A parking lot, packed full of meaning as well as cars, exudes confidence and a shrewd sense of economy. One false decision, and this precise configuration dissolves into an ugly interpersonal and logistical snarl. But my guess is that all the relations implied here are customary: one person—a very experienced and trusted person—parks all these cars, for the same group of people who park here each day. The attendant knows thoroughly all their schedules and stories, the invisible yarn of the creation he weaves each day. For that, he is valued, and for that his customers readily pay him in cold hard cash.
Sadly, these lots are vanishing, their attendants replaced by machines. Available parking is reduced, and a measure of color goes out of the day. Have you ever parked in such a lot, or gotten to know a Chicago valet?