Saturday, October 23, 2010

Trying Times


In a stroke of good fortune, I wasn't the only limousine that our Country-Club Rappers had engaged for the night. There were two of us, from different companies. And the really good news was that the other driver was a very cool dude, an older guy who'd been around the business for way longer than me.

Guys like Robert have seen it all. Nothing gets to them. A few punk-arsed show-offs trying to impress the girls make no impression whatsoever, and neither do the girls. Watching him operate was a thing of beauty. When someone put their drink on the trunk he was there lifting it off - not saying anything, but reprimanding with his action. If one of the guys started doing something truly stupid, you could feel Robert's power from a distance, and the kid would stop. He was a kind of bouncer/enforcer...but one who magically acted from a distance, like he had a magnetic super-power that alerted dumb drunks that they were behaving like jackarses.

Eventually we went in convoy to Ybor City, to the most popular club there. Two stretched limousines stopped on 7th Ave will block traffic, so we tried to get the drunks out and ourselves moving as quickly as possible. But no, these dopey kids literally stopped as a group in the middle of the road, lighting cigarettes, flipping cars the bird, resisting all opportunities to exhibit civilized behaviour. The cops had seen enough of this after a few minutes and moved everyone on - including Robert and me - much to my relief.

By now it's 11:30 pm, but there's not time to slack. Instead, it's time to clean. Of course these numbskulls have made a maximum amount of mess in the back of the limo. I often wonder why it is that people so often feel the need to do this. They wouldn't do it in their own home, or their own car...or perhaps they would. Apparently part of the stretched limo experience is to create and wallow in a dumpster. I look at the soaked napkins, spilled drinks, trash everywhere, bottle-tops inserted all-over and wonder why they do this kind of willful destruction.

It takes me an hour to clean up.

I buy us some coffee and a sandwich from the gas station in which we're parked.

We chat.

Another limo comes along, but the driver's not as nice company as Robert, so I withdraw to the airconditioned car for a while.

Around 1:30 I get a phone call, and it's not my people. It's The Boss.



Havana pic from here [link]

Sunday, October 10, 2010

Guardhouse Gangstas


All of which set me up for a surprise.

When I pulled up in the ten-passenger stretch at a few minutes before 10:00 pm, a knot of people was there already, and my, weren't they dressed!

My guess is that he had turned twenty-five, give or take, and as suspected, the birthday boy had organized the night. He and his buddies were in the modern young man's idea of Dressed Up. To my eyes it looked somewhere between late Jimmy Durante and early Groucho Marx, but what do I know? White ties and black shirts come and go in the fashion world like transmissions on a Cadillac.

But back to the business. I try, always, to start off the same way with every new customer. I'm polite, friendly and deferential. This only works with people who understand that this is a dance, and that I'm offering to lead.

I can help you negotiate this, if you put your arm out...like so...and follow these simple steps. I want you to succeed, young man, but you have to play along. We don't know each other yet, but if you trust, your life will be easier. For at lest the next six hours.

Who was I kidding?

A guy of twenty-five is at the top of his ego/responsibility ratio and reacted accordingly. After loading the car with booze, we hung around waiting for all the partiers to feature. Of course, we weren't going anywhere until the magic cash crossed my palms, but he strung it out. That's fine by me. Had he not paid, I'd be happy to drive off.

Whilst we sat around for forty-five minutes, I watched these guys. They were all from pretty well-off families. Beneath the tough-guy bravado lay an upbringing revolving around a private school education, a childhood in a 4,000 square-foot house on a golf course, and a security gate to keep it safe from bad guys.

And what was their unanimous music of choice? Gangsta. Hard, loud and rotten gangsta. I nearly laughed out loud. These prissy pretty boys with CZ studs and other crap in their ears and Jager shots in their hands fancied themselves urban crusaders.

Golf-Course Gangstas. Security Guard Bad Boys. Limousine Tough Guys.




There's more :-)

Thursday, October 7, 2010

Money Matters


Limousine jobs commencing later than 9:00 pm always warrant caution. Let's face it, these people aren't going to a charity ball.

More caution is merited when the pickup address is a bar of somewhat dodgy repute. And even more evidence of trouble to come is when The Boss calls me an hour beforehand and says that he ran the credit card provided (because he had a "bad feeling") and it was declined.

Great.

The Boss is particular about payment. He accepts credit cards to secure a booking, but of course he'll take cash as full payment. He provides neither terms or credit, there's no billing, nor will he accept cheques, the latter because depositing them requires more effort than he's prepared to invest.

It is a smart way to operate, to give him his due. Possessing a valid credit card number means that if customers break anything or merit the puke charge or promise cash payment but fail to deliver, he has some recourse. Thesedays, of course, credit cards don't work as well as they used to. Hence his caution.

So the night, a Saturday, isn't off to a great start. The prospect is of a bunch of demanding drunks who can't actually afford it going clubbing. Experience tells me that someone here is showing off, boasting that they're taking a limo, partying it up etc etc. Oh, and it will be a late, messy finish.

The Boss is leery now, even though the guy got back to him with a decently accredited credit card. (Many phone calls are required while I'm preparing the limousine to resolve all of this.) As is usual in these circumstances, he instructs me to take cash for the six hours before anyone steps into the car.

Actually, I like this way of operating. Firstly, it means that The Boss has his money up front for the run, which means I shall be paid. Secondly, it establishes that I have the power to stop and start the run at my discretion. Thirdly, it obviates the always awful scenario at four in the morning as the organizer attempts to screw money from his buddies. (It's always the buddies - women scatter at the point when they have to cough up cash.)

Driving to the pickup address, I contemplate the fact that nothing ever works out as one expects on a night like this...






Mercury Parklane pic from here [link]

Monday, October 4, 2010

Farm-Ins


If you're a captain of enterprise (or work for a captain of enterprise) and end up out of town, chances are you'll need a ride somewhere. Cabs are dirty and unworthy for Highly Paid Important People, so it's up to the livery industry to provide them with luxury chauffeured wheels.

Big business tends to centralization in all things, particularly low-level functions like transport. This means that if you, you HPIP you, arrive in my sleepy Floridian town, chances are you'll be driven around by an operator engaged by way of what's known as a 'farm-in' job.

Let's take the example of someone from the money-management industry who flies in from Boston to deliver a seminar (ahem, sales pitch with lunch) to rich old people. His company's preferred town car provider is Boston Coach, which happens not to have an office nor any cars here. What to do? They call their preferred partner hereabouts and farm the job out to them.

Occasionally, The Boss receives one of these things. He hates them. They always involve use of electronic aids, such horrors as email and the facsimile machine * shudder * as well as never-ending phone calls, and, worst of all, a high proportion of cancellations.

I hate farm-ins too. For a start, we all know that the client is paying way more than the amount we'd charge for the job. Boston Coach will be charging big-city corporate rates; we're a small town, small business operation, with rates commensurate. It kinda bugs knowing that I am the least paid person in the chain, but the one taking all the shit.

Inevitably the customers (who aren't paying out of their own pocket, it should be noted) are arrogant SOBs who take great pains to demonstrate just how much more important they are than a mere driver.

That's all fine, and part of the deal. Despite that, there is a little fun to be had. Oftentimes a representative from the mother ship will call me directly. Sometimes it is as often as three times in the hour prior to the nominated pick-up time. Always the same conversation:

Is this Wombat? Yes.

You're aware you're collecting Ms Codfish at 12:30 pm? Yes.

Where are you? Sitting in the front left-hand seat.

Very funny.

How are you dressed? In a toga.

Interestingly, we seem not to get so many farm-ins thesedays.



Packard Town Car hood ornament from here [link]

Saturday, October 2, 2010

Silence


Some folks can live in silence, others die in it. Because our airport transfers average around an hour of driving, there's a lot of time, time which some of my customers fill and time that others do not.

Rule One for Chauffeurs: Speak only when spoken to.

In practice we don't adhere absolutely to this, but exceptions are few. Our routine is to meet arriving customers in the baggage claim area, greet them, and either walk directly to the car or wait for their baggage.

Within a few seconds, one can tell if they're silent types or not. Yes, it is odd standing next to someone at a baggage carousel for thirty minutes without passing a word. Equally oddly, for someone who loves words, this doesn't bother me in the least. In fact, I would rather remain silent than be forced into a conversation in which I cannot fully participate or listen to jibberish silence-filler.

There are some customers whom I'd happily drive to Vermont. We could gab all day and never bore ourselves. Obviously, these are the people with whom I have connected, with whom I need not filter as much. Another group of customers I'd also drive to New England, and never pass more than ten words. The third group comprises those who are constitutionally incapable of oxidizing without talking...about the first thing that reaches their tongue. For these people, a silence in the car is a small death, so naturally they talk.

The art of engaging in conversation as a chauffeur is a fine one. I cannot actually be myself - hells, I'd ask way too many personal questions - which leaves only conversational acting. I navigate these tricky waters by listening to what my customer says,and reflecting it back to them. Basically I attempt to affirm their own view of themselves, and keep my own thoughts to myself.

It's a game, and like a lot of games, it can be tiring. Frankly, I adore the silent trips, and for those I drive who think likewise, they do too. Last night, a new customer actually said so.

Joy. (And a nice tip.)






Nice photo of a Studebaker.