Morton’s eyes combed over the classified ads. Every other minute or so he was forced to push his circle rimmed glasses back into their proper place. Nothing. They must keep forgetting to run the artist wanted section. He threw the paper on the floor with the others.
Morton glanced at the clock. He still had time before his shift started. New to the valet business, he preferred it to waiting tables. In Morton’s mind it was much easier to wait on cars. Fewer words and you get to test drive the customer. He’d be a jumbled mess trying to organize plates of food at a chain restaurant; the lifestyle of an artist is not always conducive to remembering to refill a child’s apple juice. There was much that could go wrong retrieving cars as well. Morton rationalized it as a yellow-flagged Grand Prix event. He liked cars, but didn’t love them. He needed the money. Fortunately, this was only temporary for our friend. He'd find that dream gig soon enough.