keys, and handed those keys to the first driver standing in a long line. The driver then reads the location of the car, and starts running.

I remembered wondering what the Boss of the Outfit was talking about when he said we’d be running. Now it all made sense.

As you may have already realized, these cars were not the shiny black limos and sedans that brought the famous people to the red carpet. The cars we had parked were driven by regular people, people who were neither famous nor beautiful. But this was entirely irrelevant, as even people who drive their own cars to the Emmys have cash in their pockets. And getting that cash into our own pockets was the single objective of the next several hours.

The key to tips is turnover, I discovered. I probably would have already known this if, like the rest of the world, I had ever waitressed. The point is to run as quickly as possible to the car, drive the car as quickly as possible to the owner, collect the fat tip waiting for you, and run back to the line to fetch the next car.

Obviously, the more cars one gets, the more money one earns, but there is another reason for all this running. It’s important to get as many cars as possible because it helps to make up for the jackasses who don’t tip their valet driver at the Emmys.

I’ll admit it. I have failed to tip the valet driver at Mexican restaurants when I was unable to find street parking and felt that tipping the valet a dollar was too much to pay when the price of parking alone cost twice as much as the happy hour margaritas. I feel a little bad about this. But lets be honest. Happy hour at El Torito just isn’t at all like going to the Emmys. That’s because one is happy hour, and the other is THE EMMYS.

It’s difficult to decide whether or not the type of car has anything to do with the type of tip one will receive. I personally, don’t think it does, not most of the time. It also doesn’t matter whether or not the owner is male or female, not in my experience. However you slice it, though, there are plenty of people who don’t tip.

Towards the end of the evening, after most of the cars were gone and it was therefore much easier to find the cars, I was sprinting towards row P, space 17, and couldn’t find my car until I almost tripped on it. It was European, of course, and had a standard transmission. Not a car for someone who gets confused by a Prius’s power switch. I hollered for help, and traded keys with another driver who had no problem contorting himself into a pretzel and driving the itty bitty vehicle with a toothpick-sized shift.

I looked at the keys in my hand, noted the location of my new car, and sprinted towards it. Like I said, my experience had not convinced me that ugly cars meant bad tips, but this car immediately made me check my faith. It was a late-nineties Chevy Malibu that hadn’t been washed since the summer of 2007, and the interior was entirely covered in dirt. But the worst, the absolute worst, was the smell. This car had recently transported a wet dog. For many, many, poorly-ventilated hours.

I drove the car around to the curb, and as soon as I spotted my owner I felt bad about judging him for his car. It clearly belonged to his parents, who had only loaned it to him for the night. Of course he didn’t tip me, but who could blame him? His mind was on other things, since he must have been terrified of missing his curfew. I mean, cripes! He could be grounded for being a minute late with the car! My only question was why someone who isn’t old enough to shave should be invited to the Emmys.

Dear Academy of Television Arts and Sciences: Can you please explain to your seat-fillers that valet drivers should be tipped, even if said seat-filler has to sacrifice a portion of his or her Clearasil budget in order to do so? Thanks.

That was the last car of the night. Gritting my teeth, I shut the door of the Malibu and trudged back to the garage. I counted my money; I had earned $70 in tips.

While I turned in my tie and vest, I finally found the Random College Student who had recruited me. She asked me how she could get my wages to me, which would be paid to me in cash, but through her. After running through the list of our acquaintance and discovering that we shared no one, she asked me where I lived. She said she went to CalState, Fullerton. I blankly stared at her, only relatively certain that Fullerton was not a place in the Valley.

We decided we would be in touch about the money. I hoped that I could trust her, but figured that I at least had $70 more than before, and went home happy.