Pounding the Road

The days surrounding Christmas were busy. The Boss's Limo Service hasn't seen this amount of activity in many months. His mood is buoyant and drivers are busy figuring the size of the next cheque. Job satisfaction is a nice ideal, but if you're working for minimum wage plus tips, it's about the money.

Not to say we don't do the very best we can by all customers. This Christmas season was punctuated by extreme weather in those places from which people fly to Florida, which means flight delays and messed-up schedules all around. And just when it looks like calm will return, some insane Nigerian fool with a dose of Yemeni bomb-pants decides to blow up a plane.

As a result, the charade of airport security moves one step further into the looking glass. Now we have snow delays and underpants inspection delays, which would have been avoided had anyone in charge taken seriously their oath to defend the American people as the Constitution requires. [link]

Amazingly, all our customers (so far) found themselves a chauffeur waiting at our designated meeting points at all the regional airports. They might have been six hours late, and sometimes folks expecting a Town Car found themselves in a stretch limousine, but it all got done.

The big question is whether business will slide back into its normally torporous state or if this is the start of something big.

Bang, You're Dead. Or not.

Far and away the best part of driving is discovering gratitude. I wouldn't want the life of the captains of industry we drive to and from airports; being a drunk family guy getting kicks from boffing the next-door neighbour's wife is a turn-off; and crazy hyper people for whom everything is a personal insult make me laugh.

Life is not perfect, and the sooner we accommodate that fact, the calmer we'll all be.

Which leads me to Mr Davie. Mr Davie is man who lives hereabouts, a man who retired to Florida when his wife passed away ten years ago. Like many men of his age, his life pretty well fell apart when the mother of his three children succumbed to cancer.

But he carried on, living in a simple old-style condo building, in a ground-floor place with a nice view of an artificial lake.

I met one of his sons first, about a year ago. All the kids (who are grown with children of their own) live in northern states, all separated by hundreds of miles. This son was a copper, a good guy, the sensible beating heart of the country. I drove him to the airport after a visit because his father took ill. Mr Davie recovered. The son and I connected.

Then, about two months ago, the daughter turned up. She arrived one Friday night, and I drove her to her father's place. All the way she texted, talked or emailed, a tribute to the power of 3-G networks. But she was super-pleasant, and took time to explain that she was taking her father back to her state the following Monday after a doctor's appointment, and that the news might not be good.

Assigned the job on Monday, I was trepidatious. But I needn't have worried. Mr Davie (my first actual meeting) was frail, but in good spirits. Maybe it's body language, but I liked him immediately. Although he talked but a little, he clearly knew about business, and life, and knew that life is a funny old journey.

He came back two weeks after that, with his youngest son. While the son fetched the luggage, Mr Davie and I had a good talk. He was in a wheelchair and tired from the journey. But he wanted to go home, to be in his own place.

The Boss hasn't heard since. I hope he never does. I like the idea of Mr Davie happily passing his days looking over the lake.

Mons Venus

Robert is a big man, not particularly tall, but with a substantial gut. It's more than a gut. It looks large enough to sustain life without Robert's internal utilities - blood supply and the like - but for now, it's still Robert's gut.

Midnight on Saturday night and Robert is at his usual place, directing traffic in the car park at Mons Venus. The small area in front and the smaller area to the side of the club are full, so newcomers park at the pizza place next door. I sense some secret arrangement for this, the kind of secret arrangement that surrounds strip clubs everywhere. Beneath the surface there's way more going on than you can see.

I turn up with my group of ten revelers in a stretch limousine. They're drunk: we have just come from the Seminole Hard Rock Casino and Hotel (to give it it's full title.) More accurately, the men are drunk. The women are variously between sobriety and sleep.

As my charges head off to ogle womanflesh, Robert approaches and introduces himself. Yes, we have met before, but I'm not sufficiently regular to merit a piece of his memory. He eyes me up and down, and politely requests a quick removal of my car-park-blocking hunk of metal. It's midnight, you see, peak time at a Tampa strip club, and it's no time for damn limousines to block things up.

Keeping out of the way is part of the driver's art. Robert quickly assesses that I am on his side, and helps make sure I don't scrape the beast while I am backing and filling. I end up in front of the pizza place, close enough to keep my people happy, far enough away to keep Robert happy.

One of my couples comes back to the limo. They don't want to pay the twenty dollar cover. Last time they were here, they say, women entered free. A sign of the times, I think. But he was in a mood, and wanted to play. I didn't tickle his funny bone, so he started with Robert. The man was a happy drunk, and wanted to make body contact. Rubbing elbows, elaborate ghetto handshakes, bear hugs. Everything was fair game. But then he started in a little too rough. I could see Robert's brain working, fighting the instinct to knock this dope to the pavement, overcoming that thought with the logic that he's just another idiot customer wanting to bond with his fellow man.

By wrestling the car-park guy at Mons Venus.

The couple decided they would pay the forty dollars to watch the girls inside, so left Robert and me behind. I watched Robert in the gaps between pages of my book. He had the look of a man who has seen much.

Venezuela

This weekend is awful for anyone flying from the east coast of the US to anywhere else. Snow in the form of blizzards shut airports from Washington DC (Dulles and Reagan National) to Boston Logan. The knock-on effect has been awesome in its scale.

Weather is one thing, but political stuff-ups are another. Planning to collect a customer from Miami International last night, I lobbed in the carpark at 8:30 for his 8:15 pm scheduled arrival. It always take a minimum of thirty minutes to clear immigration and customs at MIA, so I was in good time.

Too good a time, as the monitors now showed the flight from Venezuela arriving at 10:30 pm. Great. Two hours and fifteen minutes late.

My natural instinct is to work forward to get a rough idea of my "get to bed" hour. If he arrives at 10:30, thirty minutes for I and C, fifteen minutes faffing around getting to the car, three and a half hours to his house, get gas, clean interior of limo, return limo, drive home. 04:30. Yet more good news.

My customer was in decent humour, and we chatted about his day.

"Everything is rotten in Venezuela" he said, a native himself and so qualified to talk. "Nobody cares. It's a ruin".

After mulling on that for the drive back, my 4:30 am crawl into bed didn't seem so bad.

Late night chat

At 4:00 am this morning:

Does that include your tip?

No sir, it does not.

So you're telling me it doesn't include the tip?

That's correct, Todd.

I need to tip you then?

Only if you think my service merits it.

Oh. Yes. You're right. Here's fifty bucks. Are we good?

Thank you very much, that's very generous.





I'd like to see the server's reaction to a 3.5% tip next time he sups in a restaurant.

Season

The Season is in full flight now. The Tropical Midwest doubles in population, what with Snowbirds, tourists and those visiting friends and relatives.

Season is variably described as the period between Thanksgiving and Mother's Day, or from Halloween to Easter. You get the picture.

The way I describe it is more practical. More experiential, if you like. When it takes me more than twenty-five minutes to drive five miles, it's Season.

It's Season.

7-Eleven

Becoming a connoisseur of gas stations is one more benefit of driving limousines. Not just gas stations, but the convenience stores that accompany them are part of my extensive experience. Circle K, On the Run, am/pm; I have shopped and bought coffee in them all. The King of the Conveniences (here in the United States) is 7-Eleven, the store with the opening hours right in the name.

The green and red monster is now my service station of choice, because they seem to have the cheapest gasoline. I guess they have buying power over the distributors, being as big as they are, but it might also be that the fuel is a way to get you into their stores. The gas is a loss-leader so they can sell you lots of other crap.

And crap it is. My observation of my fellow 7-Eleven customer is that they are in a hurry, they smoke, they drink and they eat a rotten diet. We need to face facts and note that there is nothing - not one thing - in those stores that could be considered a nutritious foodstuff. It's all high-calorie, high fat, high carb, low end of the food-chain junk. And you have to line up to get some.

Horrible working hours, long days and an inability to eat on the job all make for some bad eating habits. That's my excuse for past explorations into the nether world of convenience store food, an apt description, because I am certain that much of the protein comes from the nether regions of animals. But I have forsworn that stuff in the interests of living beyond fifty.

The inescapable truth is this: Poor people pay the most for the worst food. That's just the way it is.




Also published here. [link]

First Time

A new customer is good for both me and The Boss. The benefit to The Boss is clear, but for me it's an opportunity to focus on what makes a good (or even, ahem, excellent) chauffeur.

Because we're minimum-wage folks, we work for tips, and the time-honored way to garner a good tip is to meet and exceed the customer's expectations. First impressions are as important as conventional wisdom suggests, so I am hyper-aware of making a good impression in those minutes immediately after meeting the new person.

But sometimes the relationship goes the other way. The customer can make a big impression on me, as happened Tuesday morning. Collecting the gentleman from his comfortable established home, I knew something was up when, after some perfunctory chit-chat, he said;

You know, Wombat, Tiger Woods has fucked it for the rest of us, that prick.

Firstly, use of the word 'fuck' puts me, the driver, on a different relationship footing with a customer. Secondly, what on earth was he talking about? After a second, I figured it out - he was telling me that he was an enthusiast for adultery.

Thus began an hour-long tour of this man's life, from his financial woes to his infidelities. He talked at length about his family, especially his many children and his many, many grandchildren. Retired from business, Facebook is his new enthusiasm, a marvel that allows him to keep up with his many widely distributed neices and nephews, although some of them "...find it a bit creepy" that he's so intent on being their friend.

But the focus of his thinking was his trips to Havana. My man could only be described as a part-time sex-tourist, waxing fond about his past visits to Cuba for the enthusiastic, fruity and cheap (cheap!) prostitutes. Apparently, once you find the right guy down there (a man he oddly referred to as "...my John...") all doors are open. John (or The John) knows the way around obstacles to free love created by the fact that "the government owns everything down there, you know". Which would be at least a partial description of a communist dictatorship.

Whenever someone decides to spill their guts to me, a perfect stranger, I wonder why. Is is because the Town Car has a kind of confessional effect? Am I like a priest because the customer cannot see my face? Or is it something about me that encourages them to tell all?

I'm going to ask this nice man soon, because he invited me to a week in Havana in February. We'll have time to talk then.




For a more detailed description of my new buddy's enthusiasms. [link]

Fast Cars

Today, after I collected my customer from Orlando Airport.

Wombat, how long do you think to my place?

Oh, with the traffic about two hours and fifteen.

Okay. I'm really keen to get home. If you do it in one hour forty-five, there's a hundred in it for you..........but, you know, don't lose your licence.


*bangs head against steering-wheel*

Amusement

The time evenings unravel is around 1:15 am. Sometimes it's earlier, but by that point any simmering differences between folks in the group rise to the surface.

Alcohol is the catalyst. Observing the arc of a night out with people in a limousine teaches you that even the most chummy friends can turn ugly on each other given enough neck-oil. It's sad, in truth, but just another human frailty.

Notwithstanding late-night bickering, I try to find amusement whenever I can. Of course I'm as sober as a Sarasota lawyer at 1:15 am, which gives me an advantage over most of my customers and opportunities to indulge my dark side. Here's a case in point:

If you have rented a large stretched limousine, a Hummer, for example, a recent model will set you back north of $150 per hour. That is $2.50 a minute. Think of it as a Bud Light per minute. This particular night out was organized by a self-made man, an electrical contractor from memory, and he was clearly the Alpha Dog amongst the six couples. We'd been to bars all over the Suncoast, and, as usual, the initial iciness towards me had melted. The mood was happy and festive. Until the 1:15 hour.

Our Alpha decided it was time to settle up the bill to that point. We stopped outside one of his buddies' houses, and he whipped out a wad of cash collected from the players.

How much do I owe you? he asked. I totted it up, and let's say it came to $650 dollars.

He then started counting fifties and twenties into my hand, backwards from $650. Swaying and slurring all the while, he did a pretty good job, although the leap from $610 to $590 took him a lot of mental energy. Why he insisted on counting backwards is a mystery, but backwards was the way he wanted it.

At around $420, someone would come up to him (we were standing at the rear of the limo) and offer him a drink or a cigarette, or the inevitable ongoing argument inside would spill outside and distract him.

He would then take all the money back from me, and start counting down again from $650, only to be interrupted at the $420 mark.

The third time this happened, when he started again he asked how much he owed me to date. $688 I said. He stopped and looked at me.

I thought you said $650?

Yes, but we've been standing here counting money for fifteen minutes, and you now owe me $38 more.

He then started counting backwards from $688.

This went on for forty minutes. I laughed then, and for days after. On the inside, of course.




Also published here. [link]

Clarity

How wonderful it is when people communicate. It's a rough survey, but from my chauffering experience, it appears that the more willing a passenger is to communicate, the more successful they are, at least in business. I imagine it's different in relationships, but possibly not.

A regular customer of The Boss's service is a Snowbird, running his northern United States based business from Florida from November until May. That's a feat by itself. When I knock on his front door to collect him, he's friendly, but direct:

- What's your name?

- I want these two bags in the trunk, and that one in the back seat

- We'll be leaving in less than ten minutes


Once we're in the car, he continues:

- I'm going to Fort Myers airport, Southwest Airlines

- I have six phone calls to make, so that will take most of the journey

- I'm not an old lady, so please drive crisply.


Perfect. Just perfect. If only they were all so clear. I am not a mind-reader.

Speed Up

The Boss told me that one of his customers had called him to complain about me. Great, I thought, a bollocking is all I need about now. Can you guess what the gentleman complained about? Apparently the last time I drove him I was too slow, and that I need to step it up if we're to retain his business.

You must be kidding.

This is the chauffeur's dilemma in a nutshell: divining what the customer is thinking, and figuring a way to make it happen.

The captains of industry we drive are often in a hurry. They believe they can arrive at Tampa Airport forty minutes before the flight leaves, and catch the thing at a stroll. Actually, they plan to arrive forty minutes before the scheduled departure, allow ten percent less than normal for the journey to the airport in one of our Towncars, and make that their pickup time.

They then walk out of their house or office fifteen minutes after that arranged time, fully expecting bods like me to pick up the slack on the highway. It's a joke.

Any idiot can drive fast. It's in your driver's licence, look, it says "The holder is now allowed by the state to put the accelerator flat to the floor and go like the wind." The problem is that my job is to get you where you are going safely, expeditiously and comfortably. If you have a death-wish or want these priorities re-ordered you have to tell me. I am not a mind reader.

When it's obvious that the heavy breather sitting behind is frustrated with me obeying posted speed-limits (body language tells all) I might bring my speed back down just a fraction. Or I move over a lane behind someone slow. Sometimes this insolence will force them to speak up, saying something like:

"I'm in a hurry, you know,"

Or

"My flight leaves at ten o'clock".

If there's snark in my veins at this time, I'll say to them:

"Sir, I can get you there as fast as lightning, but I need your assurance that you will pay my speeding fine and any legal fees".

That shuts 'em up.

Lord help any one of their minions who suggests he disregard the SEC or whatever agency regulates his business. Why, that's outrageous you ask him to break the law. But if you're a dumb sedan driver running I-75 day in and day out, well, that's fine.

Fuck them. And fuck that piss-weak jerk who wasn't man enough to say to my face that I should drive with a little more brio. No, big asshole had to call the boss, and bitch mano-a-girlo.

Pfft.




Also published here. [link]

Coked Up

A requirement for being a limo driver is the ability to stay awake at all hours. This is such a weird business, crazy busy for a few days, and then dead as a dodo for the next few. If you like stability and a regular schedule, this game is not for you.

Weekends are the worst. Because the summer was so slow, we (the drivers) are all keen to get working. To do so, we sometimes need to minimize our sleep, which in practice can mean finishing a job at, say, 2:00 am, only to have a pickup at 6:00 am. I have done that kind of turn-around for three nights straight, which is a kind of torture. In fact isn't sleep deprivation and time-shifting specifically defined as torture?

Having worked back of the clock for much of my working life, night work can be okay, but it needs to be on a regular basis. One or two nights without sleep is way worse than five or six, because the body adapts. You're a zombie when you are awake during the day, but at least you acclimate to the wee hours.

The big danger is falling asleep when driving. I nearly did it a couple of days ago. Everyone knows that feeling when you get the nods on the road. Freeways are the worst, because the white lines become hypnotic, lulling the brain into some kind of low brainwave activity. It's deadly. [link]

If you can't stop and take a break - as I cannot with a customer who has to get somewhere - there are few choices. Coffee, of course, if you can. Pinching one's legs works for a while. Talking to the customer is good. And if all else fails, I bring out the big guns; Coca-Cola, with its giant shot of sugar and caffeine does the trick.

It has probably saved my life, it's that good.



Also published here. [link]

Fiery Wedding

Autumn in Florida is the time for weddings, good news for those of us in the making-the-fairy-tale-come-true business. Actually, most of the weddings I see are not about the fairy-tale. They're often pragmatic affairs, almost to the point of appearing to be an exercise in going through the motions. Maybe that reflects more down-to-earth brides, but whatever it is, the emotional energy is often wound way down.

Saturday I drove a stretched limousine for a wedding, one of the most happy I have seen. A clue that both the wedding and the marriage will work out okay is when I knock at the door (to let the client know that I'm there, ahead of time) and the bride is still in civilian clothes. With a veil. Normally, it might be a red flag, an indication that everything is running behind. But I was early, and when she emerged with her bridesmaids right on time, smiling and calm, I knew everything was fine. A low maintenance bride who takes time to say hello (after my obligatory compliment about how beautiful she looks) is a gift.

Absence of a photographer at this point is a bonus. Photographers often run weddings, which is a pity, because the spontaneity of the day is lost when you have a martinet with a Nikon bossing everyone around. Word of advice to prospective brides: you'll have a much happier day, and get much more interesting wedding photos if you instruct your photographer to simply follow, snap, and refrain from interfering. He or she is there to record the day, not organize it.

During the church ceremony, a fire truck rolled up. Turns out that the groom was a firefighter, and his (on duty) colleagues were there to say hello. Nice touch. A photographer was present by this time, and everyone had great fun having their picture taken with newly married couple all over the truck. See, weddings don't need to be stuffy and formal. It's about celebration, just like these folks demonstrated.

We did head off for formal photos, but by that time the alcohol was flowing, and everyone (read: groomsmen) was pretty loose. That makes a difference. The wedding party participants who forget about themselves and simply keep the newly-weds smiling and laughing, doing the little jobs willingly, truly make a difference. Selfless and humorous groomsmen can literally make a wedding.

The last item for most weddings is dropping everyone at the reception. I was kinda bummed not to be able to spend more time with both the bride (a doll) and the groom (who was polite and relaxed). Good people, great (simple) wedding, and, I am predicting, fantastic marriage.


Also published here. [Link]

Halcyon Days

A certain kind of customer strides up to me in the airport, hands me his grip and keeps right on without saying a word. I watch him walk towards the baggage belt, stop, pull out his cellphone, and begin fiddling. The attitude is pretty clear from the start - their chauffeur is only nominally a person, and more valuable as a combination hatstand, closet, porter, Sherpa, mule and driver.

It can come as a surprise. I'll be standing there holding my welcome-board at the base of the escalators. They make no sign of recognition, no verbal or other greeting as they approach. I will not have met them before, so they recognize me from (obviously) the uniform and their name that I'm holding up. Literally without a word, I have had these strangers dump their overcoat, carry-on, camera, computer bag and purse into my waiting arms, and string a tote over my shoulder. So much for my smile and prepared name-specific welcome.

"Hello Mr Peters, welcome to Florida" gets lost amidst their disgorgement.

The name for that kind of customer is extinct. They're a product of buoyant times, when everyone has a job and every bank is lending. There's a PhD to be had correlating money supply growth with arrogance in limousine customers. I'm sure there's a link. Now that car companies are run by governments and employment's over ten percent, even the most boorish of bulls have had their horns clipped.

Impoliteness like that is rare, in my experience. Most of our customers are a delight, particularly the regulars. They're sweet to the point of being embarrassing, undemanding, and simply easy to deal with. Most of them even remove their own trash from the car when they leave, they're that nice.

Extinct is too strong a word for the man in the airport. {This behaviour is not limited to men, by the way. Women are equally capable of high-handedness. I use 'men' in the general sense.} They're really only lying dormant, waiting for the economic winter to thaw and the first shoots of spring to launch them back into their old habits.

Here's hoping.



Also published here. [link]

Bomb Canada

Midweek limousine runs are a bonus. They're even better if it's a bachelorette party, especially if the bride is under age sixty. Hey, it's Florida. Ya gotta look on the bright side when there is one. I only realized how old we are around here when a friend visited recently. The first thing she said was "Where are all the people without silver hair?"

Anna Maria pickup at 7:00 pm, then dinner at St Armand's, then Siesta Key for hijinks; that was the plan. All simple enough on the surface, but the happy face soon developed cracks.

First, the money. The Boss always quotes an hourly rate for a minimum of two hours. So when the bridesmaid organizer stated she'd been quoted a fixed seven hour price for a dollar figure substantially below normal, I smelled a grifter. A Canadian grifter, which makes it worse, because I like Canadians.

Second, the female card. Sweetheart, you are cute, but this is business. Claiming you're just being a ditzy girl might work sometimes, but I've seen way too much of that variety of manipulation. I'd rather drive off and do without the money. But I phoned The Boss to resolve the money problem and he compromised. Great.

Third, the adding heads game. My limousine is legally limited to ten passengers. When you book, and say you only have eight, we assume you're as good as your word. When thirteen lovely Canadian ladies turn up, forgive me for blanching a little. I could have brought the bigger vehicle - at no more cost because it's midweek - but no, it just gives you a reason to complain about the lack of room.

Fourth, the extra time. Of course you're having fun dancing and drinking, and you naturally pray for the night not to end. That's possible, at forty dollars per half hour, and, believe me, I can last longer than you. But when you start to say that you're running out of cash, expect not to find me accommodating.

Fifth, the urination. Picture Gulf of Mexico Drive, Longboat Key. The time is 3:15 am. Every ten minutes, two or three of my 'ladies' want a comfort stop. When I point out that it is indeed Longboat Key at 3:15 am and that there are no public facilities available, swearing at me doesn't help.

Sixth, the tip. My unfailing good humor, smiling accession to every request, relentless cleaning, obsessive polishing, general professional demeanor and finding of private spots to piss apparently don't count. Exactly fifteen dollars.

What's that, about seventeen-fifty Canadian? Thanks. I'll just go clean up your puke now.


Also published here.

Hallowe'en

There is a street in our town in which four houses in a row contain four women. They're all married, all mothers but one, all thirtysomethings, all attractive - and they all have enhanced breasts. I know this is true because I have seen all the women together, and let's just say that none of them went for subtlety. Spotting the decoy amongst the ducks ain't that hard.

Completely brazen about it, they were out on the town on the Saturday of Hallowe'en, flaunting their curves. Being neighbors and plastic warriors, they call themselves the Breastford Wives. I smell the odor of some group couplings amongst this lot, but what they do with their Tupperware is their business.

I spent time chatting with the husband of the woman last to visit the cosmetic surgeon. I asked him what he liked most about his wife's new assets.

Well, he said, it puts the lie to the saying that more than a mouthful is a waste. And then there's the smell.

The smell, I asked?

Oh, for sure. For the first two weeks they have that new car smell. I tell you, it's like being in heaven.



Also published here. [Link]

Harley Sunday

The milder autumn air brings out the Peter Fonda in Harley owners, especially when it's Sunday. Sunday's the day that men with a gut and a dream fire up the iron horse and join a few buddies for a drive around, just for the hell of it. And why not? The sound of that slow-revving vee-twin, the feel of the air through one's bald spot, the companionship - what better way to celebrate the land of liberty than to exercise one's freedoms and drink some beer.

Unfortunately, the land of liberty also houses the dark side of freedom, which is entitlement. In the case of Harleyistas, they all think they're entitled to disregard generally accepted rules of the road, and do whatever the fuck they feel like.

Groups of them chug along in the fast lane at 30 mph. Larger groups chug along blocking all the lanes. Pairs of them flip bitches (do U-turns) wherever and whenever they choose. Bunches of them have long, tedious conversations at stop lights, then take ten minutes to acknowledge the green, pull the clutch, find first, rev a little, gently ease the clutch....oh, and look, the sodding light's red again.

The ubiquity of bumper stickers urging us to "watch for motorcycles" evidences either their popularity or the fact that cars run them over. A lot. My money's on the latter. It's dangerous to be out there in anything but an automobile, and emergency rooms and graveyards are full of individuals proving it. But these latter-day Easy Riders don't help themselves by behaving so poorly. I applaud them having a fun day out, if that constitutes their pursuit of freedom. Their disregard of everyone else, however, dissipates the goodwill from people like me who use the road to make a living.

So, my dear two-wheel enthusiast, when you and your mates are cruising down the Skyway Bridge, ten abreast at twenty under the minimum, don't be surprised if I exercise a little of my own freedom and rub your back tire with my bumper. It's all good, right? And if the thought of that doesn't please you, move over and let me through. The thought of having to clean pieces of your pancreas outta my tread doesn't make me that happy either.

Hit a Hog Day. That's what Sunday should be called.



Also published here.

Welcome Sign

You have probably seen me at the airport, hanging around the arrivals area, holding a sign showing my customer's name. I might be tall or short; skinny, muscular or portly; smoothly dressed or somewhat rumpled. The likelihood is that I am older rather than young, grey-haired more than colored, measured more than peppy. I am overwhelmingly male, glued to my cellphone and almost always tired.

The driving job isn't my first choice. I might have a buddy in the business who needed some help one weekend...and I stayed. It's possible that I saw the potential in a buoyant economy and bought a limousine with a down payment and a dream. Retirement might have bored me rigid, and the idea of some extra money (and tips!) appealed to me (and my wife.) Or I could enjoy the driving, the hours, the observation of human nature, the variety, and just not being stuck indoors enough to want to make it a long-term job.

After around two years you start to think you've seen it all. That's a mistake. There will always be new ways for people to surprise you; incredible, unbelievable behaviour that will make great tales for the telling. But somewhere in there you begin to notice patterns, to recognize situations as echoes of days past - this kind of misunderstanding is best resolved in a particular way, that type of customer is actually asking for somemething different than he or she verbalizes, and we both know it. Experience begins to guide you when uncertainty looms.

Mostly I like people, and want to help them through. My temperature might rise when conflict arises, but I know that it's overwhelmingly likely to be in the customer's mind than in the way I carried their bag. I probably dream of a week of early to bed and breakfasts there too, but start to miss the road after two days of that. The money sucks, The Boss acts weird, nobody tips anymore, these cars aren't running right, the cops hate me, I'm hungry, Starbucks sucks, I miss my family....and yet I'm still here, in the monkey suit, holding up my sign, looking for Mr Smith.


Also published at The 941.

Fame

I'm famous!

The local alternative paper (read: lefty haven) publishes my posts under a (different) pseudonym. This week, I'm in print.

Yay me.

You Too

I'm sorry. If you don't know that the lead singer of U2's name is "Bonn-Oh", not "Bone-Oh" you are not real fans. Fuck me. Dilettantes in pop culture make me wanna puke.

Sorry sir, may I open the champagne for you?

You see the kind of dual life I lead, being appalled most of the time, sickenly sycophantic the next. You'd be the same if you were surviving on tips.

The night of the U2 concert in Tampa was long and messy. Every limousine within 150 miles was out, and the other 69,000 people drove their cars. Raymond James stadium, home of an amateur football team called the Tampa Bay Buccaneers was chock-a-block full for the night, and that was just the performers' egos.

My people were early mid-aged lawyer types, overfed and undermannered. Snark aside, they were reasonably polite and not at all a problem, but who wants to hear about mild-mannered Richy Riches daring to live large at a Rock Concert for the night?

However, one of their number was a trouble-maker from the start. As I later discovered, he was an ex-fighter of some sort, the kind with a giant body, peanut nuts and dino-brain. Better living through chemistry, apparently. Why anyone pays to see artificially-grown men bash each other is beyond me, but I bore the weight of his 'roid rage that night. Except when he was being nice. And there he goes morphing into a prick again.

Oaves suck.

Where was I? Oh, that's right. Channelside in Tampa, after the U2 show, with a drug-addled lunatic and his nouveau riche friends. Whatever. Another show, another dollar.

Alcoholica

Metallica played the St Pete Times Forum Saturday night, a giant thrill for local metal fans. The hard rockin' hall-of-famers aren't familiar to me, so I figured it would be best to be prepared for anything when I drove eight die-hards to the concert.

One lesson one learns quickly in the limo game is the ancient one of not judging a book by its cover. My customers for the night might have looked like well-used paperbacks, but who the hell am I to judge? They were polite and friendly, and although I couldn't figure out just why their teenage children were coming, seemed like first-rate parents too.

Look, it's easy to be a snob about these things. Metal bands are a mystery to me, but then Scarlatti is probably a joke to them, unless there's an Italian hair band of that name floating about the place. Customers are customers, and as I say to The Boss, they all get the best treatment until their behaviour dictates otherwise.

Tampa is a dozy kind of place, with many one-way streets, and evidence of bored uninterest from the city fathers (and female mayor) that a clean sweep would rectify. Public performance venues like the SPTF are used all the time, and yet the organization around parking, traffic flow and (especially!) limousines is abysmal. The cops do their job as well as you'd expect, but the feeling one is left with is that administrators could care less what happens when the sun sets and they're comfortably ensconced somewhere else having dinner with a lobbyist.

That's a whole other issue.

A driving gig to Tampa for a concert like this is about as good as it gets, because everyone's in a good mood. They're also deaf and swaying when they come out, but that's fine too; I just turn up the heat, and they're all asleep by the time we've hit I-75 southbound.

The real fun lies in the time between when the show ends and the customers find me. Metallica girls are given to taking their tops off, I understand, an outstanding turn of events. When the sweaty crowd is melting out of the arena, there's plenty of eye-candy to keep a bloke occupied, even if they're with scary looking dudes.

They're probably shit-scared of my tie.

Secret Service

There I was, in the restaurant carpark, waiting for my customer to finish dinner when an SUV sandwich arrived - four Suburbans between two cop cruisers. There was no squealing of tires or blaring of sirens, but it was clear that Something Important was happening. "Huh", I thought, Sarasota's biggest moment in three months might just be happening before my eyes.

Out sprung a dozen or more steely-type guys in dark suits, all looking at what security people call "The Perimeter." (Note my hip lingo.) I was on the dead side of The Perimeter, unable to see what was happening at the restaurant's entrance. Apparently Someone Important alighted one of the monster vehicles and was escorted in with a few hangers-on. All I saw was the back of a guy's head, a guy with white hair.

Frankly, I was miffed. Here was I, sitting in my Town Car in the forecourt, chatting on my cellphone, and the tuff guys barely gave me a look. I could have been a nut with a gun on a mission, deserving of a bit o' roughing up. Actually, the fact they ignored me is testimony to their judgement, because A) I'm not a starfucker, and B) my friend on the phone was way more interesting than some B-lister with over-the-top stalker protection.

After a while, I told my friend what had happened. She speculated who was likely to have a police escort and heavy duty security. We concluded it was unlikely to be anyone Hollywood, nor anyone businessy. I thought of Bill Gates, but I know he's very low-key. My best guess was Governor Crist.

Eventually, I got out of the car to stretch a take a walk. A television camera crew and their cub reporter argued over sightlines. Bottled water came out for the suits. Restaurant customers (including mine) were nowhere to be seen, apparently held hostage inside. Good for me; I was on hourly pay. A local cop stood nearby, so I asked the question. Suddenly it all made sense.

My clues to my friend on the phone were as follows: The number 42. Ladies' knickers hitting the floor all over the SunCoast. Politician. White hair. Left of center. Unsure of the meaning of the word 'is'.

Champagne Ruined

Without any justification, I'm a champagne snob. An ex-girlfriend introduced me to the wonders of French bubbly, a moment I shall never forget. It was non-vintage Moët et Chandon that first sip, just like the bottle in the picture. Oh, the nose; WOW, the bubbles; and OMG the taste. I'm sure Taylor, our local wine guruette, would use more technically appropriate language, but there is nothing else that compares to champagne from Champagne.

Which is why it pains me so to see this mixing of the best of France, and the best of Florida. Sacré bleu! Whatever where they thinking? The young couple were just that weekend engaged, and I was driving them to their celebratory dinner at Euphemia Haye.

Bravo, congratulations, good for you and all that. But why did they have to ruin the champagne with a Pepsi product?

It's enough to make me want a martini.

Beach Butt Bingo

With the limo trade as dead as a dodo, I have time to spend frivolously at the beach. It's a balance - my tan improves, my bank balance declines. That's the Zen of Chauffeurdom. I hope business will pick up sometime soon, because if not, I will have to look for something more.

However, in the dying weeks of summer before the start of Season, a few lazy days on Florida's best sand won't hurt too much. Fingers crossed.

A few months ago, I noticed the above sign at my favorite local swimming spot. The City erected them adjacent to carpark paths to the beach, with receptacles for cigarette trash attached to the poles. Hooray! Few things piss me off more than lying down on my towel only to find myself in an ash heap of butts left by some inconsiderate asshole.

Now I'm not averse to people smoking should they choose to. But lazy douchebags who have neither consideration for their fellow beach-goer nor the law truly cheese me off. How difficult is it to collect the product of your habit, stick it in your sunbag, and cart that shit off the beach?

Apparently it's beyond a lot of them. Just this morning, after a few laps between the buoys, I was relaxing on Lido Beach. Groups of Girl Scouts were all over, picking up (with gloved hands) butts and other beach detritus to "...keep the world clean". So it's come to this: children now volunteer as garbage collectors to do the work of indolent, selfish adults.

*

Butts are not bio-degradable.

Alzheimers

If he asked me ten times, he asked me forty. Sir, we're in Florida, and I'm driving you to your condo. The old guy whose ride didn't work out ended up with me, to our mutual discomfort. He thought he was in Connecticut, having just left Florida, but I was definitely in Florida. And I had the humidity to prove it.

Because times are slow in the limo game, being on call 24/7 is now a part of the gig. It's somewhat like begging; take what you can get, and always have your hat out. We're better dressed than most beggars, and we brush our teeth, but we're basically in the same game. If you feed at the bottom, be prepared for shit to fall on you from above.

That was how I ended up with this poor disoriented man. The trained folks who normally look after befuddled oldsters couldn't turn up, so minimum wage dozy me had to look after this man who should never, ever be left alone. The Boss is unable to say no, and I'm obliged to say yes. That's how modern business works.

Fortunately, the ride was short, and I had the son's far-away number. I called him five times in twenty minutes attempting to allay the old guy's concerns about where I was taking him, who would be there to meet him, and where are we again?

Each time, my guy said "That was Frank. He's my brother".

In reality, that was Robert. He's his son.

Get used to it. The dumbest generation in history, the baby boomers, is coming to a town near you. Decades of drugs, booze, therapy and self-indulgence are gonna land smack bang in your lap.

At least I'm getting $7.21 per hour. How much will they pay you?

Grouper Ranch

Prostitution is prohibited in Florida, not that you'd know. Driving into town along the main road from the north, the choice of short-term dates is extensive. You can have short girls, tall girls, white girls, black girls, old girls, young girls and girls who might not necessarily be girls.

Most of the action happens after sundown, but there are a suspiciously large number of ladies waiting at bus-stops during the day. I guess sexual urge is time independent. It might be my imagination, but there appear to be more ladies plying their trade lately. Presumably, tough times lead to tough decisions, with sometimes equally tough consequences.

Limousine customers ask me to find them hookers from time to time. I'm not averse to helping them out, but it's not that simple. We can't just cruise up and down pro-row in a thirty-foot long limousine all night, sidewalk shopping. In police parlance that's called cruising and my name becomes John.

What I should to is some research ahead of time, talk to some of the women, take phone numbers, check out what individual girls look like, what they charge and so on. Innocently seeking out a handful of professional contacts makes sense, but what if the cops are mounting a sting that day? If I'm booked, will they believe me that I'm negotiating for my own future customers? And will the charge then escalate from simple procuring to trafficking, or living on immoral proceeds?

I know! I should contact ACORN. Apparently they offer all kinds of advice in this area, and it's taxpayer funded. Excellent.

This keeps getting better. Community organizing takes on an entirely new flavour.

And look, a prostitution sting just days after I wrote this.

*

Nocturnality

For a really big night out, locals lust after the big smoke: Tampa. Channelside, Hyde Park, the International Plaza and Ybor City all beckon from just an hour up the road. I forgot the Seminole Hard Rock Casino in that mix, rather a large oversight.

For a limousine company, this could be a gold mine. All these places cater for party-people, and have lots of variety within their precincts. Any one of them can be a great night out destination for a bunch of people, but they're too far away to drive and party. Ergo, limousine. Eight or fifteen people in a stretch can have a ball.

From our point of view, they're pretty good gigs. Although some folks have ideas about visiting two or three, the usual outcome is that they spend all night at one. Sometimes it's fun driving around, checking out different areas. Staying on the move, loading and unloading everyone reduces the boredom factor, but exponentially increases the mess factor.

Sidebar: Every ingress requires a new round of drinks, with the accompanying spillage and glass usage. As well, more street soil is introduced to the limousine's interior, which, of course, I have to clean out at the end of the night. A good night for me means as few ins-and-outs as possible, plastic cups instead of glasses and no visits to the beach. Sugar sand is a bitch in black carpet. End sidebar.

The downside of Tampa nights is the late finish. Limousines alter customers' sense of time, often leading them to stay until closing. Which is fine. But by the time the bars call last drinks at 2:00 am, close the doors at 2:30 am, my people find me and load up by 2:45 am, on the interstate at 3:00 am, drop the last person home at 5:00 am, I gas up and get to the office by 5:45 am, then spend an hour cleaning - well, it's a pretty long night.

Birds fly south for winter

Swallows fly back to Capistrano. Salmon swim upstream to the mountains. Snowbirds leave the Midwest to flee to Florida. The rhythms of nature reassure us that everything remains the same, that the cycle of life continues. As humans I think we look for such guideposts, markers of time's arrow, end-points for epochs, starting-points for others.

So you can imagine my happiness when I saw a convoy of Michigan-plated recreational vehicles punting their way south on Saturday. Early September feels too soon, but memory being an untrustworthy mammal, I disregarded it. Maybe this will be a big season, with everyone and her great-aunt visiting Florida. Perhaps Michigan's 15% unemployment rate (some workers' paradise, that one) won't affect the annual migration south, and gobs of people will come on down.

Optimism is running through my arteries you see, for no good reason other than I spotted a couple of banged up Winnebagos trundling along I-75. Snowbirds have relatives, and relatives need transport to and from airports. Work for me. When relatives get together, they go out for dinner, and sometimes rent a limo. Work for me. And winter means celebration, which means drinking which means no self-driving. Work for me.

Snowbirds themselves don't spend that much money. It's what they portend about their associates that's making me happy. It's a sign. They're back. I might survive.

Snooze-a-palooza

Snooze-a-palooza. It's the only word to describe the limo biz on the Suncoast in August. If chauffeurs hibernated, now would be the time. In fact, if you peek under any parked town car, you might find one there, soulfully dozing away the summer. Or look around at the beach. The guy in boardies and black suit vest reading 'Driving Miss Daisy' is a likely candidate.

I imagine everyone in service industries would prefer to hibernate around about now. There are no snowbirds with feathers to preen and spring breakers are yet to turn their mind to Pabst Blue Ribbon. Speaking of cerveza, last spring break I heard that fine product of Wisconsin described as "PBRona".

I am unsure what that says about Mexican beer.

Summer then is nature's way of rejuvenating folks who smile and are polite for a living. Few can keep up a seamless facade of calm obsequiousness forever, and if they can, don't lend them money. They're crazy.

But enough already. A few weeks of sleeping long and flouching days is enough. Get me back to work before I start opening car doors for people who aren't paying. The patrons at Wal-Mart might look at me sideways.

Clouds of Horror

For years I lived under the impression that Sir Walter Raleigh introduced tobacco to England. The story went that he was in the colony of Virginia around 1586, and returned home with a shipload of leaves. Being a favorite of Queen Elizabeth, she indulged his interest in burning the dried plant, and so the first nicotine delivery system found royal approval.

The truth is that Jean Nicot, a Frenchman, brought tobacco from the New World to Europe, and from there it was introduced to England. From Monsieur Nicot's name we have nicotine, and another fabulation is replaced by the truth. Sadly we all still live in a propaganda cloud.

Fortunately, a weekend customer didn't envelope me in a cloud of tobacco smoke. Instead, as I drove the town car, he made me queasy in that other way nicotine addicts have, which is to chew that shit. As if it isn't disgusting enough to hook great piles of fermented plant litter into your jaw, there is yet more horror; they spit.

You can tell the dippers from the used plastic orange juice containers they carry around. Like infants unable to wean themselves from mother's breast, these guys cannot be without their fix, meaning that the rest of us have to put up with the gallons of juice they produce. I am always hopeful they dispose of that gunk carefully, but we all know that a lot of it ends up in the soles of our shoes.

For an hour he sat and chewed, and sat and spat, and sat and chewed. All the way to Tampa airport.

If one day you read about a limousine driver 'Going Limo' on the side of I-275, spare a thought for me. I just couldn't take another expectoration.

Don't toucha my car

At 1:00 am I am shredded. My customers have partied for hours, and it looks like they're going to stay until closing. That's good because it means an extra two or three hours pay by the time everyone's dropped home. That's bad because I have at least another hour to wait here, bored and grumpy.

Waiting is the name of the limo game. We wait at airports, we wait at ship ports. We wait for the phone to ring, we wait for parties to end. We even wait for The Boss, when he calls doling out the jobs for the following day.

If you have itchy feet, this isn't the gig for you. We're unable to leave the limousine, so it's not like we can park and head off for a walk. Instead, I equip myself for big nights out with books, newspapers, magazines, a fully charged phone, CDs and a pillow. Colleagues often sit in the back and watch DVDs.

I'll do anything to stave off the boredom. Parking close to the bar or restaurant my folks are in can often be fun. Just hanging around looking mean (the don't toucha my car or I'll breaka your face, face) passes the time for a while. Sometimes cuties will want to talk - always good - or offer you ten bucks for a lift home.

Sorry, Miss. I'm not for hire.

But even that's a snore after a while. Sober observation of drunkenness, even if it's in stilettos, isn't distracting forever. Then it's back to boredom, brain in neutral, thumb up arse.

Emergency!

The Boss called with a rush-job on Saturday, today - a rival limo company's car was in trouble, and they needed our biggest stretch to complete the run. No time for showering or dressing, the quicker I could pick up the stranded passengers, the better.

Grabbing my work bag, I headed out, mentally figuring how long it would take to pick up the limo from the depot, drive to the scene of the emergency, take them the forty or so miles to their destination, drive back to the depot, gas up, clean up, and do the paperwork. This is the way (I guess) every limo driver's brain works; we're figuring out the time we'll arrive home, or be drinking our first beer.

The stranded limo driver called me, sounding desperate.

"How long for you to get here?" he asked plaintively.

"About twenty-five or thirty minutes" I replied.

"Oh God", he breathed. "I hope I'm still alive by then."

Grim times ensue for the chauffeur when his steed fails him, for people can get mighty antsy mighty quickly. When things go awry the only refuge is the truth and apology. If customers think that being late to dinner is worth blowing an aorta, then that's their problem. From the reactions I have witnessed, you would think that we purposely orchestrate mechanical failure.

But none of that was my problem in this case; I was the knight in shining armor, the humble rescuer saving the day. They were grudgingly thankful for me being there, but still not overly happy. But I don't care. I'm having a beer.

Vegas, Baby

Unusual driving gigs add piquancy to the usual roster of airport transfers and bachelor hoedowns, or "ho-go-downs" as a recent customer named them.

Classy.

Out-of-the-ordinary jobs include those which take us to an unlikely destination, or involve interesting or famous people, or leave one asking plenty of questions. I had an example of the latter last week, one that left puh-lenty of room for speculation.

My dispatch docket showed the time at which a privately-owned jet was scheduled to arrive at our local airport, together with the number of people traveling (two), and the address to which I was to drive them. This stank of the unusual from when I searched online for the owners of this particular jet (a corporation in Las Vegas) to the fruitless quest to find just where the customers' residence was (somewhere in our county.) The street name, or the possible typo-induced variations of it, just didn't make sense. Curiouser and curiouser. Oh well, the customers will know where they live. They will speak English despite their obviously Asian name, right?

At the appointed time plus thirty minutes the fifty-million dollar jet taxied to the FBO's ramp, and I pulled the limo up to the stairway, as close as I could to the plane without giving the ground crew a heart attack. From the glossy interior stepped a Chinese-looking man and his wife, probably in their mid-thirties. They spoke no English. I enlisted the help of the two flight attendants, but they had only the same non-existent address as me. No help there.

Eventually, the nice customer called another man who did speak English, who gave me clear directions to their house, which was in a brand-new development. It looked like my folks had bought the model. Despite the communications gaps, everything ended well.

In case you hadn't guessed, the jet belonged to a big Las Vegas casino with three Ms in its name. The couple had presumably been flown home at the casino's expense, but the big question is: did they win a fortune, or did they lose a fortune?

My tip for a fifteen minute ride was $35. I think that's a clue.

Up in my grille

Lounging in the back of my mind like an overstayed house-guest is the worry of mechanical breakdown. You would think that a business completely reliant upon mechanical fidelity would be hyper-aware of maintenance and the possibility of failure. But apparently I am the only limousine-industry worker in history to know anything about Six Sigma.

I am not suggesting that fundamentally barnyard operations like chauffeured transportation companies should aspire to chip-fab clean-room analism, but the odd oil change never goes astray.

Matters are not quite that bad, but so that we're clear, limousines are not as well maintained as, say, the average Floridian domiciled Buick owned by a retired Ohioan machine-tool salesman. They just aren't. In the end it's inconsequential, because if you and your party are transported to and from wherever we've contracted, it's fine. Only when shits are trumps does it matter.

My nightmare is a break-down on Alligator Alley with a doctor and his family. They are planning to catch a flight from Miami for a hugely expensive cruising vacation in Europe. He has timed everything down to the second, and if anything - anything - goes wrong, the ship will sail from Barcelona without them, requiring over-the-top solutions like helicopters to recover.

Picture me waking in the middle of the night, steamed with perspiration, dreaming that I have broken down on the side of I-75, listening to the tirade of the doctor as he tells me in exquisite detail how I have personally ruined his life.

Welcome to my life.

Wedding Organizer

If a Marine and gay man formed a partnership, they would have the most perfect wedding organizing business. (Which, if the Marine was gay, could be a great one-person enterprise.) Sadly, most wedding organizers I see are a cross between Brüno and Borat. What the profession needs is the creative flair of the gay man, and the organizational and command skills of the Marine, all of which are rarely on display.

Providing limousines for weddings is a solid part of The Boss's business. First we collect the 'boys' from wherever they're staying, and transport them to the site of the proposed nuptuals. Oftentimes the boys are hungover. Can't think why.

Then we go find the 'girls' and wait for them to be ready. Almost always the anxiety level is quite high here, but there's nothing I can do to help. Our side of the arrangement is simply to be there with the correct limousine at the assigned time, then drive them to the ceremony.

This is all simple enough stuff, right? Well, it would be if even one person had some kind of master plan to hand. You would expect the wedding planner to know every detail of the day, but rarely are they capable of arranging more than some seats for guests, a photographer and a bill for their services.

Some examples of the disorganization, as seen from the chauffeur's point of view:

Where EXACTLY is the wedding ceremony being held? "A beach on Siesta Key" covers quite a lot of sand.

What time EXACTLY do you want to be there? Out-of towners are poor at matching distance and time.

No, I do not know where the floral arrangements are. If you show me, I'll certainly look after them.

No, I do not know anything about bottles of champagne for afterwards, and no, I cannot legally sell them to you. I will be happy to go buy some for you though, if you give me some cash.

No, I do not know what your favorite champagne is.

Yes, there is a difference between French and domestic. (Merde!)

No, I do not know where the reception is being held. At the time you booked the limousine, you did not know yourself. Did you call back to tell us where you had decided? Ah-ha. I see.

Okay, so we're not going to Denny's now, we're going for more photographs? Fine, but you understand you are being charged by the hour?

No, trust me. The Boss did not say he was giving you a free fourth hour.

Yes, photographers do have a strong will of their own, don't they?

I am sorry, but I wasn't at the practice. I don't know in which order you should walk into the reception.

And finally:

No, the gratuity is never included.

Grandchildren

Q: Why do grandparents and their grandchildren get along so well?

A: Because they have a common enemy.

Summertime on the Suncoast and it's time to bring the grandkids to town to visit gramps and grammy. School's out, and the parents are gagging to be rid of the fruit of their loins, despite doubts about the bad habits they'll learn from overindulgent oldsters.

The trips are always some variation of the grandkids traveling here accompanied by the grandparents, with the parents then arriving a week or two later to retrieve their progeny. If the g-kids travel alone, the g-parents often want to be picked up by the limousine first and then go to the airport to collect the young ones so they can be there to help with bags and suchlike. This will happen even if the grandkids are thirty.

Attitudes change when the 'grands' are together. My old opening joke is truer than you would believe, as a recent Fort Myers Airport pickup demonstrates. The g-parents started off on a cruise of the eastern Mediterranean, flew to a northern US city for a few days, and brought the g-kids back to Florida with them. When I met them in the terminal, they were all smiles, chatting away, laughing at shared jokes. Now these are nice customers anyway, but the genuine pleasure the two young ones took in their older relatives was heart-warming.

The hour-long trip home even featured some trumpet-playing from the young man, and although he turned 'In the Mood' into 'Smells like Teen Spirit' it was just another slice of fun.

By contrast, when kids are in the limo with their parents, there is a universal shut-down of communication. If there isn't mock sleeping with iPod-induced privacy, they retreat into the depths of their Blackberries or iPhones, no doubt searching for answers to the world's problems in that small screen.

What do they find there, I wonder. Or maybe they're texting gramps.

Head Shop Limousine

Taking an impromptu poll of limo-driving colleagues recently, I asked which was better: the Bachelor Party, or the Bachelorette Party.

Surprisingly, the result was an even split. For my money, bachelorettes win going away. If I'm to spend a night driving eight or fifteen partiers around, make them ladies in LBDs. In their defence, bachelors are easier to deal with, because they most often have a plan, and communicate it.

That plan is always the same. From the first pick-up point, we drive around to collect all the revelers. Many of the weddings held here are of folks from out of town, so everyone is scattered at hotels and motels of varying quality, from the Ritz-Carlton to certain roach habitués on the road into town. Then we proceed to a liquor store. Then they want to find some action. That means girls.

Optimism is a characteristic of bachelor party limousine customers. The guys are all in the car, music cranked, drinks flowing, everyone smelling like they showered in cologne. When I ask them where they'd like to go they say "Take us to the bar with lots of babes, man."

This is in Sarasota, on a Tuesday night, in July. Guys, there just isn't that much going on here. Don't you understand that this is the best town in the world to be single....and over seventy? Of course I don't verbalize my thoughts, but I gamely suggest a few places which we dutifully try. Then we go to Cheetah, our premier strip club.

The most recent bachelor party I drove reversed the order. After collecting everybody and all the booze, they watched strippers take their money first. This inspired idea worked because the guys were relatively sober, and had the place (and all the strippers) to themselves. After they'd taken their fill of gyrating girldom, it was time to go to bars to "...find us some amateur pussy, Wombat."

I remember the night clearly because all but one of the guys smoked. That's unusual, especially in a preppy crowd like that. The Boss definitely does not allow smoking in his limos, the fact of which always disappoints lads and ladettes. Repeatedly they asked if they could have just one cigarette in the car while we drove, but I had no choice but to deny them.

They eventually won the argument. Upon leaving Cheetah, the divider went up, and after a minute, the distinctive sweet smell of burning Mexican ditch weed permeated my cabin. We were only going a few blocks, so I figured I'd leave them alone. Making a scene over one spliff on a bachelor party was likely to ruin my chances of a decent tip, so I let it be.

We never did find any girls.

Miami

Ah, Miami. She's the Jewel of the Everglades, the Paris of the Caribbean, the Gateway to South America. Thinking of her leads to daydreams of beaches and bikinis, shopping and sophistication, blow and, well, blow-jobs.

If only there weren't so much traffic, I could actually get there to see for myself.

A trip to the other side (how we Gulf-Coasters refer to *tilts head to the east* the Atlantic side of Florida) makes one realize how good we have it here. It's orders of magnitude less busy and commensurately calmer. It is with good reason I call the Suncoast The Tropical Midwest. We are Indiana with palms, or Michigan with sun, at least in the way people behave.

When Alligator Alley ends and the spectre of Miami-Dade County appears, a professional driver adopts a different attitude. I shift higher in my seat, make sure the sunnies are polished, and set my jaw.

The danger is that a local driver (aka: duelista) will sniff your weakness, because the hindmost of the herd are dealt with mercilessly. If you're too slow, they'll pass in flurry. If you leave too much room between you and the car ahead, they'll nonchalantly fill the gap, brake, lose forty mph and dial their mother before you can blink. And heaven forfend you fail to interpret the traffic signs correctly (was that NW 167th Street or just 167th Street?), because hesitation will have you run over by a Waste Management truck before you can say "Shit!"

In short, if I-95 (or any surface street for that matter) isn't at a dead stop for an hour it's holding an impromptu Formula One qualifying session.

But if you do reach your destination on the same day, it's got great buttocks. I'm sorry, I mean it's a great place, and my goodness the women are attractive.

Policemen are our friends

Driving past the Florida Highway Patrol depot yesterday I noted the place was chock-full of cruisers. It didn't surprise me, because I imagine budget cuts mean fewer troopers, less money for gas, and many fewer donuts.

Sorry, cheap gag. We all know the cops get their donuts gratis, for their toil in the community, and rightly so. They did agree to protect and serve, so we citizens should agree to protect their right to be served free coffee and donuts.

Okay, I'll stop now.

The downside of fewer law enforcers is the creeping disregard for road rules. Chronic red-light busting in Florida is a given. Rolling-stop right turns don't raise an eyebrow. Fifteen over the limit is the limit. It's the same problem that Rudy Giuliani faced in New York City when he came to office, what was known as the broken window syndrome.

Left uncorrected, bad (and illegal) driving becomes the norm, leading to further erosion of respect for the law, at least that's the theory.

My pet dislike is unrestrained loads. I've dodged enough ladders, mattresses, sectional sofas, paint buckets, drink coolers, pails, air compressors and other truck-bed detritus for a lifetime. I fear that the next tradesman's tool to bounce from the back of his Silverado doing 90 mph will come straight through my windshield and kill me.

It nearly happened to Maria Federici.