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.

Canary in the Coalmine

Another slow week in paradise slips by. It's Friday night and I've done precisely two (2) jobs in the last six days. One was a late-night airport pickup; the other, a five-hour limousine run which I just finished.

With all the time I have to contemplate such matters, I think it is possible that the limousine business is a great leading economic indicator. No-one needs a limousine or a town-car service. Taxis are (and will be - they're like cockroaches, a professional opinion) always available. Although a town-car is in fact many dollars cheaper than a taxi for the kind of airport transfers we do, the perception is of indulgence.


I'm too sophisticated for a taxi; I deserve a car service.

Sometimes ego saves money.

To add insult to pauperdom, a friend and fellow driver had his entire bank account emptied by the IRS this week. They claimed he owed them $22,000 in back taxes from 2002, which he hotly denies. Makes sense to me, knowing his work history. The frightening thing is that the US Federal Government can take your money without notification. I guess that's one way to find the
$13, 000,000,000,000.00 they spent on our behalf.

All well and good, but when he can't pay the rent, or the phone bill, or for gas to get to work, I'm not sure how much of an asset to the economy he can be. Like most drivers, my mate isn't officially counted amongst the unemployed, but like all of us, he is seriously underemployed.

Which brings me back to my point. The limo game is a confidence indicator. When people are upbeat and want to either travel or celebrate, we see them in our cars. Our services are a minor luxury - even for folks who saved up for a year to attend a Metallica concert - that tells much about the collective conscious.

My read is that everyone is hunkering down. If that changes, I'll let you know. For now, the depression continues.







Photo from here [link]

Rescue

Breakdowns are inevitable, we all understand that. But no-one thinks - or wants to think - it will happen to them. Someone else should bear that burden.

I'm sympathetic to anyone stuck in a broken automobile, which is how I came to hurriedly shower, shave and dress at ten o'clock last night. A fellow driver was stuck at a rest area off the interstate with twelve customers and a busted limousine. I don't know the guy, and he works for the opposition service here in town, but I like to think that if I needed a hand, the brotherhood of drivers would come to my aid.

It's karma, right?

Here's how these things work: The driver breaks the car, and spends time placating his customers. He calls the boss, who is safely at home on his second Saturday night six-pack. In turn, he calls a tame mechanic, who is on his second fifth of vodka - well it is Saturday night, after all.

No immediate repair option then. The opposition boss then calls The Boss, knowing we have a humungous stretched SUV that can do the job. The Boss is on his fourth or fifth bong of the night, but can see more green by sending me out. So I get the call. Probably the only sober/straight driver in the county at that point, I figure I can help.

The elapsed time from that call to me rolling into the rest area was one hour and seven minutes. Now having done this kind of rescue before, I know what to expect. The driver is grateful and relieved. The Boss is counting his money. The opposition boss is glad he'll be receiving no more abusive phone calls. But the customers, ah the customers. Far from being happy, they get into an odd state of mind where they're sorta happy, but still sorta pissed. And you know who bears the brunt of that action.

We swap out the coolers, the drinks and the plastic penises, because this is a bachelorette party after all. Within ten minutes we're under way, and they've lost only an hour and a half of their night. Seems like a win to me.

Everything proceeds normally after that. The group disembark at the bride-to-be's place at 3:00 am. I sense that not everyone is happy, a pretty standard state of affairs when twelve people get together with some booze. Tension has a way of squeezing into a party like this.

You'd think that my part in the rescue operation would merit a little special thank-you or some kind of acknowledgment...and you'd think incorrectly. No tip, no warm words, nothing. But as I have discovered, that's standard.

My reward is the karma. Apparently.




Classic drawing from here [link]