Roger Johnson Weblog

The first draft of this log or diary of a chauffeur was all about how we differ from taxi drivers, an explanation not worthy of the electrons needed to post it; what I want to put down is the nature of doing service, doing something that any other person could do but is willing to pay someone else. This is role-playing of the existential variety, perhaps one example will put it better:

Driving Queen Noor:

This may be about the only time that it would be right to give the real name of the passenger, and that is because she is a public figure, had chosen to be a public figure in the most profound way-she chose to become a queen.

I drove her and her small group around town for almost three days: in a black SUV there was Noor, a couple of assistants, a bodyguard and yours truly.

-The queen never once spoke directly to me, however she did speak to others who would speak to me.

-The bodyguard  grunted acknowledgments to anything I might say.

-The assistants hovered about, just as planets orbit and take their light from their star.

-The queen was here to promote ‘her cause’ and had written a book, she was being pulled across the stage to advertise green issues.

The whole thing reminded of nothing so much as the school play I was in; costume, manners, script.  And for three days it was fun, great stories to tell for years to come.

On the third day we went to a private terminal of Midway Airport, a Lear took the party to their next stop, the bodyguard stayed behind because another would pick up the group on landing, this gave my guy a few days rest.

As I mentioned, he would do little more than grunt responses to me during the time She was here, but as soon as the Lear’s wheels left the concrete he unbuttoned his jacket, lit a cigarette, slapped me on the back and asked me how I was doing.  His part in this act was complete, he was not required until four days later. Here was a different person, a different role, a guy who made a few jokes, had an eye that could wander towards a full bosom or rounded buttocks, a pretty good guy to be around.

I said that I had been watching him, and the designer bag of hardware that he kept between his feet on the floor of the vehicle, I said that  his job didn’t look like a lot of fun; no, it was hard, but he had a large family, back in Jordan, who had become used to the kind of money that he had been making for the last couple of decades. He had been bodyguard to the late King Hussein.

He told me something else, that I had heard from others, marshals and other security people: They all know that if someone wants to do harm, all that they can do is make it as difficult as possible; but if someone is willing to pay the highest price it is almost impossible to prevent them, death is the option.

I was to take him out to O’Hare, he would meet up with his party again down the line; on the way we passed a billboard for Chippendale’s Club, the women’s strip joint, I had some fun teasing him about that , it was easy to press the button labeled ‘proper sex roles’ and see him light up. Perhaps it was easy for him to entertain me by responding the way he did, that women should know their place, that they should not display certain appetites in public, pretty predictable stuff on both our parts.

And then that play was over, each order is like a short scene in the grand play: Hold the door for the passenger. Don’t talk unless the passenger initiates. No first names except for special circumstances. Don’t repeat anything that is heard or seen.

There are more stories, if there is an interest I will put them down here.