I never learned to drive, so I have a driver. I’m not rich, but I’ve gotta get around. My driver is a nice guy and he never complains while sitting behind the wheel of my old Volkswagen Beetle.
I used to sit in the front next to the driver, but he objected. He said it wasn’t right, that I should relax, listen to music or read. He would take care of everything. Still, I chatted with him from the back seat. I needed a driver, but I also needed someone to talk with.
We talk about politics, the weather, pop culture and cars. My driver likes cars although he claims he’s not really such a great driver. He just got a reputation and couldn’t find work to do anything else, he says. But it’s okay, he said. It’s a living.
With what I’m paying him, it’s barely a living. But I can’t do better. I’m just scraping by myself.
So thus afternoon, we’re stopped at a light and there’s a zillion people around, maybe a parade or some kind of protest. My driver gets crazy. He starts shouting “move along” or “get along” or something. I can’t make out the words, just the tone. My driver was losing it.
So, I yell back. “Rodney, calm down. It’s just a crowd. I’m not in a hurry. Let’s relax, not lose our heads here.
He gets real quiet, muttering to himself but I can hear. “They kept saying I’m a motorist. I’m just a guy. I never worked as a driver. I can’t believe I’m still doing this.”
I patted him on the back and assured him that we can all get along.