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2015 — what a year.
That year is engraved in my brain.
My then-girlfriend and I had gotten valet jobs in Beverly Hills.
I worked for a clinic, parking nurses’ and doctors’ cars.
She parked cars for employees who worked in television.
What a view I had:
a house with a large-ass pine tree that lined the alley next to me.
That alley became part of my routine — every day, every shift.
Daily life was simple and heavy at the same time:
Wake up at 5 a.m.
Be at work by 7 a.m.
Forty-minute drive from South Central to Beverly Hills.
Morning traffic packed, bumper to bumper, every single day.
I’d get to work and, while parked in my car, I’d sit there for a moment before clocking in.
Just breathing in and out slowly.
Preparing myself for the disappointment of being here.
Not disappointment in the job —
but disappointment in being at this point in my life.
Buckle getting tighter around my waist, and with a tucked-in shirt — well, it wasn’t flattering to my figure.
And it wasn’t like fashion mattered much when you parked cars.
So, off I’d go to begin parking the incoming employees’ cars.
After parking everyone’s cars, I’d sit in my chair —
the key box above my head, filled to the rim with keys.
I couldn’t wait for lunch — just to get the hell out of there a bit and escape my shitty life.
My reliever would show.
“Hey, what’s up bro. Time to go to lunch.”
I was ready — just waiting for my time to get the hell out of there.
Down a block or so from there was a CVS. Every time I went there, I would get me some Cheetos and the daily L.A. Times.
I’d input my number at the register for a discount.
Walking out with the L.A. Times under one arm and eating my Cheetos while heading back to work, I would always cross this dealership.
They sold luxury cars — and my dream car was there: a McLaren.
I really loved that car.
The reflection in that window was shameful — fatter, eating Cheetos, and walking back to park cars.
Damn, I am a U.S. citizen and I am parking cars.
Catching the reflection of my eyes looking back at me struck something in me one of those days.
I was shook — tears began to flow.
Why?
Why am I this man?
I chose wrong.
I chose the wrong life.
Where did I fuck up?
I was — and have always been — in survival mode.
Never enough to succeed.
This thought was in a continuous loop, reminding me:
I am, and will never be, enough.
Eyes red looking back at me.
Eyes wiped.
Cheetos finished by the time I walked back to my post.
Sitting there, looking into the alley, thinking:
What will become of me?
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