The hostage

I had to park in the Salon’s parking lot because there were no open meters.

I dread parking in the Salon parking lot.

There is a parking lot attendant who always creepily compliments my haircut when I pay. He makes me uncomfortable and I have a hard time understanding his thick-Somali accent. He makes me feel as if I’m in some sexual-harassment training video.

So I leave the Salon and sit in my car. It is pitch black, and (of course) I parked in a dark part of the lot.
I get in the car, and I put the keys in the ignition when something taps me on my shoulder. I scream.
I look over and catch my rottweiler’s “what the hell?” glare. I forgot that I brought her! Woops. I apologize and pull the car to the parking attendant’s booth.

The parking attendant flashes a creepy smile and starts:

Parking Attendant: “You get haircut?”
Me: “Yes.”
Parking Attendant: “It look very good.”
Me: “Thanks.”
Parking Attendant: “You get the hair cut often?”
Me: “Uh, I guess. Here’s my ticket.”
Parking Attendant: “It’s nice.”
Me: “Thanks.”
Parking Attendant: “You very nice.”
Me: “Uh, what?”
Parking Attendant: “You nice guy.”
Me: “Uh, I guess.”
Parking Attendant: “You think I’m nice guy? Where do you live?”

This went on for about 15 minutes. He wouldn’t open the gate, kept calling me a “nice guy” and went on about where he lives and how good of a guy he was. I was unamused, laughed uncomfortably, and was very grateful when he finally let me out of the lot.

Next time I have work harder at finding meters.