Parking Attendant Guy
At Cascade Mountain, Wisconsin, the secret handshake is a Subaru.
By KRISTOPHER KAIYALA

I once lived in Chicago. There I said it. It was a short stint, for work and for love, and I endured it as best I could. Not that there's anything wrong with Chi-Town. But as a life-long skier and west-coast resident, most of the time I felt like a cheese bratwurst out of its bun.

My eventual solution, after being tagged Nature Boy early on by my co-workers for bringing skis to my downtown office, was to blend in. Fleece stayed in the closet in exchange for a new leather jacket. I started using hair gel. I attended White Sox games regularly, and Lou Malnati's on North Wells St. became a second home. But I never lost sight of my roots, or my eventual escape route.

Blending in is a funny thing. I remember on hot sunny days there was a skinny, pasty white guy who ambled along the Chicago lakefront in nothing but tight red Speedos and white Keds. This in itself is not unusual given the ethnic grab bag that is Chicago. But his mien also included a brunette afro that stretched from Evanston to Gary, Indiana. As he walked it swayed to and fro like tall prairie grass. His countenance was undeniably tranquil. Dude was OK with himself. There was no outward expression of wrongdoing (and yes, it was so wrong) and that alone made the ensemble work. He was completely genuine despite his deliberate or utterly clueless fashion stance. Genuine. And who can find fault with that?


My editor gave me a dream assignment. "Write a ski guide, Nature Boy" he said. "Pick the best areas within two hundred miles, visit them, and submit your expenses." You'd be excited too, except for one thing: the biggest area on my list boasted 600 vertical feet.

I soon found myself driving through the Wisconsin countryside. The irony was killing me; a Seattleite driving on I-90 to a place called Cascade Mountain. Cascade touted imposing 400-foot high slopes, some of the steepest skiing in the Dairy State. And indeed parts did look steep from the freeway exit, parts lasting three whole chairlift towers. I slammed on the brakes when I spotted a dilapidated wooden barn and windmill at the "summit." This was going to be a long day.

This was not a ski area I told myself, as though fighting against a reality-swallowing nightmare. It was a Dairy Queen commercial brought to life. That's it, a Dairy Queen commercial. The one with the chocolate Matterhorn and the vanilla ice cream glaciers and the diced peanuts that avalanche down into the butterscotch lake.

I was so distracted by misery that I didn't notice the bear-size figure until he was upon me—a hulk of a man dressed in black leather boots, camouflage pants, and a florescent-orange hunting vest. He tried the door handle, even though I was actually still driving into the parking lot. Visibly surprised that it was locked, he motioned for me to stop, which I did. He was wearing camo after all.

I cautiously unrolled the window and he bent to my eye level. His face was round and a mix of red pores and stormy facial hair. The florescent-orange foam baseball cap barely rode his mop top.

"You want to sell your car?" He grunted.

"Huh?"

"Your car," he said roughly. "How much you want for it?"

"My car is not for sale." This was some fine beginning. Then I saw his badge—parking attendant.

He waited. "You sure?"

"Where should I park?"

He stood up, rebuffed, his face showing part admiration, part dejection. He pointed to a similarly dressed fellow a few rows down who waved me on. "Ya know," he continued, walking alongside the car as I pulled away, speaking through my still open window, "I seen some fancy wagons in my time, all shiny and new, but nothin' like this one you got here."

My 1990 light blue Subaru Loyale? Exotic? Really? Its only distinguishing features were a component-rich roof rack, an engine-block-heater plug that hung noticeably out the grille, and a large dent in the rear passenger door left by an anonymous donor at the Blackcomb parking lot. Subarus like mine were a dime a dozen in western mountain towns. "It's a real beaut," he finished. He then looked right into my eyes and nodded knowingly. He backed off and I drove to my spot and parked as directed.

I sat behind the glass and studied the scene. How many Green Bay Packers and U of W Badgers jackets can you fit on a ski hill? I stopped counting. In truth I was about to bail on Cascade Mountain when I heard the sound of approaching boots splashing in puddles. I sat frozen, tracking the movements of Parking Attendant Guy in my mirrors as he made his way from behind the car to my driver's window, where he stopped. I gazed and forced a smile. He knocked. I really had no choice. I rolled down the window.

The questions came fast and furious. How, when, and from whom did I acquire it? How many miles did it have when I bought it, versus now? Why the engine-block heater? Did it come with the rack? Had I taken long trips in the car? I patiently answered these and all other probing questions about my Subaru. When query number 137 came around I began to get a little nervous. So, to appear busy I started sifting through my ski bag for clothing—socks, gloves, Capilene, transceiver, won't need that—until I had unconsciously lined-up on the seat next to me every piece of clothing I needed for skiing. Just what was so special about my car, anyway? If he'd asked, I'd have told him it hadn't been vacuumed in years.

And weren't there cars to park? Seriously. Then, quite abruptly, Parking Attendant Guy bent low and poked his face through my window. My personal bubble, what was left of it, burst into flames like the Hindenberg. His expression was placid yet mischievous. He shifted his eyes, as if making sure no one was looking, and said ten words that gave me the creeps. "You know, we have a special parking spot for Subarus."


In that moment my relationship with Parking Attendant Guy shifted from professional to personal. He, the issuer of public parking spots, had crossed a line with me, the supposedly paying customer. We were in uncharted territory. Into what world I was being invited, and at what personal price, I did not know. I barely had time to argue the value of my present spot before Parking Attendant Guy erected his body, flashed a knowing glance to another coworker in dark sunglasses, and walked down the muddy drive, motioning me to follow. I objected briefly—"Look man, I was actually about to leave..."—but then thought better of it. I started the car and followed Parking Attendant Guy.

I pursued him slowly, careful not to rev the engine or appear too excited. We passed row after row of cars, and, sure enough, I was given a spot right up front against the lodge. Parking Attendant Guy made sure my front bumper was right up against the wall. I killed the engine and anxiously wondered what would happen next. Mugging? Molestation? Forced to eat uncurdled cheese?

Surprisingly, nothing happened. Wisconsin Parking Attendant Guy stuck around—unscrupulously leaning against the shiny finish of the neighboring car—and so I continued my nervous unpacking until I found myself fully dressed for skiing. It was then, as I was buckling my Scarpas, that my strange new friend gave me the glimpse I had been waiting for. He informed me, with chest puffed out proudly, that he, too, was a Subaru owner, though "not of so nearly nice a model as this." I stopped. He went on.

"This summer I'm taking the little lady upstate for some car camping. There's not much room in my Subaru, but, as you know, it will do the job." As you know... His words spoke of fraternity. "Ya know," he confided, "Subarus are pretty exclusive cars," and indeed he was right: Dodge, Chevy, Pontiac, Dodge, Ford, Saturn, Dodge—this was the parking lot, "...and it's nice to meet a fellow owner."

A voice from far away called for help and Parking Attendant Guy showed his disappointment. "Duty calls," he growled, starting to go. I mimicked his sadness. This was all a joke, right? I had to know. Perhaps this was some way to rattle tourists. I'd be verbal fodder for the nightly parking-attendant campfire. The daily prank victim. Everyone would laugh the night away at my expense. To call his bluff I shouted after him in an overtly sarcastic tone, "You're a good man for doing this!"

"And so are you," he countered in complete and unfeigned admiration, "for owning a Subaru!"


I figured that was the last of him. Though surreal, the whole encounter had me spooked so I grabbed my skis and started for the ticket office when I heard the whine of a high-pitched engine to my rear. Could it be? No—

I spun around as a tiny red Subaru Justy approached with you-know-who behind the wheel. Honestly, he barely fit in the car. It was a grotesque site. He honked the horn several times—a high-pitched beep-beep that couldn't have sounded more wrong—and he waved and smiled like an excited prom queen. We made eye contact and he pointed at his steering wheel a couple times, grinning wildly. Satisfied, he sped around the corner of the building, presumably to his own special Subaru spot.

I heard the door slam and I briskly walked away but Parking Attendant Guy came from around the corner and yelled, "Did you see it? Did you see it?" No longer just strangers, Parking Attendant Guy and I were soul brothers. Like Jake and Montoya from The Sun Also Rises. Two men sharing a select passion: not fishing, not women, not bullfighting, but Subarus.

Did I see you? Oh yes I saw you. I saw you, Parking Attendant Guy, Subaru aficionado. I saw you in your little red hot dog stand on wheels. You are a credit both to your homeland and your profession; I decree there none so noble or forthright as you, Parking Attendant Guy, in a land where fine taste in dated Japanese autos is rare and refined indeed. Go in peace to the nether regions of your state during the fair-weather months, and dine on only the finest cheeses, milk and beef products to your heart's desire.

"Yeah, I saw you," I said. "That's a real beaut you got there." He hung on every compliment. "But I'm going skiing now..." I began to go, then turned back, feeling a bit like Mean Joe Greene in the Coca-Cola commercial, talking to the kid. "Look, take care of things while I'm gone," (a verbal toss of the jersey) I said, flashing a knowing look to my wagon. Then I walked away freely. Those were the last words we shared.


About two hours later, after skiing down every run at least twice, I made my way back to the parking lot wondering if my car had been broken into, towed away, washed and waxed, or worse. I rounded the corner by the lodge and froze. There in the distance was Parking Attendant Guy and a coworker standing near my Subaru's tailgate, engaged in animated discussion. Then something called them away.

When the coast was clear I ran for the car, performed a quick inventory—everything checked out—and drove the long way out of the lot still in my tele boots. Once in the clear I sped onto the freeway and bolted for the state border.


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Kristopher Kaiyala is the editor of Aspect Journal.