The bitchy one.

This week, I wrote two blogs. The first one was a bit whiny. And way too personal. So I attempted to write another. After evaluating both of them, I was frustrated. One was whiny and the other was bitchy. Why this surprised me, I'm not sure, because if I'm honest, lately I've kinda been a ...well, you get my point. But here goes. The bitchy one won out...

I’ve never been a very good driver. No major car-totaling wrecks so far (knock on wood) but I do tend to bump into things occasionally. Mailboxes, poles, cement columns, construction trailers…mostly stationary objects. Despite this tendency, I have – so far in my life – managed to back out of all my parking spaces without hitting any other cars. It’s not too terribly difficult. I’m sure most of you can spout the same record.

In South Africa, however, backing out of a parking space requires personal counsel. In almost every parking lot, you can be sure to find a “parking attendant” who will not only show you where to park (because with thirty-seven spaces available, how should you know which one to choose?), but he will also stand behind your car and direct you as to when and how to back out of the space when you are ready to leave. For this service, he requires a fee – at your discretion, of course – but should you choose to return to that parking lot when he is once again on duty, well, you better hope you have paid him appropriately.

It’s a service that you have no choice but to receive. South Africans hardly notice it. Every time they back out of a spot they routinely roll down their window and offer a two or five Rand coin to this annoying stranger. But that’s just it – he’s not annoying to them. He’s a fixture. He’s the parking lot attendant.

I know I sound bitchy, but it’s not about the money. It’s the principal of the matter. The thing is, I don’t need your help, Buddy. I got it. I’m fine.

I acknowledge that my irritation may seem a little ridiculous. In fact, I often find myself trying to “sneak” past the attendant on my way back to the car. If he’s on the other side of the parking lot when I’m backing out, well, he can hardly expect payment now can he? But he inevitably spots me before I’m completely out of the space. He sprints over to 'help' and sure enough, I feel the need to roll down my window and toss a coin at him. I can rarely even muster a 'thanks' because quite honestly, I’m not thankful.

He sometimes doubles as a sort of 'bag boy' too. Now, perhaps I should be grateful that he is trying to expand his usefulness, but come on, I’ve usually managed to get the grocery bags and the shopping cart all the way down the elevator from Woolworth's and halfway across the parking garage before the attendant spots me. He runs to my rescue and takes the cart as I unlock the car. I tell him I’m fine, really, but he says nothing and scoots me out of the way while he places the bags in the trunk and I frantically look in my wallet for some change to give him for a service I, once again, don’t actually need. I mean really, the hard part isn’t transferring the bags from the cart to the trunk. If he wants to come home with me and help me carry them from the trunk to my kitchen and then put them away…well, for that I’d give him ten Rand, but this?

And it’s not just parking lot attendants. It’s the gas station too. Do you know I haven’t pumped my own gas since I moved to South Africa? It’s not laziness, people – there’s no option to do it yourself. You pull up, someone directs you where to go, they ask what you need, they take your gas card, they wash your windows, they check your tires. It’s nice, I guess, but once again, I can do it myself, thanks. But I don’t – actually, I’m not allowed to – so once the credit card slip is signed I find myself handing over a fiver for a service that I didn’t request.

I know pointless services happen in America too. The bathroom attendant comes to mind. There’s nothing more irritating than feeling obliged to leave a dollar in a basket because some joker has handed me a paper towel. But that was never an every day thing…at least not for someone like me who rarely went to clubs or fancy bars. The parking lot attendant though…there he is. Every time. Everywhere.

Am I just being cheap? I don’t think so. To prove it’s not about the money, I will cite an example that doesn’t even require tipping. The movie theater. When the show is over, I routinely reach down to pick up the empty popcorn tub and diet coke, and each time, Roger has to remind me to leave it. There aren’t any large trash cans at the exit in which I could deposit the evidence of my overindulgence anyway. The staff will come in afterward to collect trash and clean up. Sure, movie theaters in America have a clean up crew too, but here, you’re really not even supposed to pick up your trash. My sister-in-law scolded me the first time we went to the theater together. “What are you doing, man? This is Africa; you could put someone out of a job for doing that.”

She's right, I guess. I'm starting to recognize that all of this willingness to 'help' is probably a good thing. These people aren’t stealing or living off the government. They are eager to work for their money…it’s not really work that needs to be done, in my opinion, but it creates a job in an economy that desperately needs them. So, I guess I’m just a bitch. In my defense, however, I can promise you that I will continue to hand over a five Rand whenever someone transfers my groceries from the cart to the trunk. And I will leave my trash behind at the movie theater. I will not pump my own gas. I will continue to contribute to the South African economy.

But I’m afraid the attempt to hide from the parking lot attendant is instinctual. And maybe kinda fun. Hell, if I look at it that way, I suppose if he can catch me he deserves the five Rand.

And at least as long as I’m here, perhaps I will maintain my good record of parking lot performances. And that’s a good thing… I guess…