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.