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