The Ride Home
Night had fallen, and fans were still clustered around the fence. I saw the same kid from earlier and gave him my backstage pass as a souvenir.
“Wow! Cool!” he gushed.
“You have to promise me you won’t try to use it. It’s just a souvenir, okay?”
The look of awe on his face was priceless.
I sat in the car until I heard an extra loud roar from the crowd. The Undertaker was on his way. He made a beeline for the Cadillac, waved to his fans, and fell into the open door.
“Back to Seattle, sir?”
“Yeah, man. Thanks.”
His hair was wet, as if he had taken a shower, and his face looked a little flush. I was sure he had quite a workout.
I peeked in the rearview mirror as we headed out. I got the urge to ask, “So, did you win?”
“What? Oh, yeah, I won,” he answered with a crusty chuckle.
“Cool!”
We drove in silence through the warm summer night until we reached the border crossing. By this time, it was late, so the line waiting to get into the U.S. was short. I pulled the limousine up to the window and handed the guard my driver’s license. He studied it for a moment, handed it back, and asked, “Do you have any passengers, sir?”
“Just one. The Undertaker,” I replied.
“The Undertaker? Are you serious?” Just like the immigration officer on our way into Canada, the American’s demeanor totally changed.
“Yes, I’m serious,” I replied soberly.
I moved the car forward, so the limo’s back window was even with the officer. He instantly started gushing: “Wow, Taker! It’s great to meet ‘ya! What were you doin’ in Canada?”
“I had a match up here and now I’m headin’ back to the airport in Seattle.”
“All right! Well, take it easy, Taker!”
As I pulled away from the window, I glanced at the Cadillac’s gas gauge. A shiver ran through my body. The tank was now under half full.
A chauffeur’s goal is to make the client’s trip as uneventful as possible. That means don’t be late, don’t get lost, don’t speak to the client (unless spoken to), don’t get in an accident, don’t run out of gas, and don’t stop for gas. (The last two can be somewhat of a Catch-22, but thankfully, up to that point, I never had to worry about it.)
For the next 100 miles, I constantly checked the digital gas gauge, watching with dismay as each blue-green LED bar on it disappeared. Now a fun day in Vancouver had turned into a stressful trip back to Seattle.
After we had driven for little over an hour, I was jerked to attention by a loud and long beeping sound. I checked the dashboard and saw a blinking “50 MILES TO EMPTY” signal. I was about 35 miles outside Seattle, so I decided to keep going.
The next alarm went off a little sooner than I expected. The limousine now told me I had 25 miles to empty, and there was a single forlorn blue-green digital bar left on the gas gauge. It was going to be very tight, but I carried on.
I followed the interstate as it curved westward toward the airport, hoping that I wouldn’t end up stuck on the side of the road with a pissed-off Undertaker. There was no stopping me now, so I kept my foot on the gas pedal. Mercifully, the car made it to the departure drive.
I stopped the limousine in front of the United Airlines entrance, hopped out, and opened the door for The Undertaker. He lumbered out, shook my hand, and said, “Thanks, man. Have a good night.” Within seconds, I heard two porters call out his name.
I got back behind the wheel and drove straight to the nearest gas station. After filling up, I went back to the office to dump the car.
It had been a long and memorable day. Even though I did a good deed by giving my backstage pass to the kid, I was bummed I didn’t have something to show for it.
As I gathered up my things from the front cabin of the stretch, I noticed the brown paper bag on the floor. It turns out I did have a souvenir of my trip after all. I had completely forgotten to give The Undertaker his Harley-Davidson t-shirts, and I felt terrible about it.
I tried one on when I got home. It hung down past my knees.
But hey, at least I had a souvenir.
