I hated doing airport pick-ups. It usually meant that I would have to transport a rich snob from the airport to the Ritz or some other exorbitantly priced hotel in Toronto, for a flat fee of one hundred Canadian dollars. Don't get me wrong, I haven't anything against wealthy people, I intend to be one myself one day. It just seems to be that those, who use my services, tend to be rude and obnoxious. My car is a two year-old Stretch Caddy, metallic white, red leather seats, with just about every luxury known to man inside, including an icebox, wet-bar and wireless Internet. I keep it in pristine condition and it's the envy of every other limo service in Toronto.
Firstly I need to explain why I was doing the Airport pick-up. I am an actress, undiscovered, of course, except for a few supporting roles in off the main street productions that sink into oblivion either after the first curtain, or close thereafter. My agent tells me, "It's only a matter of time", but its all I ever hear from her, after five years and hundreds of auditions, I have yet to be cast in anything that has enough success to get me "noticed"
Yes, I have screen credits, I was beach bunny #3(red bikini) in "Beach party", I was the French maid who is murdered in the opening scene of "House of Desire", and the woman police officer who gets shot in the shootout scene of "Downtown Heist"
My parents who divorced each other when I was eleven, support my choice of career, but the support has always been in the way of moral support rather than financial.
For the last five years I have lived undiscovered and one step away from an eviction notice in a crummy basement apartment with a budgie called Velvet and a fish called Wanda. This all changed when my father died and left me everything he owned in the world: His house and his business.
The house is pretty neat; it's in a nice sub-division just North of Toronto. It's a little rural, with big lots and wide streets, the neighbors are nice and polite and seem to be almost invisible during the week and only appear on weekends to mow lawns in the summer or shovel snow in the winter. His business was a one man-, now woman-, limousine service complete with license and airport privileges.
So now between auditions and supporting roles in plays that seem destined for greatness but somehow fail, I drive rich, ungrateful slobs from the airport to their snooty hotels or high-rise apartments, often also, I drive them North to luxury resorts on lakes in summer or winter ski resorts, but they are for the most part, jerks and rude. From experience, I have learned since I inherited the business, not to see my passengers as human. I see myself as a courier, and my passengers as cargo. I have become the ultimate transporter.
I had been awake for over twenty-four hours. The opening night of the play I was in, had ended up being the final curtain, as well. Yet another steppingstone in my illustrious career of appearing in box-office flops. The call came in on my cellphone as I made my way home in the early hours of the morning. At first I had politely declined, I needed to get some sleep I complained. It was an emergency the company had said, a very influential man was flying in from Vegas in a private jet, and wanted to be driven to his estate in Muskoka. I complained that I had an airport pick-up set for three pm that afternoon, and that there would be little time to do both. The fee they offered, over ten times my regular rate made the decision for me. I headed home for a cool shower. I scrubbed my face of make up and changed into my chauffeur's uniform, a white linen shirt, freshly laundered, crisp, and clean. No bra. I pulled a narrow red satin tie under the starched collar, and flipped the shiny red tie into a perfect Windsor knot, and pulled a pair of comfortable linen pink bikini panties. I chose a simple pair of black tailored slax, cinching them around my slim waist with a designer belt. I slid into a pair of warm woolly socks and tied the laces of my comfortable black leather cross-trainers. I donned a matching double breasted coat and chose a similar outfit for the afternoon pick up, zippered it into a plastic suite hanger, downed a mouthful of coffee, three "stay awakes" and headed for the airport.
I rolled onto the limo stand of Pearson International at about four am. The airport was all but deserted. I waited at the VIP lounge until my client cleared customs and came through the glass doors. By four thirty we were heading up country on HW400. The drive North went without a hitch, I delivered my cargo to his private estate on lake Muskoka without incident, mainly because he slept through the entire four-hour trip.
The drive back was without incident. I stopped off at a truck stop for brunch, its one I use when I go North of the city, The food is good, the relaxed atmosphere makes its easy to ignore the trucker's comments or their pick-up lines. I was too tired to make eyes at the waitress, who is absolutely gorgeous, a tall, willowy brunette, with a set of boobs I longed to touch and suck, I was tired but careful not to stare too much. I use this truck stop often because of her, and I think she knows it.
When I neared the airport, I phoned my service asking for the instructions again. Meet Mister Edward Cousins from Atlanta Georgia, American Airlines Flight 215 from Atlanta at Gate 37 Pearson at 3:15 PM Friday precisely, and transport him and his luggage to the Toronto Hilton for my usual flat fee. I turned the radio on to keep me awake, and in touch with the afternoon's traffic conditions.
The three pm news had just begun as I swung into the limo bay at Pearson, some elite escort agency had just been raided and the owner busted for prostitution, drug possession and racketeering. The mayor was thrilled as was the police chief. I slid into the backseat with my zippered clothes hanger. The mirrored glass would give me enough privacy; I pulled out my carefully pressed dark blue chauffeur's jacket and tailored slax, clean blouse and panties. I slithered out of my soiled clothing, bundling them carelessly into a ball. I sprayed some fresh deoderant on and dabbed some "Navy" onto my wrists and behind my ears, before slipping into my clean clothes. I adjusted my tie in the smoked glass divider, then ran a brush through my curly blonde hair. I refuse to wear the peaked cap, as it always musses up my hair. I looked at myself critically in the mirror; no, I looked the same, green eyes, I used some foundation on the dark rings under my eyes, I am tall for a woman at 5'10" with nice sized 34B cup breasts, trim tummy and long powerful legs from working out on a Bowflex in my home gym.
I grabbed a soda from the wet bar and popped three more "stay awakes". I pulled the blackboard from the trunk when I dropped in my soiled laundry, and printed "Mr. E. Cousins Atlanta" in big chalked letters and headed for gate 37. As I neared the gate I read the arrival/departure signs, yes, AA flight 215 from Atlanta was on time and passengers would arrive through gate 37, as would passengers from Japan Air Line's JAL flight 315 from Tokyo. I chuckled, "Well, at least there was little or no chance of a screw-up with me collecting the wrong Mr. Cousins".
An airport voice announced that flights AA 215 an JAL 315 had landed and that passengers would be exiting at gate 37, I looked at my watch, 3:08, well at least this bozo wasn't going to keep me waiting.
Luggage began to travel around on the rattling rotunda and the passengers began emerging through the glass doors. I stood to one side and held up my chalked sign.
People thronged through the doors but no one approached me, except for some punk kid telling me he'd like to take me for a ride, I withered him with a "Get fucked" stare, not even bothering to answer the little prick. At 3:45 the glass doors to the gate eventually shut. I looked around but it was evidently a no-show.
