THE DIZZY DUCK & OTHER FINE PLACES

Contrary to popular belief, the best clients a chauffeur can have are not celebrities. I learned quickly that celebrities, at least the local ones, are cheap bastards. As if their presence alone should make up for any short comings in the tipping department. Arthur P., a popular Detroit rock-and-roll disc jockey with a deep baritone voice known for his trademark way of saying “Baby,” never tipped. At first I thought maybe I was doing something wrong, but then I came to realize that chauffeurs are mere extensions or accessories of their limousines.

The real money came from your average middle class person that wanted a fun night out on the town. “Take me to the best strip club in Windsor,” a client might request. If you were quick with an answer, “Okay, we’re going to Cheetah’s,” they were usually satisfied. “What about Jason’s?” someone might challenge. “They’re overcrowded and the service is crappy,” I’d explain. Never mind that Cheetah’s took care of the chauffeurs, fed them and looked after their cars, whereas Jason’s did none of this. And don’t forget those other demographics. My answer for a car load of women: “Okay, let’s go to Danny’s.” Or gay men, “I’ll have you at Menjo’s in no time.”

Ironically, low class folks were generous with their money too. I sat in The Dizzy Duck, a former local dive and after-hours joint on 8 Mile Road near the I-75 underpass, while my clients disappeared into a back storage area. A toothless, tattooed client of mine reappeared. “We paid for you too,” he exclaimed. I looked at the haggard woman under his arm and politely said, “No thanks.” She frowned, and after a slight argument, he retrieved the money and gave it to me. “Spend it however you’d like,” he said, “She wasn’t really that good.”

Then there’s the business people, perhaps the best tippers of all. One gentleman in particular made it worthwhile. He brokered deals between companies, researching businesses for sale and finding prospective buyers. I’d pick him up, then his clients, and we’d go to Sinbad’s in Detroit. While they hammered out a deal in the restaurant, I sat at the bar crushing cockroaches with my beer mug. The bartender always put my order on my client’s tab. I always had my fingers crossed that the deal went smoothly. If it did, I got paid handsomely.