You have to count your blessings. After a big, restful night's sleep, it's not so bad waking to the alarm at 6:00 am on a Sunday morning. Really, it's okay.
It was a beautiful morning, the humidity in the "I can handle this" range and I have an airport transfer to do. Shower, shave, put on the white shirt I ironed last night, a once-over with a lint-roller, check in the mirror, and I'm out the door. In a suit.
What I'd rather be doing is heading to the beach for a swim. In my boardies. After that, a lie in the sun, then I'd take coffee. But here I am, driving to The Boss's warehouse to collect a towncar; someone needs a ride to Tampa airport.
An older guy, it turns out, around eighty, needs that ride. A couple of odd details stand out. One, he's not listed as a resident on the intercom system, and the concierge doesn't know him. Two, I know his residential address is not in this downtown high-rise. His real house is in a gated community on a golf course out in the 'burbs.
Five before eight, my people arrive in the lobby from upstairs. The gentleman and a lady, a decades-younger lady. She's in her fifties, over-tanned, over-skinny, not quite certain of how to deal with a towncar chauffeur.
It's not that difficult. When I ask you if you'd like me to take your bag, you accept my offer. I roll your bag to the rear of the car, then I open the door for you. I then attend to the gentleman in the same way. You both sit in the air-conditioned car while I load your bags in the trunk. When that's done, we go.
Simple. Or so you'd think.
Anyway, my over-riding thought is that if you're on your way to Amsterdam (First Class), constantly blowing and popping bubble-gum won't endear you to anyone. That shit should have ended during the Nixon administration.
Olds roadster from here [link]
2 comments:
Ahhh, Amsterdam via First Class. Now that does sound good! I'm sure the gentleman is simply taking his daughter on her holiday. Who else would be chewing bubble gum?
So how did she screw up the luggage question? Think you were trying to steal it?
I'm pretty certain the lady...sorry, woman, wasn't any kind of relative, Don. Call it a hunch.
She screwed up by ignoring the first rule of servant/serviced etiquette, which is to allow the servant room to do his or her job.
Really, it wasn't more than an awkward moment, when I could easily have pushed her into the flower bed, what with her sour look and all...but I'm a professional, and made her look gracious instead.
Normal people who understand the complicated dance we all do around others would know how to behave.
Gold-digging Jersey harpies with a voice like a steam grate and a bad bubblegum habit have no clue. They're better than the rest of us, and, you're probably right - she thought I was stealing her hundred pound make-up bag. Which I wouldn't, because she needs it. Trust me.
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