Daylight Limo Rides

Alfa pic credit.

Daytime limousine rides are a rare but sweet kind of fruit. Obvious advantages over night-time runs are the fact that it's light (yes, obviously, but very importantly) that you generally feel better (not exhausted by being awake when the body says go to sleep) and that they finish at a reasonable hour (therefore I can get to bed at the same time as regular people.)

The people who book a stretched limousine from noon until 10:00 pm are different from the night-time crowd too. They tend to be older, richer and happier. Often, the booking is made months in advance.

A recent run was representative. I was to meet eight folks in the parking lot of a local restaurant in The Boss's super stretched SUV. Naturally, he has given me NO details...no idea of who the customers are, where we are going, nor if it's a special occasion. All I have is a time and a place.

But experience told me the people would be fine, as indeed they were. As is usual, the organizer introduced himself to me, and gave me the outline of the day. His friends all arrived, and they're loaded with food and booze and in very high spirits. That's good. Happiness breeds happiness. When I see bottles of champagne, I too am happy.

But not everything is rosy. The airconditioning in this machine works satisfactorily, but not brilliantly. It's a constant refrain from the back, asking that the a/c be turned up. All I can do is to tell them that it will cool down as we get under way, and that it's a big volume of air to cool on a hot Florida day. They don't care. If the least thing is wrong, people bitch. Sigh.

Another pending problem is that I have a navigator on board. A navigator is someone, almost always a guy, who wants to know every turn you plan to make. If you don't describe precisely the route, they'll pick it up and correct it. Unfortunately, this turkey is sitting right at my shoulder...which leads me to raise the divider. Thank goodness for the divider.

The plan was a common one: to Tampa for a matinee live performance (The Jersey Boys) then to an early dinner at a fancy steak house, and then home. That part was easy, and almost quite fun. I had time to read three newspapers, finish my book, make a few calls, spruce up the interior of the limo and take a half-decent lunch. (The latter's not always easy, given how tricky it can be to find a park for the beast.)

After dinner, I was looking forward to dropping off these people and getting home. After all, I'd not finished until 4:00 am the morning before. (More bullshit scheduling from The Boss.) And then came the kiss of death...they wanted to stop for ice-cream. Oh, great. No-one can agree on where to go, and everyone's tired, so they're not communicating. The difficulty for me at a time like this is that I hear three different instructions from the back, but when I try to clarify which ONE I should follow, no-one speaks. It's like I have to play the parent to a bunch of nine-year-olds.

Mr Navigator then springs into action. Okay, if you just make a U-Turn here, he says, pointing hopefully at a break in the median. My eyes roll in their sockets. This thing takes about TEN lanes to make a U-Turn, and gently suggest that another, wider intersection a little up the road will work better. He starts questioning me, asking what I'm doing...

...until he observes for himself PRECISELY how much real estate this damned machine needs for a U-ey.

But it all worked out. And it turns out that they were all real estate agents, on a pep-up trip, hoping and talking themselves into a better year ahead. Good luck with that, guys and girls.

And for a bunch of people who LIVE AND DIE on percentage sales commissions, the tip was abysmal. But I didn't care. I was home in bed before midnight.

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.

Wedding Tears

Weddings all, to me, appear underfunded and under-organized. Not to say that well-funded weddings are necessarily better planned, because I've seen many expensive 'Wedding Planners' royally mess up. But there's a clear lack of forward thinking skills in this area.

(Note to military veterans: This is a giant market in which you folks could create a very profitable and successful business. From my experience, weddings could all do with a big dose of military sensibility. These people need someone to tell them what to do.)

Which brings us to Saturday. As far as weddings go, this was at the top end. If the bride is reasonably calm and happy with the way she looks, everything works out from there. (For me.)

Chrissy was just as you'd want - friendly, not completely self-absorbed, and she looked great. Her self-organized wedding on a budget looked like it was on a roll when she and her bridesmaids emerged from her house at the appointed time. That's always a good sign. You know you're in trouble as a chauffeur when more than twenty minutes goes by before there's movement.

Mostly, the bridesmaids are a dead weight at weddings. They are all more concerned with themselves than the bride - a contradiction of their title...maids. They should be there to look after the woman at the centre of things, but too often they're bitching among themselves or off smoking ten cigarettes. This group smoked (OMG did they smoke) but Chrissy's sister and one other 'maid kept on top of things.

Until someone fielded a call from the DJ at the beach.(Florida: Beach weddings are all the rage. Don't. Just...don't.) He didn't have any electricity to run his music system. (Amazing. No power outlets at the beach. Dummy.)

The bride cried. Not big sobs, but the tears and quivering lip routine.

Thus began a thirty-minute scramble to find a boom-box so Chrissy could have her wedding march walking down the aisle music.

Fair enough: It was her big day, and she wanted the damn music.

Once they'd finished cussing out the dopey DJ, we put the plan in action. We found a store with a portable CD player, bought some batteries, and we were good to go. Problem solved.

There were a lot of side-plots to this wedding. It's amazing how much human drama one sees in a three-hour limousine ride. One bridesmaid hadn't altered her dress to fit, and had to swap with another; the groomsmen were supposed to ride with us - thirteen people in a ten-person limousine; the bride's mother and father not speaking to each other. The usual.

And in the end, the CD didn't play. The bridesmaids beat-boxed the bridal march. I was proud of them...that's what they're supposed to do.



Wedding limo from this Aussie site [link]

Chauffeur Enemy #1

Over a beer:

Mate: So what do you think is the most dangerous car on the road?

Me: That's easy - the minivan.

Mate, after five seconds silence: Man, that is so true.



Chauffeur enemy #1. The unpredictable, chaotically driven minivan. Stay well clear.





Early minivan photo from here [link]

Misunderestimation

You have seen me at airports, in the baggage claim area. I'm the guy with the long-sleeved white shirt and tie, suit vest or jacket, and a sign with a name on it. The name will be that of the person I'm meeting.

I wear a look of distant boredom. Making eye contact with hundreds of strangers is tiring, so I focus on the middle distance and try to appear like I'm not scoping out the fun parts of ladies.

Time passes. The object is to find my customer amongst the sea of transitory humans who are all, also, looking for someone. Hence the sign.

The sign is important for two reasons. It keeps most people away - I'm someone else's and I'm not available to dance. The sign is meant for the one with whom I have been promised a dance. Sure, it's an odd kind of dance involving them sitting behind me while I drive, me being super-polite, and me be transparently obsequious, but it's a dance nonetheless.

Which is why today was so odd. I was there, looking blank, with a sign. The people who were looking for me saw the sign. They decided not to make themselves known to me.

The people - a mother and two teens - didn't know the steps of the dance. I saw them look and point, but people do that all the time. They didn't look, point and then walk up to me.

That's the way the dance works; I do not know you, and likewise you do not know me. It's my job to provide the sign, and it's your job to recognize your name. And then walk up and stand in front of me. If you choose not to participate in the dance, even after you have said you would, be not surprised if I go home.



Pic from here [link]

Three Chauffeur Sins

There are three mistakes never to make as a chauffeur:

1. Refrain from punting the limousine into the scenery.

2. Never, ever lose your cool with customers.

3. Never, ever run out of gasoline.

Guess which one of these rules I broke last spring?


Pic from here [link]

Puke

Saturday night's bachelor party conformed to every basic guideline I have written about these celebrations.

The roster of highlights included:

~ a certain aloofness from some of the passengers to start.

~ a couple of them who are friendly.

~ lack of pacing their drinking, including Jagermeister in the first hour.

~ increasing friendliness towards me from even the most haughty of the guys.

~ losing money at the casino.

~ losing even more money at the strip clubs.

~ being the group's best buddy when I find an open liquor store.

~ vomiting, see below.

~ a sleepy trip home.

~ nice tip. Thanks guys.

The puke happened in the car park at the strip club. Chilling out, finishing their drinks before heading in, I sat at the front reading my book. The "Door Open" annunciator lit up on my panel, so I jumped out to attend. What I saw was a fountain of puke, a literal technicolour yawn pouring from one of the guys. As we decided later, he was a pro, making sure not to spew inside, keeping it down until he could reach the door.

Checking to make sure he was okay, I quickly returned to the front, and reversed up twenty feet or so.

When the groom exited, he said to his buddies:

Hey, there's an extra twenty for Wombat's tip right there. He made sure we didn't have to tread in that shit.

Another feather in my cap.

Yeah. Great.




Pic from here [link]

Weddings and Limousines

In response to my friend DC Chick's wedding announcement - congratulations! - here's my rough guide to renting a limo for your wedding. I'll do this in bullet points so I don't forget anything.

* Shop around by phone first. Phone manner will tell you much about the business.

* Ask specifically for what you want; stretched sedan, stretched SUV, Hummer.

* Make sure of the age of the limo - ask the year of manufacture.

* Look for a limo with a bridal door.

* Consider what you and the bridesmaids will wear.

* Tight/complicated dress means you want easy ingress/egress.

* Once you have narrowed it down, go and look at the cars.

* Impress with the number of hours you will need the limo.

* More hours means greater opportunity for reduced hourly cost.

* Make sure when you book you get exactly the car you want.

* If it's possible proceedings will go over time, confirm that's okay.

* Ask about the drivers.

* Ask for the one with the most experience with weddings.

* If it matters, tell them what/how you want him/her dressed.

* Be clear and precise with your plans for the day.

* Write those plans down.

* Send them to the limo driver, together with any specific requests.

* On the day, let the driver know of any changes to the plan.

* Don't forget to put some drinks in the limo. (Booze,I mean.)

* If you have a problem, communicate with your driver.

* Ask him or her for ideas if you need to. Use them as a resource.

* Put some cash in an envelope beforehand.

* Write "Limo Driver" on it, and give it to him at the end.

* Have fun.


Pic from here [link]

Chauffeur

A kind of omerta binds and separates chauffeurs. On one hand we're all intensely competitive, given the value of each customer. We'd steal each other's business in a moment. On the other hand a grudging understanding creates an unspoken brotherhood.

If you drive you know the deal. You know the late starts, the early finishes, the rotten money, the unpredictable customers, the moronic drivers, the foolish bosses and ridiculous bureaucrats.

With the downside come the benefits. Among them are the pleasure of a nice day and an open road; not being stuck as a cube drone; meeting interesting, famous or plain sweet people; and the satisfaction of making someone's day.

Today was a good day, for which I am grateful.



Pic from here [link]

Groups Part 4

Time marches on, bars close, and there's nothing left for my people but to go home. Their limousine bill is now up in the many hundreds of dollars, and they've stayed out way later than the original plan called for. The shine is off the evening.

Given the disparate aims of the folks, factions form. The factions sit together and sometimes snipe at the others. People fall asleep, or pass out, as the case may be. But there's one thing on which almost everyone agrees: it's time for some food.

The message comes quietly from the back at first.

How about some greasy food, Wombat?


Yeah, let's do T.Bell I hear someone else say.


Do they have In N Out here in Florida? some out-of-stater will ask.

Pause.

I want pizza says another.

Once they have made the group decision to stop (which will cost more money of course, we're still on the clock here) it almost doesn't matter where we go. I have all the 24 hour fast-food joints along the Interstate memorized, so I'm good to go.

But here's the problem. At that time of night, only drive-throughs are open, and the good people at The Bell and McDonalds and Burger King neglected to build them (the drive-throughs) for stretched limousines. We can't make the turn around the building, so I have to park somewhere adjacent and the folks must order on foot, so to speak. These places have rules. You cannot order at the pick-up window, mostly because at 3:30 am they're running a skeleton crew. What my folks do is line up as if they were in a car. Imagine this. Car with people ordering at the ordering station, car behind that one, two or three of my people standing waiting in line, swaying and slurring, car, car, and so on.

They give their order, and shuffle around to remain in line between the cars. When it's their turn at the pick-up window, you can see the guys trying to be cute with the minimum wage slave as if she were the most beautiful women ever. If it weren't so late, and I wasn't so tired, I'd be laughing my arse off. And still the night is young.




Pic from here.[link]

Edited for clarity.

Also published here [link]

Speak when you are spoken to.

If I had to train limousine drivers, I would start with what not to do. At the top of that list is not talking too much. In fact, less is almost always best, and the way to remember this is to only speak when spoken to.

Of the many differences between a taxi and a Town Car, the most important is the driver. Whereas taxi drivers can often be unstoppable chatterboxes, regaling their customers with whatever leaks from their brain, the chauffeur should be more circumspect. Pleasant and responsive, for sure, but restrained and calm too.

The way I look at it is that the customer is unlikely to have any interest in me. They probably think they know all about me anyway, or all they need to know. To them, I'm simple to categorize: Wombat's a limo driver. Seems like a good guy. And that's it.

So I try to look at it from their point of view, which is to say how everyone likes to look at the world: through their own biases and interests. When they do talk, I remove myself from the conversation, instead reflecting back to them the point of their comment, or feed on the substance behind the question. Being transparent is my aim.

Once you try it a few times, it's easy. Unless they specifically ask for personal experience, I remove the personal pronoun from my speech. Taxi drivers are all about the "I". Limo drivers are about the "you". We should affirm, or provide information, or ask pithy follow-ups or (with the right person) provide a wry comment.

Basically, it's about creating a comfortable experience where, for the length of the ride, they're the boss, and we're the minion.

First Time

A new customer is good for both me and The Boss. The benefit to The Boss is clear, but for me it's an opportunity to focus on what makes a good (or even, ahem, excellent) chauffeur.

Because we're minimum-wage folks, we work for tips, and the time-honored way to garner a good tip is to meet and exceed the customer's expectations. First impressions are as important as conventional wisdom suggests, so I am hyper-aware of making a good impression in those minutes immediately after meeting the new person.

But sometimes the relationship goes the other way. The customer can make a big impression on me, as happened Tuesday morning. Collecting the gentleman from his comfortable established home, I knew something was up when, after some perfunctory chit-chat, he said;

You know, Wombat, Tiger Woods has fucked it for the rest of us, that prick.

Firstly, use of the word 'fuck' puts me, the driver, on a different relationship footing with a customer. Secondly, what on earth was he talking about? After a second, I figured it out - he was telling me that he was an enthusiast for adultery.

Thus began an hour-long tour of this man's life, from his financial woes to his infidelities. He talked at length about his family, especially his many children and his many, many grandchildren. Retired from business, Facebook is his new enthusiasm, a marvel that allows him to keep up with his many widely distributed neices and nephews, although some of them "...find it a bit creepy" that he's so intent on being their friend.

But the focus of his thinking was his trips to Havana. My man could only be described as a part-time sex-tourist, waxing fond about his past visits to Cuba for the enthusiastic, fruity and cheap (cheap!) prostitutes. Apparently, once you find the right guy down there (a man he oddly referred to as "...my John...") all doors are open. John (or The John) knows the way around obstacles to free love created by the fact that "the government owns everything down there, you know". Which would be at least a partial description of a communist dictatorship.

Whenever someone decides to spill their guts to me, a perfect stranger, I wonder why. Is is because the Town Car has a kind of confessional effect? Am I like a priest because the customer cannot see my face? Or is it something about me that encourages them to tell all?

I'm going to ask this nice man soon, because he invited me to a week in Havana in February. We'll have time to talk then.




For a more detailed description of my new buddy's enthusiasms. [link]

Troll Family Reunion

Huh. I don't believe in coincidences, but guess whose family is having a reunion?

Last night I collected the first wave from Tampa Airport. The party consisted of husband, wife, and three kids under age eight. Here's the rundown.

Father didn't stop longer than fifteen seconds from fondling and whispering to his Blackberry.

Mother (the Troll daughter) made idle threats to the kids and otherwise looked like she needed a very stiff drink.

Three children ran amok.

When I say they ran amok, they did so whilst strapped in to their seats, so they were clearly well practised at raising hell.

The first clue as to the unfolding horror was that I couldn't tell the kids' sex, because they all had hair to their shoulders. Poorly groomed kids means poorly disciplined kids, and so it turned out. In one hour and ten minutes, all three had two rounds of tears and blubbing, there were two episodes of punching, one of biting, and a possible soiled pants in a six-year old.

Oh, and they threw all of the water bottles, all of the ice, all of the napkins and all of the plastic cups on the floor.

Trolls beget trolls, I tell you.

The Troll

The Troll lives on one of the offshore barrier islands they call "Keys" hereabouts. His condo is atop a tall building in a fancy "community" overlooking the Gulf of Mexico. I imagine it's spectacular.

The Troll and his contrastingly charming wife spend most of the winter here. Business takes him back to New York regularly, however, and he's a fan of early departures. That means extra-early (2:30 or 3:00 am) starts for we drivers.

That's fine, and all part of the gig. Like I always say, this is not a job for those who need routine. And if you look, there are benefits to odd hours.

The Internet tells me that The Troll has a long career in finance. His last position was as chairman of a listed finance company, whose share price is now in the pennies. I imagine at one point he was a multi-millionaire, but now might be worth considerably less. There's no way of telling, although public records tell us that he is still a decent-sized shareholder in that and several other companies.

All this communicates nothing about the man. We call him The Troll because he's just plain unfriendly. And short. And squat. I've tried my "think your way to a happy customer" technique on him, which works to a point. He even said thank you last time I drove him, but in general he fails to acknowledge one's presence. And of course, he doesn't ever tip.

Life has a funny way of working. I note with interest that he suffers from some kind of skin or auto-immune ailment. Every time I drive him, he sits in the back scratching his surface like a moulting dog. It's horrible, really, having an older man in a suit pick at his arms and face until there's a cloud of epithelials in the Town Car. Gross.

Recently, his flight from Newark arrived forty-five minutes early. The driver just missed him at the airport, and so he caught a cab. Two points about this: one is that the cab fare would have been around eighty-five dollars more expensive than his trip with us. The second is that the reason he missed the driver was that he's too cheap to own a cellphone.

Yep. Life has a funny way of working.