I even remembered to write her initial, "C," on the portion of the ticket that I even remembered to tear off and give to her, so that the retrieving valet will know where to look for the keys. (They're hung on a grid of hooks in the valet booth, according to surname letter and the ticket's final number.)

This is the first time I got so many of these steps right.

Unfortunately, I never asked for Ms. Clark's keys.

"This is no good," says valet supervisor Robert Barilla, 39, as he stares at the white SUV blocking 1.1 of his two lanes. "We can't have this here on a busy Saturday night."

Valets remove the inconvenience of parking for patrons of casinos and upscale eateries (as long as those patrons aren't driving up to the MGM Grand on a weekend without a room key to display). They also benefit the establishments, because the ability to stack cars two or more deep means more business.

"We're one of the most important links in the guest-relations chain," Barilla said earlier. "We pride ourselves in our efficiency."

Maybe every day but this one.

"You hung this up without an initial," Barilla said as he handed me a receipt. "It took Adam (Weinberg) 20 minutes to find it, and the guest was out there waiting."

Oh, and I also parked three cars without writing down the spots I parked them in. Happy is not a word that accurately describes Barilla's reaction.

"This is not how we do it," he said.

Barilla, a valley native who graduated from Western High School, has run the same taxi-dodging 100-yard dashes to Palace Station's three parking lots, 40 hours a week, since 1990.

"I enjoy it," he said. "You get a lot of exercise. You get to be outside and meet people. And it's a living."

Because of a Station Casinos policy, Barilla won't reveal how much he earns. But Mike Magnani, who represents 600 valley valets as the head of Teamsters Local 995, says they average -- with tips -- approximately $55,000 a year.

"That depends on the property, of course," Magnani said, with fancy Strip and unionized hotels paying more. (Pay varies greatly even inside the nonunionized Station chain.)

Valet parking has treated Barilla well enough to own a house.

"But my wife works, too," he said, explaining that she co-owns a business.

According to salary.com, valet parkers nationwide earn an average of $16,000 a year plus tips. But the tips -- at least at Palace Station, where they're pooled, then divided -- aren't what you'd think. For the 12 cars I retrieved, I received six $1 bills and a fiver (which I'm not really sure counts, because it came from a man who knew I was writing about what kind of tip he would leave).

Of course, my low rate could be because of taking double the normal three minutes to retrieve most cars, and triple for the gold Nissan with the keyless ignition. (Would you know to press the brake along with the button?)

Oh, and attention white Toyota Tercel owner who likes Del Taco but not disposing of the wrappers: Why would you make your car door key the one on the chain that looks like a house key?

Barilla said his biggest tip in 17 years was $100.

"It was to leave a guy's car as is, up front, with no interaction," he said. "But stuff like that is very rare."

Even celebrities can't be counted on.

"Floyd Mayweather used to come in here all the time," Barilla said, describing his car as plastered with decals of his own face.

"He always stiffed us," Barilla continued. "His entourage, too."

Yet in Las Vegas, the myth of the six-figure valet persists.

"It's just that -- a myth," Barilla said.

But valets do get to drive cool rides. After today, I can say I once drove a Bentley. (OK, so it was nearly my age and stunk from cigarette smoke.) And I will never stop talking about the Grey Beast. Slathered in primer and leaking fluid of some sort, this thing -- I'm not sure what make it was because all insignias were rubbed off -- looked like an escapee from "Monster Truck Challenge" by way of Hurricane Katrina.

Inside, somehow, it was worse. Never before have I driven a vehicle whose rejected options apparently included an interior.

Then again, I didn't exactly drive it. I climbed the three required feet upward, started the engine, stared straight ahead and proceeded to launch it backward. Station Casinos publicist Lori Nelson screamed, then sighed when it became apparent that no one behind me had been flattened. (I can operate a stick, provided the gear chart is written on the knob and it never has to leave first gear. But the Grey Beast's stick knob was a cue ball.)

"Palace Station is not liable for theft, loss, damage or destruction of the property ..."

That's what it says on the back of Ms. Clark's valet ticket. But then it adds, "in the absence of gross negligence." My actions may actually qualify.

Oh, and I forgot to tell you the worst part about not having Ms. Clark's keys: She made a special request when I greeted her.

"I have an air pump in the back," she said. "It's very valuable. I know you guys lock the doors, but please be careful with this."

Since Ms. Clark's keys may still be in her vehicle, it can't be locked. It also can't be watched very carefully, because my five co-workers are busy and I'm describing what she looks like to bellhops.

A half-hour into my unfruitful search, I receive a welcome phone call. It's Barilla, announcing that Ms. Clark emerged from the casino with her keys in hand, apologized and went back inside. Order has been restored to the valet booth.

Until I reach into my pocket and discover the keys to a red Honda I forgot to hang after parking it more than 45 minutes ago.

View video of Levitan parking cars at www.reviewjournal.com/video/fearandloafing.html. Fear and Loafing appears Mondays in the Living section. Levitan's previous adventures are posted at fearandloafing.com.