Elder Bullets

Chrysler Photo Credit

It's Florida here, as far as the eye can see. That means there are oldsters, as far as the eye can see, although most of them aren't actually visible because they're warehoused in "Senior Housing Facilities".

We have occasional jobs originating at these places, but they're less frequent than I think they should be. Whether that's because the inmates - sorry, residents - are careful with their pennies or The Boss doesn't market to the elder community I don't know. Oh, well, actually, I do. It's the latter.

Sunday afternoon saw me booted and spurred at one of these places. Oftentimes all we have is a time, an address and a name. The Boss can't be arsed giving us more background, using the catch-all "As Directed" on the dispatch ticket.

I parked close to the reception area, did a final check to make sure the Town Car was presentable, and went in search of my customers. The receptionist (a relatively spritely ninety-year-old) pointed me back out to where I'd come from: my clients were sitting outside under the porte cochere waiting for me, fifteen minutes before time. I'd walked straight past them.

Interesting, this phenomenon. Wouldn't you think that, watching me park the car and walk past them in dark suit and tie, they'd click that I was there for them? * shakes head *

In any case, my two nice ladies were being treated to an afternoon out, courtesy of a generous nephew many states distant. First, to a matinee, then to dinner, then home.

Actually, before going anywhere, we had to negotiate getting into the car. Both had walkers and inflexible bodies, so each ingress and egress was like the docking of a Carnival Cruise liner...without the cocktails - slow, choreographed and ever-so-clumsy.

But I'm making it sound worse than it was. They were both in pretty good spirits, enthused at the idea of having a chauffeur, interested in me - my marital status, which church I attend - for a while, quickly becoming bored with a topic like old people do.

The only spark of discontent came from the horror that sometimes one of them had to walk slightly further (around the car) to access the door on the other side. I failed in the quest to make each side of the car equidistant for each of them.

Of such small snits is old-age full I imagine, although I worked as hard as I could to make their day as easy as possible.

For some people, enough is never enough, although I shall record that they both gave me a cash tip - an unexpected bonus given my knowledge of how old ladies operate.

Afternoons and Evenings

Cord cockpit photo source

Finally, I got around to telling The Boss that I'm off mornings. What a relief. I should know by now that the time between 4:00 am and 7:00 am is critical - not sleeping in the hours encompassing that span wrecks my day.

It also wrecks my health, albeit at a slower rate. I've been reading lately where the average American's average night's sleep has declined from nine to seven hours in the course of the last few decades. Sleep deficit is allegedly responsible for lots of medical problems, from weight gain to cancer. I believe all of that.

Naturally, The Boss has seen fit to punish me. He's not a subtle man. After I explained that working any time after noon is fine, he called me - three days later - asking if I could make a 9:00 pm airport pickup. There's no sarcasm in his voice, but the intent is clear; he wants us all to be his 24/7 lapdogs. Breaking with his desire will not be rewarded.

As I explained in a previous post, I didn't have much choice. I'd allowed him to assume that I'd work very late finishes followed by very early starts. My fault really, but the occasional overnight turned into more than a few. And he's not the type with whom I can logically explain my reasoning. Upon receiving a booking, he'll look to fill the driver slot with the least work possible on his behalf. Until now, that meant calling me.

So I suffer with his displeasure for the moment. Frankly, I'm happy. I'm feeling better, and his business is collapsing so fast, there's more or less no work anyway.

Humour Me

Fabulous Ferrari picture from here.

You've seen me, or one of my colleagues.

We're waiting on the baggage claim level, or where you emerge from the satellite shuttle. Or we're at the exit from the customs hall. Most often we're formally dressed, often inappropriately so.

We carry a sign, which we hold up for all to see. A name appears on that sign. I like to create a handsome hand-drawn sign, but sometimes The Boss creates one via the computer.

His say "Smith"

Mine say "Welcome, Monica Smith."

If you're NOT Monica Smith, do me a favour. Do not walk up to me and say:

"That's Me"

or

"Hi, I'm Smith."

Your brilliant, original wit is wasted (for the one-hundredth time) on the likes of me. Take your act to the people...at the cab rank.

Inconsiderate, Inc

Early morning pickups are fraught with danger.

Everyone (in general ) has cut the timing right to the bone, so every minute counts. One particular job comes to mind, a 3:30 am collection time, although I must say that there are plenty just like it. For a start, the customer's house was in a fancy gated community, which all take an age to navigate.

What's with the endlessly winding streets spread out over thousands of acres, guys? There's nowhere to walk. There are no sidewalks. There are no shops. There's nowhere to go and nothing to do. Unless you are endlessly entertained by golf what the hell is there to do in these places? And if golf does entertain you 24/7, there's no saving you. And neither should there be.

I'm there, early as usual, at this guy's mock Italiante Villa on a golf course in Florida. The time is 3:15 am. I've been up since 2:00 am. I'm ready to drive this dude to Tampa, and go home and go back to bed.

It's not reasonable to knock or ring the doorbell that early. Maybe there are kids, maybe there are relatives. I reverse the Town Car into the driveway and wait. The hope is that the customer will walk out the door, luggage in hand, and be ready to go.

Fat chance.

At 3:30 I rang the bell.

A minute later the wife opened the door and scampered down the faux granite steps to explain to me that her husband had overslept, and that he'd be out momentarily. Sure. Whatever. Like my time's worth nothing, because dopey forgot to set his alarm.

Thirty minutes later, Mr Business appears at the doorway, grip in hand, freshly showered, ready to go. Excellent! Good-morning sir, may I take your luggage? Please, take a seat here, we'll be under way as soon as I can.

Sorry, he says, the alarm didn't go off.

And you know, I believe him. He was completely apologetic, and an interesting guy to boot. And I feel bad that his company, which trades on the Pink Sheets OTC is not doing so well.

We all screw up. But at 4:00 am, it seems that much worse.

Sleepless in Florida

Bugatti picture credit

As the saying goes, I made this rod for my own back.

Back when I was less cynical about the driving game, I'd take on pretty much anything The Boss had to offer. I was - in his words - available and willing, just the way he likes his vassals. There was nothing I'd turn down.

That works for a while, until late night jobs blend into early morning jobs. The way that happens is that on Friday he would allocate everyone's limousine and Town Car runs for the weekend, through until Monday. Then on Saturday morning he would take a booking for an early Sunday morning airport run, despite the full roster.

Let's examine this for a moment. Back in the good old days, limousine runs rarely finished before bar closing, which is 2:00 am around here. By the time everyone's been dropped off, I've driven the limo back to base and cleaned everything up, there's not much change out of 4:00 am, or even later. I've seen quite a few sunrises.

But The Boss only acknowledges the dispatch ticket with the 2:00 am finish time. He sees that, then is perfectly happy expecting one of us to be ready for that 6:00 am run to Fort Myers airport that he's just taken.

Seriously, he has NO ability to understand that:

a) the customer might go over the stated time,

b) the driver's night doesn't end with the last drop-off, and

c) we are human and therefore suffer fatigue.

But here's where I am to blame.

In my race to make some decent money, I would take the extra morning run, and talk myself into thinking it's just the same as doing a night shift. I know, I know, it's crazy, especially given the absolute pittance that these things pay. But there you have it. Often I would have been up for more than thirty hours, picking up some unsuspecting person on their way to an airport somewhere.

When business fell off a cliff two years ago, for the most part that kind of thing stopped, replaced with something even worse. Now The Boss is happy awarding me late night airport pickups, which can often extend to 2:00 am, followed by those horrid 5:00 am jobs. Not only do I lose a night's sleep, I don't even have the benefit of the money from a limo job.

The worst of all worlds.

And it's all my fault.

Twisty Ending

Jaguar XK140

In marked contrast to the trend of 2010, the last two nights of the year were surprisingly sweet.

After some problems with The Boss during the week whereby he screwed a fellow driver, I wasn't pre-disposed to long drunken stretched limousine jobs. He's becoming a capricious prick.

I am tired, too, after a couple of weeks of late finishes and early starts.

Thursday, the second-to-last day of the year, was slated as a 2100 start for ten in our giant stretched SUV. Experience tells me (even if The Boss doesn't) that with a pickup at that time the clients are young. By extension, that means:

* drunkenness
* loutishness
* messiness
* meanness
* tiplessness

Two good signs upon arrival: the kids waiting for the birthday girl (the limo was a surprise for her 21st) are standing around quietly having a couple of drinks, and actually talk coherently to me when I introduce myself. The other is that the parents came out of their suburban house to take a look at the limo.

Interesting social dynamic here. If a twenty-one year old woman's parents are still sufficiently involved in her life to join in (at least a little) the probability is that she is relatively civilized. Innocence is a much under-rated quality; growing up quickly is over-rated. I liked that the oldsters were impressed with the ride. That spoke of a kind of quiet normalcy which (I hoped) found its way into the daughter and her friends.

I have learned to find one person in a party to act as the Captain, my point of reference. It's not always easy to tell, but in general, the biggest guy is the one I want on my side. Makes sense, right? Talking to them all is impossible (do these kids NEVER listen up?) so I rely on peer pressure.

He received my little talk about under-aged drinking, puking, puke clean-up charge, heads out windows, blowing up speakers, and communicating clearly with me.

It's never a waste, I find, this chat, even though there's no telling whether it makes any difference. In this case, these folks were a dream. Sure, the idea of a 21st party is to get the celebrant to puke (apparently.) We can count that as a success, but she managed it cleanly into a garbage bag without spillage. Top points.

The ride was as simple as it gets. We went to one bar, where I dropped everyone. Four hours later I received the call to pick them up, and drove them home. It doesn't get any better, especially as they were minimally messy. Including the aforementioned rite of passage puke. (Which they left for me in the garbage bag neatly tied up and in an empty beer box.)

Then they tipped 20%, and I was in bed by 2:30. Like I said it was a sweet night, and I hope for them, too. The boyfriend (who paid and organized) although drunk and looking after his girl, took the time out to come up and expressly thank me.

Maybe there is hope for future generations.