VOLUNTEERING FOR PROMS

Thirty-one days in March is just too damned long, so I took a day off from blogging. What the hell? —30 out of 31 posts ain’t bad. Seems I’ve been switching gears lately, from prison talk (God, I sound like Alan Alda’s “Pillow Talk” radio show) to limousine talk. Trading one confined space for another. And as always, such awkward timing, after Johnny Yen's rave review regarding my prison writing. I’m quite sure I’m not on the same level as Erik, but if Johnny says I am, then who am I to argue? Initial reinforcement of my writing (or was it the photos?) came from the The Thinker in the form of a chain-letter-type-award. Thank you Johnny and thank you The Thinker. I've got that gold emblem on my template, minus all those rules and links. Chains are meant to be broken, at least that's what the inmates tell me.

Speaking of youth, I remember being the only chauffeur enthusiastic enough to do those prom nights. “Kids’ll tear up your car,” I heard other chauffeurs complain. “They’ll burn up the interior with cigarettes and pot. They’ll puke on the floorboard.” Not long after that the other drivers were asking me, “Why are you so eager to do proms?”

My answers: “Because the tips are good.” What can I say? The young inexperienced guns wanted to impress their dates by greasing my palm.

One night wasn’t so easy though. My client and his date stood outside the limousine getting their pictures taken—I often wonder how many prom photos I’m in? —when the boy’s father asked me if I’d let them drink in the car. Before you pass judgment on me, let me just say that back then I’d do almost anything for a fast buck. “Sure,” I said to the father waiting for him to slip me the twenty he had in his hand.

Was it worth it? Probably not. I became the father that night. There weren’t any messes to clean up. Everything went fairly smooth. Until I dropped the kid off at his house. Before backing out of the driveway, I noticed him keying up a car, or should I say, trying to unlock it. I got out and asked, “What’re you doing?”

“I’m taking her home,” he said turning to the girl leaning against him.

“The hell you are,” I replied.

He tried to wait me out, hoping I’d just leave instead of blocking the driveway. I rang the doorbell and explained to his father that my duties were finished. “They’re all yours,” I said.