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.