| Goodbye Steve B. |
Dear readers, who is this saint of a man named Steve B.? He's the friendliest toll-booth attendant in the world, and that's a fact. There was one time I was leaving the airport, wearing my Captain America t-shirt, and this man, this wonderful man, said, "That'll be five dollars, Cap." Wow. He didn't even have to say, "Good night," or anything of that nature. He could have just told me the amount, taken the cash, given me change if necessary, and then just raised the exit-arm and returned to his television. But no, this man was different. This wasn't just an employee of SFO International Airport, no, he was a friend to all humanity.
Another time I was leaving the garage after having dinner with my fiancé during her break from working at one of the unvisited stores at San Francisco International Airport, and I pulled up to Steve B.
"Nice night tonight," he said. My jaw was on the floor. A person so busy with the intricacies of taking money, making change, and raising a long, articulated, plastic beam, covered in cautious black and yellow diagonal striping, still took the time to check in with the little guy.
"It is a nice night," I told him, "too bad they only come at the end of the day."
"Not for me," he said, "I'm usually here all night."
If this man isn't a superhero, I don't know who is. Prowling the night, guardian of one of but four exits to the mysterious Parking Lot B, is still kind enough to intervene and let Joe Citizen know that he's on the clock.
There was yet another time once, when I approached the small row of exit booths that I caught a glimpse of the name plates next to the teller windows. "Steve B." it said. I was overjoyed. Steve B. hero to the parking masses, was on duty, on the lookout, keeping a keen eye open for the safety and fairness of all commuters.
When I approached, I had to roll down my window to hand over my ticket and eventually my money, but Steve B's window was already open, and he was already leaning out. He was ready for me. He was prepared. He was so efficient that, when upon handing him a five-dollar bill for a three dollar fee, he already at the two dollars folded and ready to hand back.
Not only is this man a hero on every level, but he's a financial savvy about him that would make the boys back on Wall Street tremble.
For over a year I looked forward to a chance run-in with the mighty Steve B. on a weekly basis. My beautiful bride-to-be was the manager at a store in that airport. For over a year I met her, the one night a week she closed, for dinner. And, every one of those nights, I drove towards the exit that was under the supervision of the grandest of all Exit Arm Maneuvering Professionals.
Steve B. A man amongst men. An employee amongst employees. A hero amongst heroes. A guardian amongst the huddles, trafficked, driving public. Steve B. stood at his post into the early morning hours dispensing free conversation and displaying courageous devotion to his otherwise thankless job while the motion-via-combustion public simply meandered about beneath him.
And then, tonight, was Lisa's last night as manager of the store in the airport, and this week she'll be starting at a newer, bigger, better store in Palo Alto. I'll never need to visit her at the airport ever again (which is a good thing - footnote).
I kissed my beloved angel of a future-wife passionately goodbye, I stared at her like I always do upon our parting just to take her all in like the vision she is, and I headed to my car. I drove down the spiral tube that brought me down from the third floor of the garage to the Domain of Steve B., the first, the bottom, the ultimate floor of the lot.
I followed the faded yellow directional arrows and markings on the ground, scarred here and there by the skid marks of less skilled drivers that I'm sure were still smiled upon with the grace of the man himself, and I made my way, one last time, to the Exit of Exits.
It was cold tonight, and his window was closed, but upon seeing me approach, he opened his window and withstood the biting sub-standard temperatures just to make my leaving-process move along that much smoother.
He never knew my name, just like Superman never really knew the names of those he saved, but I knew his just like the masses knew Superman's.
He made an introductory 'brrr' noise followed by a, "Cold night," and a smile.
He knew it was cold. He knew it bothered him. Yet he withstood it just for me. Almost teary eyed, I hand him my last parking ticket, knowing full well it wouldn't ever happen again, and he took it like it wasn't the last. He must have been full of emotion, taking the last ticket from his greatest fan, but if he was he held it all in.
"That'll be five dollars, friend," he said.
He recognized me! He knew who I was! He called me 'friend'. I knew it. A weekly crossing of paths for over a year had to mean something.
Smiling, holding back the urge to jump out of my car and embrace this gentle man, I handed him a five-dollar bill, and waited for that arm to go up one last time.
"Do you want a receipt," has asked?
That nearly did it for me. He asked if I wanted a receipt, but deep down, I knew, I felt, that he was saying, "I love you."
My face red and framed by streams of tears and bright red cheeks, I said, "no thank you," and went on my way. Through my rear-view mirror I could see that he checked to see that my vehicle passed his raised, mechanical arm before putting it back down, and then he closed his window, sat back down, and watched television.
That was the last I ever saw of Steve B. I'll never forget him.
FOOTNOTE
I hate the new international section of the San Francisco Airport. Every night that I was there I was uncomfortable and annoyed - for every night that I was there I could see not one, but two security 'officers' sleeping on a bench and/or against a wall in some back corner somewhere that was not heavily trafficked by aircraft bound pedestrians.
Every time I ate food at one of the 'restaurants' I was disappointed at the quality of food that our own Mayor Willie Brown bragged was unparalleled by any eatery in the area, and I was enraged with the ridiculous prices I had to pay. The overpriced, substandard food was merely a focal point for the misery induced by being constantly surrounded by the most ridiculous 'brain child' of the City Planners Committee.
They built the airport like they were building a mall. Stores every which way you turned, built with the expectation that people would travel to the airport just like they would travel to any other mall. I, and many other voters, tried to explain that that would not be the case, but it seems that lately all Tricky Willie and his cronies care about if magnifying their own greatness and buying more fedoras.
