the 941

There is a street in our town in which four houses in a row contain four women. They’re all married, all mothers but one, all 30-somethings, all attractive — and they all have enhanced breasts. I know this is true because I have seen all the women together, and let’s just say that none of them went for subtlety. Spotting the decoy amongst the ducks ain’t that hard.

Completely brazen about it, they were out on the town on the Saturday of Halloween, flaunting their curves. Being neighbors and plastic warriors, they call themselves the Breastford Wives. I smell the odor of some group couplings amongst this lot, but what they do with their Tupperware is their business.

I spent time chatting with the husband of the woman last to visit the cosmetic surgeon. I asked him what he liked most about his wife’s new assets.

“Well,” he said, “it puts the lie to the saying that more than a mouthful is a waste. And then there’s the smell.”

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Fall in Florida is the time for weddings, good news for those of us in the making-the-fairy-tale-come-true business. Actually, most of the weddings I see are not about the fairy tale. They’re often pragmatic affairs, almost to the point of appearing to be an exercise in going through the motions. Maybe that reflects more down-to-earth brides, but whatever it is, the emotional energy is often wound way down.

Saturday I drove a stretched limousine for a wedding, one of the happiest I have seen. A clue that both the wedding and the marriage will work out OK is when I knock at the door (to let the client know that I’m there, ahead of time) and the bride is still in civilian clothes. With a veil. Normally, it might be a red flag, an indication that everything is running behind. But I was early, and when she emerged with her bridesmaids shortly thereafter, smiling and calm, I knew everything was fine. A low-maintenance bride who takes time to say hello (after my obligatory compliment about how beautiful she looks) is a gift.

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Midweek limousine runs are a bonus. They’re even better if it’s a bachelorette party, especially if the bride is under 60. Hey, it’s Florida. Ya gotta look on the bright side when there is one. I only realized how old we are around here when a friend visited recently. The first thing she said was, “Where are all the people without silver hair?”

Anna Maria pickup at 7 p.m., then dinner at St Armands, then Siesta Key for hijinks. That was the plan. All simple enough on the surface, but the happy face soon developed cracks.

First, the money. The Boss always quotes an hourly rate for a minimum of two hours. So when the bridesmaid organizer stated she’d been quoted a fixed seven-hour price for a dollar figure substantially below normal, I smelled a grifter. A Canadian grifter, which makes it worse, because I like Canadians.

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The milder autumn air brings out the Peter Fonda in Harley owners, especially when it’s Sunday. Sunday’s the day that men with a gut and a dream fire up the iron horse and join a few buddies for a drive-around, just for the hell of it. And why not? The sound of that slow-revving vee-twin, the feel of the air through one’s bald spot, the companionship — what better way to celebrate the land of liberty than to exercise one’s freedoms and drink some beer.

Unfortunately, the land of liberty also houses the dark side of freedom, which is entitlement. In the case of Harleyistas, they all think they’re entitled to disregard generally accepted rules of the road, and do whatever the fuck they feel like.

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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, gray-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.

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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.

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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, they 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 behavior 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.

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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.

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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. That first sip was non-vintage Moët et Chandon, 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.

To contact Tom, email him, or comment below. To read past Driven Mad columns, click here.

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If he asked me 10 times, he asked me 10.

“What airport is this? I’m in Connecticut aren’t I?”

“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.

Slow times in the limo game mean that 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 faraway number. I called him five times in 20 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?

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