Last Days of Limo Driving

There is a wind that comes and claims the heat from my fingertips. It is a thief who does not wait for the dead of night to sneak around. Instead it journeys from afar without regard of light or night. This thief, unafraid of capture and emboldened by a lack of caring, seeks nothing but takes my warmth nonetheless.

Cold and hard concrete laid 30 years earlier remains still despite my stamping feet. My knees and ankles are not fans of concrete and will complain, as they always do, in the upcoming days.  Ibuprofen works wonders but the doctor has warned me about the effects on my stomach. The concrete columns that hold the roadway above is thick and gray with age.  Chunks as large as a suitcase have fallen but repair is unlikely any time soon. I wonder what happens if one drops on my head ending this life of mine. Will my wife get a large settlement? Will the kids go on to Harvard? MIT? Or will the riches of settlement and the lack of a father drive them to drugs and drinking?

The daydream is a thief much like the cold air circling my fingers, the back of my neck and around my toes. The air sucks the heat and the daydream takes the time. I find it fun to daydream. It takes me away and helps me forget that I have been standing in the same spot, stamping my feet, waiting for my passenger for far too long.

Company policy requires that we stand outside the car. Some of the drivers had taken to putting their placards on their window facing the terminal and staying in the car. A few years earlier, a passenger searched throughout the limo waiting area for her ride only to find the driver asleep behind the wheel and the placard with her name on it blowing down the street. A quick rap on his window woke him and though he apologized multiple times, we all now wait outside the car regardless of rain, snow, or cold. Once the plane has landed, we get out of the car, that’s the rule. I’ve been known to not look at the arrival monitor for 10 to 15 minutes at a time just to extend the time in the car.

The fastest anyone I know to get off a plane and to the car is 15 minutes. He ran through the airport with his briefcase flying behind him. It was his son’s birthday and he was desperate to get home before the 5 year old fell asleep.  A hasty trip, completely unplanned the day before, he caught a shuttle to New York in the morning and missed the earlier shuttle on the way back. He dove into the back seat and explained that this would be the first birthday he had missed. I realized that I had been fortunate to not miss many of my kids’ birthdays. I broke every traffic law except parking violation in getting him to his house in record time.

His company paid the fare and he ran into his house forgetting to tip me. That’s just how it is sometimes.

My toes reminded me that my socks and shoes were meant for inside an office. I looked at the green screen monitor for the arrival time. It’s been 25 minutes since the plane landed. Maybe he was in the back of the plane. A bearded man made his way toward me with a small suitcase in tow. Black wool cap covered his balding head and thick black overcoat and grey checked scarf wrapped around his body.

Pointing at the sign, “Hey buddy, that’s me,” he said with a slight Boston accent.

“Great, let me put your luggage in the trunk and we’ll be on our way.”

“Yeah, here you go. I have another piece of luggage to get. They are having some trouble with it.”

“With what?”

“The luggage. I have another bag that I checked on the airplane.” He looked around and nodded toward the terminal. “I’ll be back.”

He walked away briskly. I began waiting again. The concrete supports above my head didn’t fall. Several drivers came and went and I waited in the frigid cold stamping my feet and clapping my hands.

In the warm car, my fingers stung as I gripped the mic and called on the radio back to base. It had been an hour and 20 minutes since the plane landed. That usually meant a no-show. Unfortunately, I had the guys’ small luggage bag in the trunk. I would be late for my next trip. The dispatcher was not happy. His gravelly voice came across the airwaves to the speaker under the dash laced with frustration. There was no one else to drive my last trip. He’d have to call around, have them pick up a car and make my final run.

I stood outside the car. There was one person as cold as me and he approached in his blue and black uniform. Shiny boots rose up to the top of his calves.

“You’ve been here too long. You need to get in your car and drive around,” said one of Massachusetts finest - a state trooper.

“My fare is here, he is just collecting his luggage. Wait …” I paused seeing a gray checked scarf through the window. Not at the baggage claim but at the bar. “He’s at the bar. Damnit!”

“Sounds like an asshole,” the state trooper said without venom. “Go get him. I’ll watch your car.”

He saw me through the window, waved and paid his bill with cash. Turning on my heel, I ran to the state trooper and thanked him.

“Just get the asshole in the car and get fucking moving.”

The asshole walked slowly through the sparse traffic and rolled into the backseat.

“Let’s go,” he said quietly.

“What happened with your luggage?”

“It’s lost I guess.”

I waved to the state trooper and he ignored me. I pulled from the curb and alerted my dispatcher.

We drove in silence. My fingers thawed but my feet didn’t.

“There wasn’t any other piece of luggage, was there?”

“Uh, yeah there was.”

More silence.

He took off his hat and ran a rake of fingers through his sparse black and grey hair, “No, there wasn’t another piece of luggage,” he confessed.

We drove in silence except for the crackle of the dispatcher calling me. No one would be able to pick up my last fare. I accelerated and hit 90 mph on the Mass Pike.

Asshole got out and I handed his small bag to him. He turned and walked to his front door. No tip. No thanks. No nothing.

The dispatcher said if I hustled I just might get the next guy to his plane in time. I didn’t feel like hustling. This part time job wasn’t worth the pain of spending Saturday after Saturday racing from house to airport and back again!

The miles passed under the tires. A large white colonial loomed ahead with two pieces of matching luggage on the front porch. Sand and salt crunched under my feet as I trotted up the walkway.  Bags in hand, the door opened behind me and an older gentleman followed me to the black Lincoln Continental. 

He eased onto the leather and clasped the seat belt quickly. The ride was quiet. No small talk. No questions. No comments.

There it was in front of me. Cold grey concrete greeted me as I knew it would, the same airport terminal from only 3 hours earlier. My feet were still not thawed.

He wouldn’t let me unload his bags, turned and gave me a $10 tip, which is more than twice what was customary.

“You looked like you needed it,” he said calmly and walked away.