Imagine, if you will, a 26-year-old newly divorced woman who has moved to Norton and Olympic in Los Angeles, just one block from Crenshaw.
Before befriending a lot of kickass valet guys from Honduras, she discovers Chamillionaire. She rides the streets in her 2001 Pontiac Grand Am blasting the shit because it's fuckin' ill.
Thus began my love of durty south, my love of all things that don't fit where nothing belongs.
I was newly single, alone and loving the company of newly discovered comrades. They'd watch me from their valet stand, seeing a white girl. When I opened my mouth to say, "Que paso con ustedes? Que van hacer con el resto de su noche?" there was initially an overall air of flabbergastedness. And then, "Pues, vamos al pool" (we're going to play pool.)
"Pues, si quieres enviar me, bueno. A mi, jajaja, pool es un juego que no puedo ganar, pero necesito conectarme con algien en este pinche barrio!"
So we played pool. Me. Miguel, Salvador, Juanito, and Manolete. It was awesome. We played pool every Saturday for weeks.
No one cared for me like these dudes. Yeah, go ahead and make your assumptions. Sure, a couple of them thought I was a cute white girl who spoke Spanish. The majority, however, (Miguel god bless his soul I'll never stop loving that man) wanted to make sure that a) no one hurt me when I walked home alone down Norton Ave., and b) wanted to make sure I had someone to talk to.
When the lights went out at the Korean restaurant where they parked cars, they'd bring out rice and kimchee for me to take home. They knew I was poor, and they knew I was alone. They knew I had two dogs, so they'd save pork bones for them.
I hope one day I can do for someone what those Honduran valet guys did for me. They saved my life, made me laugh, reminded me that I was beautiful after a divorce, and above all, they made sure I got home safely -- every single night, drunk or sober, happy or sad, no matter what.
The next time you have your car valeted, give the guy a hug... for me.
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