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.