Prom Night

I had just finished a day working with a friend in his contracting business, and was about to crack a cold one, when a voice called tentatively from my porch.

"Hello...hello? Is anyone home?

I went to the door to find a cabbie co-worker standing there, uncertain if he had the right place.

"Did you know you're due for a Limo run in Stittsville in 27 minutes?"

"Today?" Stupid questions come to me effortlessly.

Stittsville is twenty minutes distant, so I had little time to spare. I showered, scraped a dull razor across my chops, and donned my costume: khaki-coloured casual pants, blue shirt and a tie to match. I was in the Limo and on the highway within 15 minutes, headed for the pickup.

I arrived 15 minutes late at a comfortable suburban home. The lawn was littered with prom dresses, gaudily attired young men, and peacock proud parents milling about snapping pics of their glittering offspring. A black stretch limo sat in the lane, buffed and impressive next to my much older, certainly less impressive, but every bit as long, white Continental. Size matters on Prom Night.

I headed to the porch, through the madding crowd, and came upon a well dressed gent reclining there, sipping from a plastic water bottle. My first impression was that he owned the place. So I offered a greeting, and asked if he knew where I could find the man whose name was on the contract. He looked me up and down, a derisive smile spreading like a disease across his face, and I knew immediately he was the driver of the black stretch in the laneway. I was clearly the loser in this pissing contest.

"Knock on the door. I think they're out back. Someone will help you out."

His tone implied I needed all the help I could muster, masterfully condescending. So I kicked his chair out from beneath his skinny ass, and pounced upon him, my fists pummeling his smug face.

Not really.

I knocked, and was greeted by the young lady I was contracted to ferry about town for the evening. She was a sweet and gracious girl, respectful despite my patchily-shaved face and modest attire. We settled the outstanding account on the spot, with an extra $40 for me, and a cold bottle of water to boot.

The kids all carried backpacks, which they loaded into the trunk, and as the picture-taking subsided, we climbed aboard, and departed.

They were already mildly greased on punch, but with their parents smiling mugs receding in the rear window, the gloves came off, and the booze started to flow.

We hit the Queensway, Ottawa's main artery, and settled in behind a slow moving compact. The driver, and lone occupant, began waving his arm outside the window. He gave the peace sign I think, waved again, clenched his fist, and my initial amusement gave way to mild aggravation as his antics continued. He was driving well below the limit, but I was momentarily content to remain behind: there was no urgency to "get there", and traffic on the two lanes headed east was heavy enough to forbid my leapfrogging him. But the arm gestures continued, and the space in front of him had grown enough to make passing a necessity. I picked my spot, swung the derelict beast into the passing lane, and, as I overtook him, turned to glance at the face belonging to the highly animated arm. It was my boss! He'd been conducting that little symphony for my benefit, and was probably just as aggravated as he'd been aggravating. I tossed him a wave, and sped past, doubtless annoying him further.

I dropped them off on a side street beside the hall, eschewing the spectacle of red-carpet service: several cop cars parked out front were making a gloriously cliche limo-emergence difficult, and all of my charges were under-aged by at least a year. The kids seemed not to mind, and we arranged to meet three hours later.

Three hours later.

My charges once again hopped aboard, and we headed for the University of Ottawa, where recently-vacated student residences were rented for the night. One couple remained behind while the rest headed inside to change. I was reading a magazine, straining my eyes in the dim light, when the car began rocking side to side. A mirror check ruled against an outside agent. The rocking continued, subsided, continued again, and went on, impressively I thought, for about fifteen minutes. I felt a pang of nostalgia for the glory days of my youth.

Music was blaring from a speaker inconceivably mounted in the front of the limo, and pointed towards the rear compartment, a customized setup that couldn't be more impressively idiotic. Even were the music not the utterly mind-numbing crap kids have developed an ear for, it would've proved a painful listen. I have no tolerance for music devoid of melody, lyrical interest, some degree of instrumental prowess and a dash of originality, four facets modern pop avoids with remarkable consistency. The more repetitive and predictable the sound, the higher it scores on the pop charts. Modern popular music is, by and large, dreck.

The kids boarded once again, complained loudly about the smell of consummated lust pervading the limo, and chided the couple responsible for their lack of restraint. I took directions through the divider, closed it, and dropped them off at a bar in Aylmer at midnight. We had crossed into the province of Quebec, where the drinking age is 18. By 12:30am, they were back aboard, demanding a ride to Addictions, a nightclub in Hull where one is encouraged, ostensibly, to indulge habitually in compulsive behaviour. The location triggered a mixed-bag of memories: it was a bar I'd been beaten up in by bouncers some 25 years before. Anglo's in Hull were once popular targets for group attacks by bouncers who, meatheads though they were, could nonetheless appreciate five to one odds. The cops always sided with their French brethren when it came time to take out the English trash. Whether things have changed much I don't know, but my young charges returned to the limo, happily none the worse for wear.

I returned the kids to the university dorms, and bade them all good night. Oddly, and sweetly, they all gathered around, shook my hand warmly, and thanked me genuinely for my efforts. They pressed a wad of bills into my hand, an additional gratuity that was more than double the earlier one, and expressed hope that it was enough, uncertain what amount was acceptable. They then decided the car needed cleaning. They gathered up all accumulated bottles and garbage, thanked me again, and waved as I pulled out, suddenly impressed as hell with the job their parents had done.

Of Limo's and Lush-ous Ladies...

I headed in early last night for a limo run. Disguised in shirt and tie, I pulled the old, white, stretch-Lincoln out of its lair and hit the highway in 21-feet of faux-luxury. Soon I was skirting the wilds of Carleton Place, steering the leaky, old boat along miles of narrow dirt roads, feeling like I was piloting the Titanic in a tributary. At a fork in the road I chose the wrong branch, thanks to some sign-spinning jackass, but recovered with some delicate maneuvering and a handily-situated laneway. I arrived at the pick-up with five minutes to spare, pulling up to an imposing log home situated a quarter mile off an already beaten track. Thankfully there was just enough room to get the beast turned about. My passengers, two well-appointed ladies, appeared on the large porch, already mildly greased in anticipation of the evening's festivities. I introduced myself, and showered them with my undivided attention, which consisted entirely of opening and closing the limo's doors to load them in. I then pointed the nose of my good ship towards the road, and took directions for my next stop through the divider.

I picked up three more passengers on the way to a benefit for breast cancer. The quintet of ladies ranged in age from late-thirties to mid-sixties. They were a gregarious gaggle of gals, clearly intent on getting gassed and having fun. I dropped them off at the arena in Pakenham, in a hall above which the festivities were taking place. A couple of hundred similarly attired and battle-ready ladies of all ages were already milling about in groups, filling the early evening air with bursts of laughter and loud chatter. I left them there, returned to Carleton Place, shed my disguise, and drove a few fares about town, before settling down to read, as the calls predictably dried up.

At midnight I returned to Pakenham. I read the paper as I waited for my charges to appear, and smiled with Oscar-caliber panache each time a drunken reveler, inhibitions worn to the nub by drink, approached to ask if I was there for her? I casually deflected more than a dozen such approaches before the first of my ladies appeared, walking unsteadily, remaining upright only with the help of a concerned friend. I hopped out, performed the role of gallant gent/bootlick chauffeur, and when all were aboard, headed for the open road, the boisterous cackling of hell-bent matrons muted only by the window separating our compartments.

Earlier, during my repeated exchanges with passersby inquiring as to my availability, the passenger window of my compartment became stuck in the fully retracted position, making for a cold ride home. I blasted the heater and fan to the max, and succeeded in keeping the chill from rendering me cryogenically preserved.

As I sped along the dark and desolate flattop, a boulder-sized impediment appeared over a rise, dead in front of me, immobile. I slowed, quickly, momentum resisting my earnest pedal-work, until I was nearly on top of a porcupine that stood with its back raised and quills extended in defiance of my approach. The ladies reacted, some with hilarity, others with alarm, all by being thrown forwards with the sudden stop. When the relief that they were all going to survive had passed, a chorus of cursing was followed quickly by alcohol-fueled recrimination. The porcupine, having escaped harm, (as I literally nudged it when I stopped), waddled casually the rest of the way across the road and into the woods.

I opened the divider, feeling compelled to offer an explanation. Since porkies are not well regarded in these parts, I explained, with admirable daft, that a "large animal" had crossed our path and that everything was now all right. I prayed nobody was sober enough to peek out the window and see the great beast waddle into the bush.

I dropped my charges off, two at the first stop, one at the next, and finally pulled up the long lane in the woods to the impressive log home. The lights were on inside and out. I opened the rear door of the limo, and began gathering up the various parcels of booze and party favors, while the more sober of my two remaining passengers attempted to deal with the one slipping into a cocktail-induced coma. She got her friend to the rear door after much fumbling, and thrust her towards me. I grabbed her to keep her from falling, my hands very much in contact with more of her than she might otherwise consider proper. As she was somewhat my senior, I wholeheartedly endorsed the notion of impropriety. We escorted her to the door, one on each arm, where she waved her key threateningly at the lock before her friend finally took over. As they entered, the home alarm system began beeping. She failed repeatedly to disarm it, and the alarms kicked in, blaring loud, staccato, electronic bursts into the night. The phone rang, and she ran for it. I was on the porch, looking through the window as she passed by, leaning too far forward it seemed to me, before she disappeared from view. A loud crash announced her difficult landing. But as is so often the case with drunken mishaps, she was unhurt, and not the least embarrassed, having only a dim awareness of her plight.

A neighbor showed up and disabled the alarm. I was offered a drink, which I declined, as they indulged themselves before a now blaring, and beautifully ancient, Wurlitzer jukebox. After much encouragement, my client agreed to settle our account, and allow me to leave. She finally decided on cash, tipped me handsomely ($68) for my efforts, and hugged me enthusiastically before releasing me back into the wild.