Haves and Have-Nots

Insane political definitions aside, I have one simple test for defining whether a customer is rich or not. Ahem:

Those who fly in private jets* are rich. Those who fly on airlines are not.

Pretty simple isn't it? The reason I like it is because it is so clear-cut, eg:

Rich people don't mix with poor people at airports - they have their own terminals.

Rich people leave when they are ready, not when the airline says it's okay.

Rich people are orders of magnitude more wealthy than everyone else - to afford that fancy chunk of aerospace magic requires it.


So that's settled then. But that leaves a fair number of The Boss's customers who would disagree with my description. They would - I'm sure - say that they only travel first-class, that they are Diamond-Edged members of such-and-such an airline's Blah Blah club. All well and good, I would say as I drive them to the airport in a Town Car with crappy brakes and 300,000 miles on the clock. (Rich people use rich-people limo companies.)

But the litmus test is this: from a first class seat with an airline, can you stride to the cockpit and tell the pilot that you have changed your mind? That you just don't feel like Vail today, and that you'd rather go to Taos, where you've just heard the snow is perfect? And if you did manage to do that on your airline flight without being shot, gang-tackled, or generally beat-up by everyone on board, would the pilot actually do it?

No. Of course not. Rich people get to change their minds in-flight. The rest of us do not.









[*For consistency I include turboprops in the 'private jet' category, but not piston-powered planes.]

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.

Bodily Functions

1960 Lincoln Convertible Picture Credit

Inevitably, the innocent driver is exposed to the vast universe of his customers' fleshly, fluid and gaseous functions.

First and foremost and the one that springs to mind is the puke, of course. No surprise there, other than the alacrity with which some people will emit a thirty-second stream of vomitus, wipe their mouth with their sleeve and continue drinking.

Shades of Roman-style decadence in that lot.

At one point someone has demonstrated the panoply of gross exhibition including:

~ farting
~ really smelly farting (and not owning up)
~ nose-picking
~ crotch-grabbing
~ crotch re-arrangement
~ digital ear exploration
~ dandruff shaking
~ tooth picking (with little fingernail, for trapped food)
~burping

List not comprehensive.

The one corporeal expression that grates my cheese is the unceasing sniff. One sniff, that's fine. Two, even, I can deal with. But the continual drawing back of the nasal mucus by way of rapid inhalation reminds me yet again how grateful I am for parents who insisted that this never be a failing of their offspring. I am NEVER guilty of public sniffing.

I think the record is around one and one-half hours of a teenaged girl doing this right behind my left ear in a Town Car. Despite self-reminders, I was without tissue-box that day, and so had nothing to offer the hideous youth.

The acts of violence to which one's mind retreats (in order to remain sane) would surprise no-one who, like me, cannot STAND THE CONTINUALLY SNIFFING COMPANION.




That feels better.

Silence

Some folks can live in silence, others die in it. Because our airport transfers average around an hour of driving, there's a lot of time, time which some of my customers fill and time that others do not.

Rule One for Chauffeurs: Speak only when spoken to.

In practice we don't adhere absolutely to this, but exceptions are few. Our routine is to meet arriving customers in the baggage claim area, greet them, and either walk directly to the car or wait for their baggage.

Within a few seconds, one can tell if they're silent types or not. Yes, it is odd standing next to someone at a baggage carousel for thirty minutes without passing a word. Equally oddly, for someone who loves words, this doesn't bother me in the least. In fact, I would rather remain silent than be forced into a conversation in which I cannot fully participate or listen to jibberish silence-filler.

There are some customers whom I'd happily drive to Vermont. We could gab all day and never bore ourselves. Obviously, these are the people with whom I have connected, with whom I need not filter as much. Another group of customers I'd also drive to New England, and never pass more than ten words. The third group comprises those who are constitutionally incapable of oxidizing without talking...about the first thing that reaches their tongue. For these people, a silence in the car is a small death, so naturally they talk.

The art of engaging in conversation as a chauffeur is a fine one. I cannot actually be myself - hells, I'd ask way too many personal questions - which leaves only conversational acting. I navigate these tricky waters by listening to what my customer says,and reflecting it back to them. Basically I attempt to affirm their own view of themselves, and keep my own thoughts to myself.

It's a game, and like a lot of games, it can be tiring. Frankly, I adore the silent trips, and for those I drive who think likewise, they do too. Last night, a new customer actually said so.

Joy. (And a nice tip.)






Nice photo of a Studebaker.

Secret Service

There I was, in the restaurant carpark, waiting for my customer to finish dinner when an SUV sandwich arrived - four Suburbans between two cop cruisers. There was no squealing of tires or blaring of sirens, but it was clear that Something Important was happening. "Huh", I thought, Sarasota's biggest moment in three months might just be happening before my eyes.

Out sprung a dozen or more steely-type guys in dark suits, all looking at what security people call "The Perimeter." (Note my hip lingo.) I was on the dead side of The Perimeter, unable to see what was happening at the restaurant's entrance. Apparently Someone Important alighted one of the monster vehicles and was escorted in with a few hangers-on. All I saw was the back of a guy's head, a guy with white hair.

Frankly, I was miffed. Here was I, sitting in my Town Car in the forecourt, chatting on my cellphone, and the tuff guys barely gave me a look. I could have been a nut with a gun on a mission, deserving of a bit o' roughing up. Actually, the fact they ignored me is testimony to their judgement, because A) I'm not a starfucker, and B) my friend on the phone was way more interesting than some B-lister with over-the-top stalker protection.

After a while, I told my friend what had happened. She speculated who was likely to have a police escort and heavy duty security. We concluded it was unlikely to be anyone Hollywood, nor anyone businessy. I thought of Bill Gates, but I know he's very low-key. My best guess was Governor Crist.

Eventually, I got out of the car to stretch a take a walk. A television camera crew and their cub reporter argued over sightlines. Bottled water came out for the suits. Restaurant customers (including mine) were nowhere to be seen, apparently held hostage inside. Good for me; I was on hourly pay. A local cop stood nearby, so I asked the question. Suddenly it all made sense.

My clues to my friend on the phone were as follows: The number 42. Ladies' knickers hitting the floor all over the SunCoast. Politician. White hair. Left of center. Unsure of the meaning of the word 'is'.