Welcome Sign

You have probably seen me at the airport, hanging around the arrivals area, holding a sign showing my customer's name. I might be tall or short; skinny, muscular or portly; smoothly dressed or somewhat rumpled. The likelihood is that I am older rather than young, grey-haired more than colored, measured more than peppy. I am overwhelmingly male, glued to my cellphone and almost always tired.

The driving job isn't my first choice. I might have a buddy in the business who needed some help one weekend...and I stayed. It's possible that I saw the potential in a buoyant economy and bought a limousine with a down payment and a dream. Retirement might have bored me rigid, and the idea of some extra money (and tips!) appealed to me (and my wife.) Or I could enjoy the driving, the hours, the observation of human nature, the variety, and just not being stuck indoors enough to want to make it a long-term job.

After around two years you start to think you've seen it all. That's a mistake. There will always be new ways for people to surprise you; incredible, unbelievable behaviour that will make great tales for the telling. But somewhere in there you begin to notice patterns, to recognize situations as echoes of days past - this kind of misunderstanding is best resolved in a particular way, that type of customer is actually asking for somemething different than he or she verbalizes, and we both know it. Experience begins to guide you when uncertainty looms.

Mostly I like people, and want to help them through. My temperature might rise when conflict arises, but I know that it's overwhelmingly likely to be in the customer's mind than in the way I carried their bag. I probably dream of a week of early to bed and breakfasts there too, but start to miss the road after two days of that. The money sucks, The Boss acts weird, nobody tips anymore, these cars aren't running right, the cops hate me, I'm hungry, Starbucks sucks, I miss my family....and yet I'm still here, in the monkey suit, holding up my sign, looking for Mr Smith.


Also published at The 941.

Fame

I'm famous!

The local alternative paper (read: lefty haven) publishes my posts under a (different) pseudonym. This week, I'm in print.

Yay me.

You Too

I'm sorry. If you don't know that the lead singer of U2's name is "Bonn-Oh", not "Bone-Oh" you are not real fans. Fuck me. Dilettantes in pop culture make me wanna puke.

Sorry sir, may I open the champagne for you?

You see the kind of dual life I lead, being appalled most of the time, sickenly sycophantic the next. You'd be the same if you were surviving on tips.

The night of the U2 concert in Tampa was long and messy. Every limousine within 150 miles was out, and the other 69,000 people drove their cars. Raymond James stadium, home of an amateur football team called the Tampa Bay Buccaneers was chock-a-block full for the night, and that was just the performers' egos.

My people were early mid-aged lawyer types, overfed and undermannered. Snark aside, they were reasonably polite and not at all a problem, but who wants to hear about mild-mannered Richy Riches daring to live large at a Rock Concert for the night?

However, one of their number was a trouble-maker from the start. As I later discovered, he was an ex-fighter of some sort, the kind with a giant body, peanut nuts and dino-brain. Better living through chemistry, apparently. Why anyone pays to see artificially-grown men bash each other is beyond me, but I bore the weight of his 'roid rage that night. Except when he was being nice. And there he goes morphing into a prick again.

Oaves suck.

Where was I? Oh, that's right. Channelside in Tampa, after the U2 show, with a drug-addled lunatic and his nouveau riche friends. Whatever. Another show, another dollar.

Alcoholica

Metallica played the St Pete Times Forum Saturday night, a giant thrill for local metal fans. The hard rockin' hall-of-famers aren't familiar to me, so I figured it would be best to be prepared for anything when I drove eight die-hards to the concert.

One lesson one learns quickly in the limo game is the ancient one of not judging a book by its cover. My customers for the night might have looked like well-used paperbacks, but who the hell am I to judge? They were polite and friendly, and although I couldn't figure out just why their teenage children were coming, seemed like first-rate parents too.

Look, it's easy to be a snob about these things. Metal bands are a mystery to me, but then Scarlatti is probably a joke to them, unless there's an Italian hair band of that name floating about the place. Customers are customers, and as I say to The Boss, they all get the best treatment until their behaviour dictates otherwise.

Tampa is a dozy kind of place, with many one-way streets, and evidence of bored uninterest from the city fathers (and female mayor) that a clean sweep would rectify. Public performance venues like the SPTF are used all the time, and yet the organization around parking, traffic flow and (especially!) limousines is abysmal. The cops do their job as well as you'd expect, but the feeling one is left with is that administrators could care less what happens when the sun sets and they're comfortably ensconced somewhere else having dinner with a lobbyist.

That's a whole other issue.

A driving gig to Tampa for a concert like this is about as good as it gets, because everyone's in a good mood. They're also deaf and swaying when they come out, but that's fine too; I just turn up the heat, and they're all asleep by the time we've hit I-75 southbound.

The real fun lies in the time between when the show ends and the customers find me. Metallica girls are given to taking their tops off, I understand, an outstanding turn of events. When the sweaty crowd is melting out of the arena, there's plenty of eye-candy to keep a bloke occupied, even if they're with scary looking dudes.

They're probably shit-scared of my tie.

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'.

Champagne Ruined

Without any justification, I'm a champagne snob. An ex-girlfriend introduced me to the wonders of French bubbly, a moment I shall never forget. It was non-vintage Moët et Chandon that first sip, just like the bottle in the picture. Oh, the nose; WOW, the bubbles; and OMG the taste. I'm sure Taylor, our local wine guruette, would use more technically appropriate language, but there is nothing else that compares to champagne from Champagne.

Which is why it pains me so to see this mixing of the best of France, and the best of Florida. Sacré bleu! Whatever where they thinking? The young couple were just that weekend engaged, and I was driving them to their celebratory dinner at Euphemia Haye.

Bravo, congratulations, good for you and all that. But why did they have to ruin the champagne with a Pepsi product?

It's enough to make me want a martini.

Beach Butt Bingo

With the limo trade as dead as a dodo, I have time to spend frivolously at the beach. It's a balance - my tan improves, my bank balance declines. That's the Zen of Chauffeurdom. I hope business will pick up sometime soon, because if not, I will have to look for something more.

However, in the dying weeks of summer before the start of Season, a few lazy days on Florida's best sand won't hurt too much. Fingers crossed.

A few months ago, I noticed the above sign at my favorite local swimming spot. The City erected them adjacent to carpark paths to the beach, with receptacles for cigarette trash attached to the poles. Hooray! Few things piss me off more than lying down on my towel only to find myself in an ash heap of butts left by some inconsiderate asshole.

Now I'm not averse to people smoking should they choose to. But lazy douchebags who have neither consideration for their fellow beach-goer nor the law truly cheese me off. How difficult is it to collect the product of your habit, stick it in your sunbag, and cart that shit off the beach?

Apparently it's beyond a lot of them. Just this morning, after a few laps between the buoys, I was relaxing on Lido Beach. Groups of Girl Scouts were all over, picking up (with gloved hands) butts and other beach detritus to "...keep the world clean". So it's come to this: children now volunteer as garbage collectors to do the work of indolent, selfish adults.

*

Butts are not bio-degradable.

Alzheimers

If he asked me ten times, he asked me forty. Sir, we're in Florida, and I'm driving you to your condo. The old guy whose ride didn't work out ended up with me, to our mutual discomfort. He thought he was in Connecticut, having just left Florida, but I was definitely in Florida. And I had the humidity to prove it.

Because times are slow in the limo game, being on call 24/7 is now a part of the gig. It's somewhat like begging; take what you can get, and always have your hat out. We're better dressed than most beggars, and we brush our teeth, but we're basically in the same game. If you feed at the bottom, be prepared for shit to fall on you from above.

That was how I ended up with this poor disoriented man. The trained folks who normally look after befuddled oldsters couldn't turn up, so minimum wage dozy me had to look after this man who should never, ever be left alone. The Boss is unable to say no, and I'm obliged to say yes. That's how modern business works.

Fortunately, the ride was short, and I had the son's far-away number. I called him five times in twenty minutes attempting to allay the old guy's concerns about where I was taking him, who would be there to meet him, and where are we again?

Each time, my guy said "That was Frank. He's my brother".

In reality, that was Robert. He's his son.

Get used to it. The dumbest generation in history, the baby boomers, is coming to a town near you. Decades of drugs, booze, therapy and self-indulgence are gonna land smack bang in your lap.

At least I'm getting $7.21 per hour. How much will they pay you?

Grouper Ranch

Prostitution is prohibited in Florida, not that you'd know. Driving into town along the main road from the north, the choice of short-term dates is extensive. You can have short girls, tall girls, white girls, black girls, old girls, young girls and girls who might not necessarily be girls.

Most of the action happens after sundown, but there are a suspiciously large number of ladies waiting at bus-stops during the day. I guess sexual urge is time independent. It might be my imagination, but there appear to be more ladies plying their trade lately. Presumably, tough times lead to tough decisions, with sometimes equally tough consequences.

Limousine customers ask me to find them hookers from time to time. I'm not averse to helping them out, but it's not that simple. We can't just cruise up and down pro-row in a thirty-foot long limousine all night, sidewalk shopping. In police parlance that's called cruising and my name becomes John.

What I should to is some research ahead of time, talk to some of the women, take phone numbers, check out what individual girls look like, what they charge and so on. Innocently seeking out a handful of professional contacts makes sense, but what if the cops are mounting a sting that day? If I'm booked, will they believe me that I'm negotiating for my own future customers? And will the charge then escalate from simple procuring to trafficking, or living on immoral proceeds?

I know! I should contact ACORN. Apparently they offer all kinds of advice in this area, and it's taxpayer funded. Excellent.

This keeps getting better. Community organizing takes on an entirely new flavour.

And look, a prostitution sting just days after I wrote this.

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Nocturnality

For a really big night out, locals lust after the big smoke: Tampa. Channelside, Hyde Park, the International Plaza and Ybor City all beckon from just an hour up the road. I forgot the Seminole Hard Rock Casino in that mix, rather a large oversight.

For a limousine company, this could be a gold mine. All these places cater for party-people, and have lots of variety within their precincts. Any one of them can be a great night out destination for a bunch of people, but they're too far away to drive and party. Ergo, limousine. Eight or fifteen people in a stretch can have a ball.

From our point of view, they're pretty good gigs. Although some folks have ideas about visiting two or three, the usual outcome is that they spend all night at one. Sometimes it's fun driving around, checking out different areas. Staying on the move, loading and unloading everyone reduces the boredom factor, but exponentially increases the mess factor.

Sidebar: Every ingress requires a new round of drinks, with the accompanying spillage and glass usage. As well, more street soil is introduced to the limousine's interior, which, of course, I have to clean out at the end of the night. A good night for me means as few ins-and-outs as possible, plastic cups instead of glasses and no visits to the beach. Sugar sand is a bitch in black carpet. End sidebar.

The downside of Tampa nights is the late finish. Limousines alter customers' sense of time, often leading them to stay until closing. Which is fine. But by the time the bars call last drinks at 2:00 am, close the doors at 2:30 am, my people find me and load up by 2:45 am, on the interstate at 3:00 am, drop the last person home at 5:00 am, I gas up and get to the office by 5:45 am, then spend an hour cleaning - well, it's a pretty long night.