Tropical Jet

Once away from Trolls and their spawn, life improves. This last weekend was busy, what with it being Easter, spring, and sunny. Everyone in the world (or so it seemed) wanted some of the sweet weather we've been having.

Apart from the fact that there's little/no money to be made driving, it can be fun. The influx of northerners for the weekend included some regulars who arrive via private jet. For me, that means hanging around the airport. Being swanky jet-setters, they naturally don't arrive with the riff-raff at the regular terminal, rather they go to what are known as Fixed Base Operators. FBOs service the non-airline parts of aviation, which activity includes maintaining mini-terminals for folks arriving red-carpet-wise.

It's all quite relaxed. I arrive early at the FBO with the limo, walk in, and tell the nice lady at the desk the tail number - or aircraft registration - of my customers' plane. She gives me a piece of yellow paper to stick on the dash, and then remotely opens the security gate and voilà! I'm on the apron.

Coz I kinda like planes, I deliberately go early to watch the activity, and it's always fun. There are rich old guys in their sweet personal twins, dopey old guys clearly lost, taxiing around aimlessly, enthusiastic students and their too-cool instructors, and all kinds of fancy jets for the rich folks. If you like aviation, it's neat.

When my particular rich folks arrive, you wait for the word from the ground guys, reverse up to the jet's door, welcome the people, load their bags, and head back through the security gate to their beach house. Everyone's happy. It's Easter, it's a weekend off, and they're at the beach, and we're all (including me) in a good mood.


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If you're interested, here is my review of our workhorse, the Lincoln Town Car.

Troll Family Reunion

Huh. I don't believe in coincidences, but guess whose family is having a reunion?

Last night I collected the first wave from Tampa Airport. The party consisted of husband, wife, and three kids under age eight. Here's the rundown.

Father didn't stop longer than fifteen seconds from fondling and whispering to his Blackberry.

Mother (the Troll daughter) made idle threats to the kids and otherwise looked like she needed a very stiff drink.

Three children ran amok.

When I say they ran amok, they did so whilst strapped in to their seats, so they were clearly well practised at raising hell.

The first clue as to the unfolding horror was that I couldn't tell the kids' sex, because they all had hair to their shoulders. Poorly groomed kids means poorly disciplined kids, and so it turned out. In one hour and ten minutes, all three had two rounds of tears and blubbing, there were two episodes of punching, one of biting, and a possible soiled pants in a six-year old.

Oh, and they threw all of the water bottles, all of the ice, all of the napkins and all of the plastic cups on the floor.

Trolls beget trolls, I tell you.

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.

Limousine detective

Prior to every trip I attempt to find out a little more about the customer. I ask The Boss if they're young or old, whether it's a birthday or an anniversary, if they're drinkers or abstemious. Being prepared makes a big difference, because if I can arrive at the door and announce:

"Hello Mrs Krebopple, congratulations on the anniversary of your splenectomy,"

it makes a good first impression, which will translate into a more relaxed night at a minimum, or a big tip at best.

Last night was a complete mystery, a relatively late-booked four-hour limousine run for eight, to a local Mexican joint, and possibly some nightlife after.

Rolling up to the house, I look for clues. It's in a decent neighbourhood, but the garden looks unkempt. (Like them all here thesedays, what with the drought and all.) Hmmm, there's a BMW X5 in the garage, that's decent money. Then again it might be on the never-never from the boom times. On balance it's a good sign.

So I knock on the door, and a woman cracks it open.

"She doesn't know you're here" she stage whispers pointing to the interior of the house, "We'll be out in five or ten".

"Okay", I whisper back "You take your time, I'm here when you're ready."

Still none the wiser, I check the ice, the radio, and the airconditioning in the limo again, and stand in the shade waiting. And waiting. And waiting. That's really what this job is: a waiting and cleaning gig.

Eventually three of them emerge: the mom, a hot-looking but over-made-up yummy mummy, her seventeen-year-old daughter, and the eight year-old son. It's the girl's birthday, and the mother is about to take her and a bunch of her friends out.

I can't help wondering where the father is, and, why do mothers allow their seventeen year-old daughters to dress like strippers?

Despite my misgivings about a limo-load of teenagers, they were just fine. In fact, they were cleaner, tidier, more polite and in better cheer than a lot of older folk, so kudos to them. I'd even go so far as to say they were sweet, which is a lot coming from me.

So despite the bum rap, my experience with teens has all been good.

Now watch me get through prom season, Tazer at the ready.

Oldsters

The good thing about old people is that they're often ready to leave early.

Because we have to be at the pickup address ten to fifteen minutes before the requested departure time, that means no waiting around. On the road early, job's finished early.

The not so good thing about old people is that they can tell you the same thing five times in two hours.

Sigh.

Ugly

It should have been the simplest of runs. Collect two "ladies" from one address, then one more at a second address, and drive them to the Port of Tampa. Yep, they were off on a cruise.

I have never cruised, unless you count the odd day trip along the Rhine or the Mosel. The phenomenon of modern cruising appears to be a sea-borne religion of gluttony, a cult of conspicuous consumption beyond that which any reasonable person would want. It looks ugly to me.

And so, indeed were these ladies. It turned out they were sisters on some kind of sibling satiation sabbatical. It all started happily enough. They were, after all, going on what should have been a happy vacation.

I was early, with my usual happy "chauffeur face" on, and it was a beautiful Sunday morning. The downhill slide started while navigating to the second pick-up. No, I don't know your sister's condo complex by name, there are quite a few in Florida. (Der. Me rolling eyes.) An address would make things much easier.

They didn't know the address. Fair enough, but if you are directing me in a large beast like a six-passenger Cadillac, turns are easier when pointed out ahead of time. Not as they disappear behind.

But we made it.

Off we went towards the port, along what I knew was the quickest and smoothest route. Mr TomTom agreed with my local knowledge, so it came as a shock when, about ten minutes short, one of them piped up with "Which way are we going?"

It could only have been a rhetorical question. There are only two freeways in our part of the world, and we were on one of them, about eight miles short of downtown Tampa. What could she mean, "Which way are we going?"?

Of course, she added "I think we should have gone via (State Route) 41. It's quicker."

I was silent. We were almost at our destination, and to take the road she described required us to make adjustments forty minutes and the entire Tampa Bay ago. And it wasn't like she was paying by the hour - it was a fixed price trip.

Mindreading isn't a skill I have. Divining which way you want me to drive you is only possible if you open your yap and communicate in the customary way; by speaking. (You stupid bitch.)

White picket fence

The photo shows what every girl dreams of: a big house with a white picket fence, and a ten passenger limo in the garage.

Yep, that's what girls want.

Boca Grande

Yeah, its a crappy photograph, but it reminds me of the funny naming game that Floridians play. Whomever dreams up names for new developments think that the more portentious (pretentious?) the title, the greater its desireability.

The Links at Palmer Creek.
Venetian Crossing.
The Meadowbanks of Florida.

Etcetera. The fact that the whole place is more or less a swamp doesn't stop those marketing geniuses.

Seinfeld memorably poked fun at this by having his parents live at a development called Del Boca Vista Phase II.

As always, the truth is more interesting. Boca Raton (from the Spanish, rat's mouth) was known as that from at least the 18th century, and this place, too was known to the Iberians. In any case, my wanderings took me to Boca Grande this week, for the first time. It is beautiful. Now I know what they mean by "old Florida" with houses that match the climate, people on bikes instead of cars, and water as good as any I've seen in Florida.

Wedding

This is a photo of last Saturday's wedding. More accurately, this is after the ceremony, during the ritual Trial by Photographer.

There is much I could write about wedding day dynamics, but I think that I have discovered a new universal law: as the wedding goes, so goes the marriage.

If everyone's reasonably chill and smiling, and the bride and groom have a half-fun time, I figure the marriage will last. If she is screaming at him before arriving at the reception, there's little hope. But if the bride can get through the inevitable stuff-ups with her smile intact, and the groom loses the wide-eyed what the hell have I done look, I figure they have a shot at it.

These two will be alright. She was calm and low-key. He was uptight because of his useless best man, but came through despite that. In fact, when I said goodbye, I think he stood a little taller in his patent oxfords. That augurs well.

Saturday night

There is no perpetual motion machine, but if it the secret is ever discovered, I believe it will be powered by sexual energy. It's the excitation source that never stops.

Saturday nights in my small Florida town, are like Saturday nights everywhere. Young - or in Florida's case, old - people are out and about, looking for the one. Whether it's the one for one night or one lifetime is not clear, but mostly the need is immediate. The smell of elevated hormone levels is eye-watering, everyone's heightened level of awareness of everyone else eye-popping.

It's always been this way, but now I'm an observer of the game, at least when I'm out working. The twenty-somethings like this place, Horse Feathers. It's an okay restuarant by day, with a good wine list, but on the weekends, it turns into a zoo. Lurking around outside waiting for my customers, one thing strikes me as different from when I was twenty-odd. Thesedays the girls dress up; sky-high heels, skirts, expensive blouses, hot dresses, make-up, hair, nails. They're walking Vogues. But the guys are slobs. Jeans, sneakers and untucked shirts, trucker hats - the contrast is jarring.

It makes me wonder if men even think about trying any more. Maybe they don't need to.

Oh, how things have changed.