Early Shift

Daimler Motorcycle pic credit

My resolution to take greater control of my life by no longer accepting morning jobs is sorta working out. My work has declined by, oh, about two-thirds. Not only is The Boss not assigning me morning jobs, he's not assigning me afternoon or evening jobs either.

For a couple of weeks there I was doing two late-night airport runs per week.

You see when we drivers show signs of non-compliance with Boss's wishes, he punishes us in the way he knows best, by withholding work.

When I first began in this game, he told me how he likes his drivers: desperate and compliant. That tells you everything you need to know about how he views the limousine business - it's all about making life as easy as possible for him, and nothing about finding the right people to provide the best service.

Frankly, I find this kind of commercial horror encouraging. If someone so out of tune with people can still make a living, the opportunity for anyone with a modicum of common sense is huge. This is still the land of success built on hard work and fair dealing.

What's interesting is the way in which regular customers are revealing to me how The Boss treats them on the phone. Some are shocked at how brusque he's become; others say outright that the only reason they stay is because they like we drivers. There are lots of those kind of folks.

Notwithstanding, business is slow during the week, and moderately busy on weekends. And gradually I'm moving out of the bad books. This last weekend was crazy busy, a situation that causes His Lordship to forget about keeping me down in order to get me out there on the road.

Bang, You're Dead. Or not.

Far and away the best part of driving is discovering gratitude. I wouldn't want the life of the captains of industry we drive to and from airports; being a drunk family guy getting kicks from boffing the next-door neighbour's wife is a turn-off; and crazy hyper people for whom everything is a personal insult make me laugh.

Life is not perfect, and the sooner we accommodate that fact, the calmer we'll all be.

Which leads me to Mr Davie. Mr Davie is man who lives hereabouts, a man who retired to Florida when his wife passed away ten years ago. Like many men of his age, his life pretty well fell apart when the mother of his three children succumbed to cancer.

But he carried on, living in a simple old-style condo building, in a ground-floor place with a nice view of an artificial lake.

I met one of his sons first, about a year ago. All the kids (who are grown with children of their own) live in northern states, all separated by hundreds of miles. This son was a copper, a good guy, the sensible beating heart of the country. I drove him to the airport after a visit because his father took ill. Mr Davie recovered. The son and I connected.

Then, about two months ago, the daughter turned up. She arrived one Friday night, and I drove her to her father's place. All the way she texted, talked or emailed, a tribute to the power of 3-G networks. But she was super-pleasant, and took time to explain that she was taking her father back to her state the following Monday after a doctor's appointment, and that the news might not be good.

Assigned the job on Monday, I was trepidatious. But I needn't have worried. Mr Davie (my first actual meeting) was frail, but in good spirits. Maybe it's body language, but I liked him immediately. Although he talked but a little, he clearly knew about business, and life, and knew that life is a funny old journey.

He came back two weeks after that, with his youngest son. While the son fetched the luggage, Mr Davie and I had a good talk. He was in a wheelchair and tired from the journey. But he wanted to go home, to be in his own place.

The Boss hasn't heard since. I hope he never does. I like the idea of Mr Davie happily passing his days looking over the lake.

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.