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.

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 :-)

Syrup

Last Saturday, a little before eight in the evening, I turned off a main road into a housing estate. The air was heavy with late summer torpor although it was cool inside the Cadillac six-passenger. My first job was to find the number of the house from which I was to collect my customers for the night.

As I rounded the corner a group of three girls waved me down. They were, I don't know, about nine years old. In bathing costumes and tee-shirts, they were clearly free to roam the neighbourhood. In this age of over-protective parents, it was heartening to see kids playing free, learning like they are supposed to, by being in the (reasonably controlled) local world.

I stopped and lowered the window.

Is there anyone famous on board? they asked, breathless with imagination.

Well, no. I'm just on the way to pick up my customers, I answered, playing it straight.

Are they famous?

Everyone I drive around thinks they're famous, I said.

I put the beast in Park and showed them the interior of the limo.

The house was a quarter of a mile away, and they followed me there, running along the footpath. I introduced myself to the gentleman who met me in the driveway, as he explained that the night was a surprise birthday gift for his wife and two of her friends. (Wouldn't it have been nice had The Boss told me this beforehand?)

The girls hung around while I waited, idling on the street. We chatted. I told them the deal, that the famous lady about to come out of the house was celebrating her birthday. And you know what they did? When she emerged, the neighbourhood smurfs sang her 'Happy Birthday'.

I don't think I've stopped smiling yet.






Buick photo from here [link]