To Err is Human

Photo Credit

It must seem like I'm constantly criticizing The Boss. I guess I am, but only because I see him through a particular prism, the way he conducts business. If you met the man, you would be charmed, at least initially, and find yourself entertained with his stories. He is a salesman.

But the fun of a salesman's company soon wears off. He is only about as deep as cheap kitchen laminate, and the stories all have a sameness - he's a hero, and the rest of us are zeroes.

To list and explain the daily cornucopia of unique behaviours this man exhibits would require an entire book, so I'll start with the simplest and most enduring - his complete unawareness of what's going on.

It will typically happen like this: I, or one of the other drivers, will be on a job. We'll either be on the way to collect a customer, on the way back to the depot after completing a job, or the customer with be in the Town Car or limo. The phone will ring.

W: Hello, Wombat speaking.

B: Wombat, it's The Boss.

W: Yes, Boss.

B: I have a job for you.

W: Good-oh, can I call you back for the details?

B: Oh, why?

W: Well, I have Mr and Mrs Bond in the car.

B: Really?

W: Yes, Boss.

B: Oh, I didn't know.

W: Remember, you gave me this job yesterday?

B: Oh. Well, anyway, call me when you can.

Seriously. This happens ALL the time. The man isn't aware of where his cars are, where his drivers are or where his customers are.

I kid you not.

Christmas Eve

Honda S600 Photo Credit

Christmas Eve is the second-worst day on the road. The worst is Thanksgiving, when sweet old ladies take their Corollas out for the once a year spin. Gotta keep that oil circulating you know, young man.

Christmas in Florida means minivans doing one hundred, minivans doing forty, and minivans fogging my dreams. Waking to the frustration of driving behind a Michigan-plated Honda Odyssey is my reality at this time of year, and, waking or sleeping, I'll never know which lane they plan to be in next.

Trouble is, THEY apparently don't know either. Grrr.

This Christmas the highlight is how much The Boss has neglected his business over the last year or so. Never one for regular, scheduled maintenance, his cars are all showing their age. The Town Cars in particular are up around the 300,000 mile-mark, and run like it. One of them stinks like burnt onions when the aircon runs, the other one rattles like a bucket of bolts under acceleration, and the other one burns about as much oil as gasoline.

In years past, I gather, Bossman would regularly ditch the old machinery to keep the fleet svelte. Clearly, the dive in business has delayed or cancelled his plans in that area. Trouble is that the competition - there are two or three good other outfits around now - are all running the 'L' model Lincoln Town Cars. With an extra six inches in back seat legroom, wider opening rear door and a raft of other specialized limousine features, these cars kill the standard models we drive. Especially as The Boss charges our clapped out crates at around the same money.

It's sad. I look upon our customers as mugs. If only they knew what a better deal they'd get elsewhere. The fact that we're barely working tells me that a lot of others have already walked.

The interesting part of this is that the remaining regulars are there by force of habit. They think "I need a ride" and so they dial The Boss. Or their PA does so. Any new customers we get are one-timers only, choosing the first or second choice that popped up from where Google laid its egg.

In a fit of civic virtue, I sometimes think the best thing I could do is to hand out cards of one of our opposition companies at the completion of each run, and explain that my gift to them is the gift of inside information. I don't like seeing people ripped off.

Bodily Functions

1960 Lincoln Convertible Picture Credit

Inevitably, the innocent driver is exposed to the vast universe of his customers' fleshly, fluid and gaseous functions.

First and foremost and the one that springs to mind is the puke, of course. No surprise there, other than the alacrity with which some people will emit a thirty-second stream of vomitus, wipe their mouth with their sleeve and continue drinking.

Shades of Roman-style decadence in that lot.

At one point someone has demonstrated the panoply of gross exhibition including:

~ farting
~ really smelly farting (and not owning up)
~ nose-picking
~ crotch-grabbing
~ crotch re-arrangement
~ digital ear exploration
~ dandruff shaking
~ tooth picking (with little fingernail, for trapped food)
~burping

List not comprehensive.

The one corporeal expression that grates my cheese is the unceasing sniff. One sniff, that's fine. Two, even, I can deal with. But the continual drawing back of the nasal mucus by way of rapid inhalation reminds me yet again how grateful I am for parents who insisted that this never be a failing of their offspring. I am NEVER guilty of public sniffing.

I think the record is around one and one-half hours of a teenaged girl doing this right behind my left ear in a Town Car. Despite self-reminders, I was without tissue-box that day, and so had nothing to offer the hideous youth.

The acts of violence to which one's mind retreats (in order to remain sane) would surprise no-one who, like me, cannot STAND THE CONTINUALLY SNIFFING COMPANION.




That feels better.

Back With a Vengeance

1939 Chevy Picture Credit.

Oh, man, it's been a weird month.

Trouble is that although writing this blog is a pleasure (and a release) for me, the horrid hours and exhaustion of being UP when the body says DOWN mitigates against spending time relating stories of a life on the road.

Which isn't to say that I wish my driving life to go away, because at the moment it's okay. The Boss has us busy enough to keep us from panhandling at traffic lights, and there are a few other prospects in the wind.

But the endless conveyor belt of human oddity keeps spewing people at me. There's just no telling, as, for instance with a simple airport transfer earlier this week.

The lady concerned is the wife of a prominent property developer. He built a ten-storey condo building that more-or-less dominates the skyline of my Sun Coast town. It is designed after the great architects of Florence, which of course makes the whole complex irredeemably inappropriate for southwest Florida. Why importing architectural styles from foreigners is better than applying local techniques is obviously beyond me..

So I wait in the Medici-style porte cochere for madame (or is that signora?) for thirty minutes beyond our appointed pick-up time. The concierge (which is people in these parts call a doorman) is chatty and effusive. I know him from previous times, he's a good guy, but way too obsequious to his people. He needs to get them in line. Pronto.

The point is that this dopey woman is paying a fixed, rock-bottom price for a ride to the airport. When she does deign to make an appearance, there's all kinds of fuss about the dog and whether it will be allowed to travel on Southwest Airlines in this container etc etc.

Look, lady, you're sweet enough, but given that I'll take out about twenty-five bucks after tax outta this three hour circus, I could give a shit. You have bought a ride to the airport, nothing more, nothing less.

As you might anticipate, the problems with the dog resume at the airport. She has two different sized containers, for the poor pooch: one that will squish him up like an old pair of socks, and another that allow him to breathe. Naturally, the airline wants him in the smaller container into which she then stuffs him. (This from a person who says she loves the dog. Pffft. Whatever.)

AND of course I have to assist with this ridiculous pantomime at the departures curb of Southwest at Tampa airport. AND of course, she is immensely apologetic that she has no cash for a tip.

Like they say, you'll eventually be judged how you treat the small people. And the dogs.