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.

Back With a Vengeance

1939 Chevy Picture Credit.

Oh, man, it's been a weird month.

Trouble is that although writing this blog is a pleasure (and a release) for me, the horrid hours and exhaustion of being UP when the body says DOWN mitigates against spending time relating stories of a life on the road.

Which isn't to say that I wish my driving life to go away, because at the moment it's okay. The Boss has us busy enough to keep us from panhandling at traffic lights, and there are a few other prospects in the wind.

But the endless conveyor belt of human oddity keeps spewing people at me. There's just no telling, as, for instance with a simple airport transfer earlier this week.

The lady concerned is the wife of a prominent property developer. He built a ten-storey condo building that more-or-less dominates the skyline of my Sun Coast town. It is designed after the great architects of Florence, which of course makes the whole complex irredeemably inappropriate for southwest Florida. Why importing architectural styles from foreigners is better than applying local techniques is obviously beyond me..

So I wait in the Medici-style porte cochere for madame (or is that signora?) for thirty minutes beyond our appointed pick-up time. The concierge (which is people in these parts call a doorman) is chatty and effusive. I know him from previous times, he's a good guy, but way too obsequious to his people. He needs to get them in line. Pronto.

The point is that this dopey woman is paying a fixed, rock-bottom price for a ride to the airport. When she does deign to make an appearance, there's all kinds of fuss about the dog and whether it will be allowed to travel on Southwest Airlines in this container etc etc.

Look, lady, you're sweet enough, but given that I'll take out about twenty-five bucks after tax outta this three hour circus, I could give a shit. You have bought a ride to the airport, nothing more, nothing less.

As you might anticipate, the problems with the dog resume at the airport. She has two different sized containers, for the poor pooch: one that will squish him up like an old pair of socks, and another that allow him to breathe. Naturally, the airline wants him in the smaller container into which she then stuffs him. (This from a person who says she loves the dog. Pffft. Whatever.)

AND of course I have to assist with this ridiculous pantomime at the departures curb of Southwest at Tampa airport. AND of course, she is immensely apologetic that she has no cash for a tip.

Like they say, you'll eventually be judged how you treat the small people. And the dogs.

Sunny Sunday

You have to count your blessings. After a big, restful night's sleep, it's not so bad waking to the alarm at 6:00 am on a Sunday morning. Really, it's okay.

It was a beautiful morning, the humidity in the "I can handle this" range and I have an airport transfer to do. Shower, shave, put on the white shirt I ironed last night, a once-over with a lint-roller, check in the mirror, and I'm out the door. In a suit.

What I'd rather be doing is heading to the beach for a swim. In my boardies. After that, a lie in the sun, then I'd take coffee. But here I am, driving to The Boss's warehouse to collect a towncar; someone needs a ride to Tampa airport.

An older guy, it turns out, around eighty, needs that ride. A couple of odd details stand out. One, he's not listed as a resident on the intercom system, and the concierge doesn't know him. Two, I know his residential address is not in this downtown high-rise. His real house is in a gated community on a golf course out in the 'burbs.

Five before eight, my people arrive in the lobby from upstairs. The gentleman and a lady, a decades-younger lady. She's in her fifties, over-tanned, over-skinny, not quite certain of how to deal with a towncar chauffeur.

It's not that difficult. When I ask you if you'd like me to take your bag, you accept my offer. I roll your bag to the rear of the car, then I open the door for you. I then attend to the gentleman in the same way. You both sit in the air-conditioned car while I load your bags in the trunk. When that's done, we go.

Simple. Or so you'd think.

Anyway, my over-riding thought is that if you're on your way to Amsterdam (First Class), constantly blowing and popping bubble-gum won't endear you to anyone. That shit should have ended during the Nixon administration.



Olds roadster 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]

Little Old Ladies

It's the fact of living in Florida, but many of my adventures revolve around old people. Seniors, in the argot, or oldsters, or silly old farts depending on my mood.

In the limo game, I learned from experience that little old ladies belie their benign looks (and reputation). In real life, these people are sharks, manipulating hapless optimists like me with the skill of a Reno card dealer. Don't let their stooped stature and old-lady smell fool you - they know the value of a buck, and how to keep them in their purse, and out of your pocket.

The job sheet showed me collecting two local ladies from Tampa airport, late on a Sunday night. Two friends on vacation sharing a towncar ride back to their respective residences; it's a common-enough deal.

Let's say the total was $140.00. It's normal for folks to use a credit card to reserve a booking, and then pay cash. The Boss is always up front about the cost, which he is careful to make clear to the customer. Also, another driver had driven them to the airport a week earlier, so they knew the drill. And to further solidify the arrangement, we talked about the fact they were paying cash, half each. They knew exactly how much the ride cost.

After I'd schlepped the first lady's bag to the door, she gave me a handful of cash as arranged. Being as I was trusting of Little Old Ladies at that point, I didn't count it. Like I said, she'd already been through this on the outward leg, so why would I question it?

The second lady lived in a high-rise. Dutifully I carried her three bags full of gold bricks up the stairs, into the elevator, and along the breezeway to her apartment. She, too, gave me a handful of cash, and in the same trusting manner, I shoved it in my pocket. She also made a point of saying that there was a little something for me there too.

That's nice. A small tip for my manual labor makes for a happy evening...

...until I returned to base and counted the cash. Instead of a $70-00 wad and a $70.00 plus-some wad, I had two $65-00 wads. Not only had I been swindled, there was no gratuity and she knew it. The choice at that point is to make phone calls, knock on doors and go chase the money. But then I saw this episode for what it was: a ten dollar learning experience. So I added a sawbuck of my own and to this day I count every note that passes my hands.

Sorry, I trust you, but a couple of old grifters shook me down once....


Pic from here [link]

Also published 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

It feels like a good idea at the time. Call around to a group of friends, propose a night out in a limousine, rev up some interest, and then set a date. Do some homework by asking around a few companies for quotes, figure out how much it will cost, let everyone know. Enthusiasm rules, and so you go ahead and book the limo, and look forward to the night.

Fast forward to three weeks later, the evening of the planned party on wheels. One couple can't find a sitter. Marcy just got foreclosed on. Steve is having a huge blow-up with his girlfriend, and doesn't know if he can make it.

Around this time, I roll up in the stretch. It's probably nine or ten on a Saturday night, and everyone's already well lubricated. So what if we're down three or four, we'll just make up the difference with a few extra bucks. Right! Everyone who's coming here? Let's go!

The arc of the night follows a pretty well-worn path. It's quiet in the passenger compartment for the first ten or fifteen while folks acclimate. Then the drinks take effect, everyone relaxes, and the noise level rises. Oftentimes this is the point at which most people are enjoying themselves the most. They've got the right amount of alcoholic buzz and they see that it's cool to be in a limo. Then things start to unravel.



Pic from here. [link]

Also published here. [link]