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.