The Other Man

As some of my closest friends know, I have another man in my life. I see him a couple times a week. Jade met him a few weeks ago and told me how cute he is. It's true. He doesn't speak English and I don't speak Arabic or French. But it doesn't matter. We speak the language of love.




You see Barack (yes, that's his name) is my favorite parking guy. Now if you don't live in Morocco you may think it's weird to have a favorite parking guy. But if you live in Morocco, you have already pictured your own favorite parking guy in your head and probably got the comforting smell of exhaust fumes accompanied by the urgent need to scrounge up some coins to tip him.

My guy works the parking lot of my favorite grocery store. I don't want to even tell you which one. Because, I admit it, I'm jealous and I don't want to share him. Oh I know he has other clients, but I like to think that I'm his favorite. I think this not because I have an overinflated ego, but because I over tip him. This is why I'm pretty damn sure he'll forsake all others for me. At least in my presence.

The first time I met him, he spotted me coming out of the store struggling to push my crappy Moroccan grocery cart and proceeded to gently take it and push it to my car. How's that for chivalry? How did he know which car was mine you ask? Well, first, I drive a minivan which only foreigners drive here. Second, it has a yellow diplomatic license plate which clearly identifies me as an American. And, third she’s battered and has thus earned the name Battlecar Gallactica and the instant recognition that goes with it.


Apparently objects REALLY are alot closer than they appear in the mirror.

Barack loads up my car and I figure that's more than the standard rate of 2 dirhams (the equivalent of less than 20 cents USD) worth of work so, I give him 10 dirham. So needless to say a love affair was born. I always look for him in that cramped little parking lot and he always looks for my 10 dirham. I mean me. Or so I thought.

A couple of weeks ago I was driving through a street in Agdal that I rarely go down back by the French school. And I saw her, in her car, acting all meek, like she didn't know if she could back up more or not. And there he was. Barack. Working another street in a different part of town and directing her in her Citroen. Yeah, it's all sporty, new and unblemished. That bitch! Oh god, I bet she just got it washed that day to make it all nice and shiny for him too.

I didn't go see him for nearly two weeks after that. Ok, so I was out of town for most of that. But, still, no matter. I'm sure he felt my distant rage. And forgoing that $1.50 (depending on the exhange rate) that I give him a week probably really hurt. He's learned his lesson. I could totally see the remorse in his eyes when he loaded up my groceries this morning. Right before I caught him oogling that beautiful Mercedes I was parked next to.