DANCING THE NIGHT AWAY

I’ve occasionally heard about college girls paying their tuition by working in strip clubs and escort services, so when a posse of middle-aged women corralled me and started shoving dollar bills down my pants, I knew I’d inadvertently stooped to a new all-time low. “Please put the money in my hand,” I initially said as they coyly distracted me one after another. Then, tired from my all-nighter and outnumbered, I raised my arms above my shoulders and said, “Bring it on.”

My days of donning a chauffeur’s cap and leather gloves and driving a Lincoln Continental stretch limousine ended years ago. I’ve regained my dignity—that is, if you can tolerate some of the convicts’ insults and the monotonous routines of prison work. The money certainly is better. A three hour limo ride meant fifteen dollars in my pocket plus whatever tip money came my way. The drunker the clients, the better the tip; In this case, as I drove down the road, these middle-aged women lowered the divider window and tossed their bras onto the dashboard in a moment of glee. Hardly a dull moment that night; the money kept coming in, via my awkward dance routine.

From my three years of chauffeuring, I can honestly say that those bachelorette parties were the raunchiest. After bar-hopping all night, after witnessing a soon-to-be bride pick up her third male bar-patron, after being interrupted from doing my college coursework and sitting on the hood of the car as it violently rocked back and forth, I thought about whether her soon-to-be husband was performing some deviant acts of his own. Perhaps, since she had told me his bachelor party was scheduled on the very same night, they had agreed to one last hurrah, one last go-around, a sure-fire-way of complicating their marriage even before it started. Myself, I’d rather keep life simple. In fact, before my wife and I got hitched, we had one big pre-wedding party, and I promised her that my chauffeuring days were over.