What's In a Name?

I have a jaded view of the limousine industry. That attitude grew from observation of how limo company owners operate, specifically their treatment of people - customers and workers both.

My experience is limited, of course. But of the three or four big operators in my area, I know drivers who work for all of them, and they tell me the same story; the guys and girls who run these places are big on vision but light on the down and dirty business of working in a luxury/discretionary area. It's tough out there, and drivers often take all the heat, from crappy money to disgruntled customers.

Which is why the naming conventions of limousine companies gives me reason to smile. They are all so chipper:

~ Above All Limo and Town Car

~ Prestige Limousines

~ Diplomat Limo

~ Regal Limousines

~ Diamond Limousines

~ Elite Limousines

~ Royal Coach Limousines

~ Premier Cars

~ TLC Limousine

~ High Class Limo


...and so on.

It's a joke to believe that they're ALL the BEST, because it simply isn't possible. Just once, I'd like to see someone advertise a limo business as "...decently priced with okay cars..." or "...mostly good drivers..." or "...you get what you pay for..."

As far as I can see, only habit keeps people returning to a specific company (if they're regular users) and either price or recommendation if they're one-offs.

Naming therefore reflects the lack of imagination of owners, making practically zero difference with any individual consumer's choice. Clearly, owners haven't figured out this fundamental fact.

My favourite name for a limo company is "Rollex Limousine". Yeah. Just like the fine Swiss timepieces.


Pffft.

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]

Groups Part 2

When the divider rolls up, you know someone's about to get naked. The air inside limousines is laced with a very subtle gas that whispers in (some) ears:

Hey! You're in a limo. We need some titties here, bucko.

When the first nipple appears, there's a roar from the crowd and the camera flashes begin. One leads to another, which leads to another, and before you know it, breasts are popping out all over. Each pair is worth at least five minutes and if underwear from further south wants part of the action, another five minutes per thong. However, not all is good in this scenario. In that first breast appearance lies the seed of discontent.

By this time we're probably at our first destination. Smart groups book a restaurant table for this stop, but that's rare. Most times the folks want somewhere big and public, somewhere to show off the fact that they arrived by limo, somewhere to remember later. Mostly it's the venue that drove them to rent me in the first place. They have in mind a particular kind of night and this is their marquis stop.

Once everyone is dressed and out of the car, I go to work. There are few opportunities to impress on a night like this, but here's one of them. I clean up, but with a mind to impressing particularly the women. I collect and remove the trash. People are so messy. All the used glasses I wash, rinse, and re-equip with napkins. Don't ask how. The carpets get a sweep, then I tidy up all their bags/coolers/cameras/clothes into some semblance of order. Last thing, replenish the ice in the bar.

Men return and almost never notice my handiwork; women almost always do. That impression remains.

Then I wait. And wait. And sometimes I wait some more.



Photo from here. [link]

Doctor

Horrible truism that it is, truth is always stranger than fiction. Relationships are chock-full of stuff no-one could possibly imagine, or pass off as reality. And so I see strangeness at every turn.

One of The Boss's customers is a retired doctor. I should really capitalize 'Doctor', because he isn't merely a Doctor of Medicine, he's a DOCTOR OF MEDICINE.

You get the idea. He's a God Doctor, blessed with superior intellect, greater understanding, and is overall a better person than you and I could ever hope to be.

Ego is his ruling star. Although priding himself on having a balanced (Godlike?) view of the world he gives himself away at every turn. Most obviously this comes about because even his wife refers to him as Doctor Smith. Huh? His given name is Greg, and yet when she refers to him (to a mere limousine driver, for example) she calls him Doctor Smith, as in:

Doctor Smith and I love walking downtown for coffee in the evening, and Doctor Smith often has a brandy with his.

All the while he's sitting in the car behind me, barely four feet away, as we drive to Orlando Airport.

Any normal person with an ounce of humility would have put a stop to that years ago, and insisted on being called "Greg". At least by his wife, if not the likes of me.

Funny thing though. He's been fighting cancer for years now. I wonder if there's a connection.

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.