Belonging

Two young, uniformed black men busily help patrons out of their cars as the well-heeled travelers alight in front of the gracious old Inn at Williamsburg, Virginia.   They are the only black faces to be seen in front of this recreation of a Colonial Plantation Manor house.   They are dressed to look like house slaves reincarnated. 

The parking lot is a sea of Cadillacs, Buick Roadmasters, Mercedes and other outsized vehicles.  Their owners' mass matches the cars.  It is a well-fed, manicured and bejeweled bunch.  Matched luggage -- Louis Vuitton and Hartman line the curb. 

A small, noisy, rented Hyundai Sonata barges into this sea of tranquillity -- overshooting the designated curbside stopping point by fifteen yards.  It hurriedly backs up.   The uniformed attendants look up as the Hyundai's somewhat loopy rearward motion causes the car to bounce off the curb a couple of times.  They eye each other trying to decide who gets this patron. 

The loser walks up to the car, bends over as the passenger window is rolled down and asks with a note of disbelief and British affectation, "Are you stopping here this evening, Sir?"

The somewhat rumpled driver confirms their fears, jumps out of the car, asks for direction to the lobby, tosses the keys to his curbside helper and heads in.  The attendant catches the keys and holds them out away from his face as if he'd been handled soiled laundry. 

A few minutes later, the driver slinks out of the lobby.   "Anything wrong," one of the attendants asks?

He tells them that he's actually booked at the smaller Lodge down the road.  As his keys are handed back to him, the two valets exchange a knowing look.

As he gets in his little car and drives away a new Cadillac pulls up.  The valets smile.  They know who belongs where.

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