Beer in a Limousine

Beer has no downside.

Let me clarify that: it has one downside, and that is that fluid cannot be stored in the body forever. As the aphorism goes, once the cork's out of the bottle, there's no stopping it, so part of the art of drinking beer is the science of keeping one's beer buoyancy. Simply put, go to the bathroom regularly, and you'll always have room for more beer.

During the recent basketball finals, I drove some long-time customers to watch Cleveland play Orlando, in Orlando. These guys were very well organized. They had good tickets right under the bucket, they had changes of clothing, they were calling all their friends to make sure they looked for them on television, and they had beer.

They had a lot of beer.

Limousines have iceboxes, but they're delicate, effeminate things, meant more for wine or champagne. Even the biggest of them can hold only 2/3 of a six-pack together with the ice, and so are only marginally useful for committed beer-drinkers, like my guys that night.

The answer if you're a beer-a-philic limousine renter is to load up some boffo-sized coolers into the passenger compartment, put a spare in the trunk, and an 'emergency cooler' up front with me. I was in awe of their style.

Fast forward to about four-hundred yards short of I-4's exit 83, the exit for Orlando's home, Amway Stadium. My boys have already stopped twice for de-fueling. Unfortunately the finals traffic overwhelmed the available road, and so we were proceeding at about ten yards per quarter hour.

Inevitably, the lads started talking about their need to retain beer buoyancy. It was mooted that we were moving so slowly that they could jump out, piss on the freeway, and jump back in before we'd moved too far.

This is not the kind of talk one wants to hear as a limo driver. A vision of sober recriminations, lawsuits and The Boss blaming me scared me to action.

"Why not use the plastic cups?" I confidently suggested. "They're what I use when I'm caught short."

Some muttering ensued, a few minutes passed, we traveled another three feet, and I see the "Door Ajar" light illuminate on my dashboard. It goes out. Then it goes on again. Then it goes out.

You get the picture. My gentlemen had figured out that a slash in a cup relieved the pressure, and the only place to dump the product was on the highway. Problem is that a plastic cup holds only so much.

Most guys were what we later called "Three Door Openers", but the winner was a "Four Door Opener".

And they say the NBA has all the champions.



Technorati: NBA, Limousine Life, Beer, Orlando Magic.

Thespians

Let's face it, Florida was built on wrinkles and white hair. It's a blessing then that oldsters are among the least stressful, easy-going customers we have in the limo game, because they form a goodly portion of our business. Transferring them to and from airports and ship ports is mostly how we serve them, although occasionally there's a celebratory dinner run.

I call those special gigs "Five to Nines". Dinner at five, in bed by nine.

Many old couples - seasoned citizens, in AARP PC-speak - appear to have common characteristics. The gentleman often has a hearing aid. He might even have two, and for neither one has he read the instruction manual. His lady wife therefore has to translate for him, in the following way:

Mr Seasoned Citzen: So how's the limo business going?

Me: Well, it's slow. We're down about 50% from last year.

Mr SC: What's that?

Mrs Seasoned Citizen: He said it's slow, Harry, down by half.

Mr SC: Oh, that's too bad.

The old farts are chatty, and want to talk, but it's SO laborious. Even if I SHOUT, the poor wife has to repeat every thing I say.

Sometimes the whole ride is like that children's game of Telephone, or Chinese Whispers:

Mr SC: Do you ever drive famous people?

Me: Occasionally sir, but if I tell you, I'd have to kill you.

Mr SC: What'd he say, Agatha?

Mrs SC: He said sometimes he carries famous people, but he can't say who.

Mr SC: Have you ever driven that Jerry Springer? He lives around here you know.

Me: Perhaps. (Smile in mirror.) Most of the famous people we drive are thespians.

Mr SC: What's that?

Mrs SC: He said he might have driven Jerry, but that most of the famous people he drives are thespians.

Mr SC: Well that figures. I heard he might be gay, but I didn't know he was a lesbian.

No wonder the wives knead their temples and stare off vacantly into the middle distance.

Technorati: Chauffeur, Limousine Life, Senior Citizens, Old People

Gas Station Fauna

Evolutionary biologists and genetic archeologists would profit by spending time studying the fauna inhabiting gas stations. An entire eco-system lives within a few hundred yards of some gas vendors, particularly the one near downtown of which I am a frequent patron.

Firstly, there is a community of dumpster-divers living behind the main building. As is customary, they live off out-of-date bread and half-eaten burgers. Lucky for them, and likely not a coincidence, there is a fast food joint across the road, and of course the gas station itself sells any amount of crap to eat.

It's pretty clear that these dumpster-dwellers thrive because of the Use By Date phenomenon. Odd to think that both public health advocates and freegans share the same lobbyists in DC.

Secondly, there are the bicycle people. These folks remind me of subsistence farmers in Indonesia or Laos. Instead of crates of live chickens or stands of banana leaves stacked yards high on their bikes, our local version have Target bags and styrofoam fruit boxes front and rear. I assume that their entire world is attached to that bike, giving a new spin to Easy Rider. Being sufficiently free of wordly goods to the point where they can all be carried on one bicycle has a certain appeal. And a growing one, if the numbers of bike-people are a guide.

Thirdly there is a lone vet begging for change at the nearby traffic lights. It's amazing to me that colleges are producing such an overabundance of veterinarians in this country. Obviously, the demand for animal health maintenance is way out of balance with the number of professionals who can provide that service. And with the burden of school loans, folks like my guy at the station are reduced to holding out a hat. I'd get him to check out my cat, but where would he consult? On the counter at Wendy's?

I have only begun to describe the different species. It's a real jungle out there.


Technorati: Gas Station, Limousine Life, Dumpster Divers, Begging Vets.

Jailhouse Rock

Next time you are collecting a friend or relative from the County Jail, you'd best be up early. Really early. For whatever weird bureaucratic reason, prisoners are released weekdays at the ungodly time of 5:00 am. I discovered this obscure fact because I was there on Friday morning in the pre-dawn hours, waiting for a customer. Yes, Hermione, ex-cons need a limousine service too.

It was a surreal setup. Someone not related to the prisoner ordered and paid for the car. At 04:30 am I was at a nominated local address waiting for the wife of the jailbird. The clickety-clack of her heels heralded her approach as she appeared out of the darkness, dressed appropriately for the occasion. What that means, I'll leave to your imagination.

We drove to the jail. The institutional flourescent lights of the processing center lit a couple of groups of people waiting for their soon-to-be-free men. At that time, under that circumstance, it was all so sad. I'm old fashioned enough to think that jails are plain depressing, even if someone is leaving one. The wife went to wait with the other folks; I parked across the street.

There's no way around it, I was as curious as cat. What would he look like? What was he in for? How much time did he serve? Call it unseemly prying, but there is something compelling about criminality. I sometimes wonder how far we are from being that guy behind bars. Despite my best intentions, could I ever end up doing time?

After about twenty minutes, three figures came towards me. The wife, the husband, and an unknown guy walked across the road laughing and smiling. Mystery man (his attorney?) wished my man well, then sped off in a big fat Audi. As for my customer, he was surprisingly ordinary. Dressed in a suit, without a tie, his hair was longer than I thought was allowed inside. And he was young, thirty at most. Welcoming him to his limo, I introduced myself, shook his hand, and asked where he'd like to go.

"Dunkin' Donuts", he said. "Coffee's shit in there", motioning his head toward the jail. He looked me directly in the eye, and his handshake was strong.

That was the most sobering thing. He was way ordinary: frighteningly normal. Perhaps I'm not as far away from the dark side as I'd hoped.

Technorati: Chauffeur, Limousine Life, Jailhouse Rock, County Jail

Me Customer, You Grovel

The limo business is split between pure transport runs and luxury recreation jobs. The former is almost exclusively transfers with a smattering of busy businessperson running around. The second category comprises everything else, the kind of party and celebratory occasions the thought of 'limousine' conjurs in your mind.

We spend most of our time driving to and from airports, usually in sedans. At our place The Boss uses Lincoln Town Cars, but other shops use Cadillacs, Chrysler (whoops, Fiat) 300s and various models of SUV. No matter the vehicle type, passenger and chauffeur are in close proximity, much more intimate than being in a real limousine with its separate compartments.

So a useful driver skill is understanding the power gradient between the front and rear seats. Although we're separated by only three feet, a social, experiential, and wealth gap the size of an Antarctic crevasse lives in that space. Or perhaps it is better to say that the crevasse exists if the customer chooses.

In my experience, it is almost impossible to know whether a particular back-seater will choose to invoke the gap. As a rough generalization, the more wealthy the customer, the less likely they are to take on the role-play of "Me customer, You grovel." The one-off punter for whom a trip to Tampa in a Town Car is a big deal is way more likely to treat you like an insect than the multi-millionaire self-made woman who takes time to learn your name and perhaps share a laugh.

Until there is a foolproof people-meter that divines a customer's attitude towards the servants, the best policy is to speak only when spoken to. Even then, beware the crevasse.


Technorati: Chauffeur, Limousine Life, Servant, Customer

Lost in the wilds of Venice

Discovering that you are lost is an inevitable part of driving a limousine. Yes, it is embarrassing, and yes, it has happened more than once. (GPS obviates this professional faux pas, but creates its own set of problems.)

Early in my driving career, pre-GPS, The Boss assigned me a Saturday night stretch-limousine job. The customers requested a pick-up some way south of here, at a ferry wharf, near a restaurant, to the right of the boathouse. This convoluted beginning is not unusual given the number of waterways and islands hereabouts. But I should have heeded the warning; complicated nights only become more complicated.

The low point came about three hours later. My folks, along with their friends and an eye-popping amount of booze, wanted to move on from Sharky's on the Venice beachfront. Unfortunately, overconfidence overtook me. I thought I knew my way around, but didn't. That particular vehicle had a history of problems with the demisting of the front windshield; it was humid; it was dark; the map was old...and I got lost.

In this circumstance, the customers become aware that they aren't traveling in the direction they want. The muttering starts. Maybe they can feel the driver's energy. Perhaps they can see his red face. Eventually, as unfamiliar street follows aggravatingly high speed-hump, they ask:

Are you lost, Wombat? (Giggles.)

The only choice is to 'fess up, try to smile through it, and admit to professional malfeasance.

They let it go for a few minutes, toying with me a little, not really minding thanks to their ample alcohol supply. Then one of the guys said, as if delivering the coup de grace to a dying bull:

My wife says to take the next right, then second left. That'll take you to State Road 41.

Is there a word that covers being both grateful and belittled?



Technorati: Chauffeur, Limousine Life, Venice, Lost

Circus in the Sun

One hundred and twenty miles up the road lies the Floridian Disney experience. There is no word for the collection of resorts, kingdoms, parks, shops, hotels, restaurants, campgrounds, lakes, lagoons and rides that cover hundreds of acres just this side of Orlando - although 'mess' springs to mind. But that's unfair to messes, because a good mess is completely without organization. This is a very organized mess.

The job was about as good as it gets for a limousine chauffeur. Starting from the Sun Coast in the early afternoon, a very happy group of teenagers and adults had tickets to the Cirque du Soleil near Downtown Disney. Their plan was to have an early dinner, watch the 6:00 pm show, and return home.

This was a sweet gig because my pay is strictly hourly, with a tier system related to vehicle size. Because I was driving our biggest limousine, I was making the maximum hourly rate. With a decent drive to the destination (two hours) a decent wait (five hours) and the drive back home (two hours) I was on target for a good day. As a kicker, any finish before midnight is a bonus. Driver bliss.

Which gradually turned sour. The hyper-organized Disney-mess isn't well equipped for anything other than large buses and cars. Stretched limousines do not fit; the access roads are too narrow, car parks too squished and there are no pickup-points for us. The problem is that I want to give my customers seamless service, which means being as close as possible when they want to be picked up. Parking one of those big beasts isn't possible just anywhere, so I often end up in no-parking zones or otherwise awkward places. I'll take the risk to do the right thing by my folks.

Which looked like working fine until the Disney Security guys took a dislike to me. Overfed men in tight uniforms with nothing better to do (this is Disney, after all, not a meeting of the G-20) took great delight in moving me on from wherever I propped. I understand they have a job to do, but most such officials get that I, too, have one. And it sometimes involves thinking outside the rules.

So after being chased from one carpark, sent to another, and told that I wasn't parked correctly between the white lines, I decided to forever forget Never-Never Land. It's not so much the being shoved around, it's the way they do it. Come talk to me, don't motion from your car. Say "Hello", and "Would you mind?" and I'm co-operative. Ask me questions that are none of your beeswax, and I'll not respond. Ask nicely, and I'll comply.

You would imagine that the welcome provided by Cirque du Soleil and Disney would extend to people like me. You would be wrong.

"Disney? Nah, forget that. You want to try Busch Gardens, it's great there."

Technorati: Chauffeur, Limousine Life, Disney, Cirque du Soleil

Partition

One reason people hire a limousine rather than a taxi is because of the partition. The partition is the electrically powered divider separating the driver's compartment from the passengers.

It's not the only reason to choose a limo. Most taxis don't carry eight or ten people. Most taxis don't have built-in ice-boxes and DVD players. And taxis definitely don't have back-lit bars, neon strip-lights or rave strobes unless you're in Manila, but let's stipulate that Filipina Jeepneys are the exception proving the rule.

So the ability to remove the chauffeur from the party whilst still traveling around in luxury is critical to people paying up. I call it the Boudoir Syndrome, because why else is privacy from your trusty driver important unless you're doing something a little bit rude? Or illegal? Or both?

Whatever the reason, the idea of a road-borne sex-pit equipped with one large and one small bench seat makes some people a little bit insane.

I know this because the customers who are busting to get private behind the partition are gagging from the start. The men are often overly polite upon meeting, and the women tend to avoid eye-contact. Once we're loaded and under way, the partition slides up - whiiiiiiir, clunk - and the laughter quotient rapidly increases.

When the ladies take off their tops the hollering and the flash photography start. (The partitions are not a particularly good fit, so sound and light seep around the edge.) And when the sex (if any) begins, there is quiet, presumably due to concentration. You can figure the rest from there. After ten minutes or so, the quiet gives way to muted guffaws and gradually the chatter and laughing returns.

Then, when everyone wants to leave the boudoir on wheels, the partition goes down - whiiiiiiiir, clunk - and someone will yell:

Hey, Wombat! take us to that bar we talked about!

Yes sir. You've got it.

In more ways than one.

Technorati: Chauffeur, Limousine Life, Sex in a Limousine, Topless

On Time, Uniformed, Sober.

In the limousine world, a driver need remember only three things; arrive at the pick-up address on time, uniformed, and sober. Everything will flow from there, whether it's a simple airport transfer or a night of wildness and excess.

When the job at hand is a pick-up on Longboat Key at 4:00 am, it's reassuring to know there are only three. From the alarm ringing at 2:15 until I pull under the porte cochere of the customer's building at 3:45 am, they are all I need to know.

Uniform: pants on, tie straight, shoelaces tied - check.

Pickup time: arrive ten to fifteen before the request - check.

Last drink: two nights ago - check.

Okay, now I can relax.

Except that it isn't true - now is the point at which things are likely to get tricky. Importantly, it is 3:45 in the morning, a time at which no-one operates at their peak. The security man at the front gate guardhouse had a wad of dip in his cheek the size of one of Tiger Woods's balls. Golf balls. Strung-out barely describes him. We agreed that he would call my customer to tell him I had arrived - the standard practice - at around five minutes to four.

So picture me in the Lincoln Town Car, dressed in black suit and tie, waiting, hoping like hell that Bubba made the call.

The night breeze is sweet as I pass the remaining minutes.

4:00 am strikes, I wait for my gentleman passenger to alight the elevator.

4:05 am comes and goes. No activity in the lobby.

4:15 am and now I'm concerned. Should I call the condo and see if he's awake? Did Bubba forget to call, and screw me?

4:20 am and I'm worried. Is it the right day? Is the time correct? Is Mr Customer lying helpless in his shower having suffered a myocardial infarction?

4:25 am and I'm about to do the unthinkable and call his apartment, when the lift doors open revealing my man and his two roller bags, iBuds in his iEars, nonchalant as can be.

Good morning, Sir, I smile, genuinely pleased to see him. 

But he doesn't answer. He's got better things to do at 4:30 in the morning.

Technorati: Chauffeur, Limousine Life, Dip, Sober

God drives a Hummer

If any proof were required for the existence of God, it is that only 41,059 people were killed in automobile-related accidents in the United States of America in 2007.

By my observation of American automotive habits, and some bush arithmetic, I arrive at the figure of 71.3 million people who should have died, if their driving skills pertain. Ergo, a million miracles a week, ergo a God. See, in one paragraph I have solved a problem baffling man for five million years.

I don't mean to make light of any death on the road: every single one is a tragedy. No joke. But if I discern the way people manipulate their cars at high speed correctly, no-one - and I mean no-one - thinks it will happen to them.

Today I completed a Miami return, without an actual human passenger - 460 miles of mostly freeway driving with a coda of Latino insanity for punctuation. (Story to be related later.) Lacking a customer with a deadline (ha-ha) I did the trip without once exceeding the speed limit for a change. That gave me the time and concentration to observe how my fellow freeway dwellers behaved, from the safety of the slow lane.

My thing is tailgating. If you're travelling at 75 miles per hour, and you are only three feet behind the vehicle ahead, there is no braking system in the world that will save you. If they stop quicker than your reaction time, you better be hoping the crumple zone and the air-bag save your stupid sorry arse, because Newton discovered that physics won't.

As I said, there's a miracle every minute. 

For interest, I snapped the photo about an hour before sunset tonight while I was out on a bike ride.

Technorati: God, Limousine Life, Death, Tailgating