LIMO LINES: SAX and Violins

3 July, 2014
Lagos, Nigeria

Although being a chauffeur was at times interesting and exciting, the days and nights on the job were interspersed with spells of boredom. Long, lonely nights waiting on some desolate curbside for several hours, cooling my heels doing nothing while my client whoops it up in some opulent ballroom, can be tedious.

It's quite a contrast. I guess that is the point, isn't it?? It's not that these people have money, power, and/or prestige. That is a given, though it should be mentioned here that even a wino could hire a car and driver for a few hours if he somehow manages to up with about $200 cash. But the whole "Home, James" thing usually boils down to making some appear to be better by putting down others.

People get pleasure seeing others scurry around for their benefit. I never cared for this step-and-fetch-it mentality, but it seems as though the farther one goes DOWN the socio-economic scale the more likely one is to want to sit on his tail, clap his hands like some pompous Roman Emperor, and be served grapes and be fanned while lounging on his couch.

People need to feel important - that they matter. This goes for a boardroom executive all the way down to a security guard. The truth is, the more confident people feel with themselves and with their lot in life, the less likely they are to make others miserable in order to make themselves look and feel important. My best, most down-to-earth clients were the ones who had made a success of themselves in life, knew it, and had no need to prove anything to anyone.

Confucius says: "The superior man is satisfied and composed; the ordinary man is always full of distress." I have seen this to be the case, although I have also seen a great number of "distressed" so-called "Superior" men.

My grandfather often said: "There is no such thing as satisfaction; to want something and get it is only to want something else."

It did no good to concern myself or to worry about the psychology of people, although it amused me to do so. I had a family to feed and just did my best to do my job. If people got their happiness putting down a working man while they hire opulence by the hour, so be it. I was getting paid: the money rolled - or in my case trickled - from them to me, and not the other way around for once. I didn't feel put-down; I just felt a little richer!

One night I was on a job involving dropping some guests at a club or business in the French Quarter in New Orleans. It goes without saying that any job involving the Vieux Carré will inevitably include crossing pedestrians-only Bourbon Street at some point. I never saw the attraction of a street that caters chiefly to people who pour mass quantities of poisons down their throats, killing their brain cells, and acting like fools.

But these morons, seeing a brand-new, shiny-clean stretch Lincoln limousine pull up to the stop sign at the pedestrian mall (or Fools' Way), dumbed down (if such a thing were possible!!). Instead of just walking on by, or … or… dare I say this? OR… maybe stop for a second to let me by!! (What a CONCEPT!!) ... instead of doing that, they'd actually stop in front of me deliberately, or walk slower, joke around, or whatever.


If I inched forward to try to get by, these distinguished scholars would kindly offer a language tutorial right then and there. They'd point to the stop sign - I found out that the red hexagonal sign at the corner with the word "STOP" meant to cease forward motion of my vehicle. I thought STOP was an abbreviation of: "Stupid Tourists On Patrol."

When they'd block me I'd pick up the carphone and make out like I'm calling the cops. Trust me, a New Orleans cop is someone you don't want to cross. That worked sometimes.

More than a few times I'd have to sit there while throngs of stinkers --- sorry, drinkers - would stagger past in a seemingly unending procession. I'd wonder when - or IF - I'd ever be able to get by. They'd angrily point to that stop sign - as if I couldn't see it. I felt like telling them: "I AM stopped... It still says 'STOP'; When do you think it's gonna say 'GO?'"

I preferred to bide my time away from that lunacy in a quieter area of the Quarter. There I could be alone with my thoughts and with my solitude - instead of being alone in a crowd. Give me peace and quiet and a good book, I say.

I was heading to pick up my guests. Always arriving before I was expected, I was enjoying the late night drive through the picturesque old city. I came upon yet another dimly-lit corner, happily void of stupefied sojourners. I had my window down in order to take in the sights, sounds, and smells of that eclectic area. I came to a stop sign and saw on one corner a burly man playing blues on the saxophone. Catty corner from there was a pretty, young girl playing classical music on a violin.

There being nobody behind me, or in my limo at the time, I jumped out of the limo and shouted: "STOP IT!! Just STOP IT RIGHT NOW!" I put my arms out, like a football referee calling for silence.

The musicians ceased playing immediately and looked up at me, bewildered.

"Say, man, what's yo PROBLEM!?" The saxophonist shouted, unaccustomed to having his sidewalk concerts interrupted, especially so rudely.

I explained: "That's just what's wrong with New Orleans: there's too much SAX and VIOLINS on the streets of our city!"

With that, I got back into my limo and drove off into the night, leaving, no doubt, two bewildered street musicians who thought they had seen and heard it all.

In the French Quarter - you NEVER see it all!!!