Part II – The Missing Limo

“I’m so hungry I could eat my own teeth.”

“You have teeth left? Someone get me a fork.”

“Will you two shut up and look for a place to eat?”

It was 11:30 pm and my prom friends and I were cruising midtown in the Limo From Hell looking for food. We had missed our 8pm reservations at Top of the Sixes by a mere three hours and they had refused to seat us. Can you believe that?

They said the kitchen was closed. Communists.

We now needed to find another restaurant that was a) open, and b) able to seat seven people on short notice and without reservations. We also needed to hurry because the club where the prom was being held would close at 2am and after what we’d been through, if we didn’t get to dance that night someone was going to die.

Probably me.

“Hey guys, I’ve got an idea.”

“GeekMan, you’d better not say Dunkin Donuts again or so help me…”

“Well, that’s not what I was going to say, but they are open 24/7.”

“It’s our Prom Night dammit! I’m not eating a crappy doughnut for my Prom Night dinner, so you better think of something else!”

[sounds of general agreement and imminent mutiny]

“Well, I really wasn’t going to say Dunkin Donuts now and it was just a suggestion before. More like a joke really. You know, a joke?”

[evil glares]

“Puh-lease people, give me some more credit than that, okay?”

[crickets]

“Ahem, well. Anywaste, I was just going to suggest that we go to the Hard Rock Café. They’re open late and I don’t think we should have any trouble getting inside. They’re also pretty fast.”

[awed silence]

“GeekMan, you’re a genius.”

“Thank you.”

“No really, we’re impressed.”

“Well, we do still have a problem.”

“What?”

“Does anyone know the address? I don’t think our driver could find his way out of bed without help from gravity.”

After a hurried consultation, we came to the conclusion that no one knew where the Hard Rock was located well enough to give the idiot driver directions. We used the car phone to call information to get the address and somehow made it to the restaurant at about midnight. After making sure we could get inside to eat, I went back out to the limo laid down the Law.

“Driver.”

“Yes Sir?”

“We’re going to eat here. We expect to be done in 45 minutes. I need you right here in half an hour waiting for us so we won’t be any later than we already are to the Prom. Understand?”

“Yes Sir. I’ll just go around the corner and grab a sandwich and be right back. I’ll wait for you here.”

“Outside the restaurant.”

“Yes Sir. Outside the restaurant.”

“Great. So, you’ll be here in half an hour, right?”

“Yes Sir. Half an hour.”

Happy with this seemingly successful attempt at communication, I joined my friends inside the Hard Rock for dinner. Despite our predicament, we all enjoyed ourselves very much. The food wasn’t great, but we were so hungry by this point that a little thing like taste didn’t matter anymore. Once we had food in our stomachs we no longer really cared about how late we were and how pathetically stupid our driver was. We laughed, and joked and made fun of the whole situation. 45 minutes later we walked out of the restaurant with full bellies and the promise of a fun filled Prom ahead of us. That’s when reality sucker punched us.

Our limo was missing.

My friends and I stood there in utter disbelief. It was unfathomable that our driver wouldn’t be waiting for us after all the other screw ups he had made that evening. He had gotten lost after every pickup. He had ruined our dinner. We were hours late because no matter how explicit the directions he hadn’t been able to follow them correctly.

He was the Forrest Gump of The Limousine & Taxi Commission.

For him to not be waiting for us after all of that had to have been some sort of joke. For a brief moment I actually looked around for a hidden camera and hoped someone would pop up and shout, “Smile! You’re on Candid Camera!”

I wanted to cry.

Instead, we did the only thing we could do. We called the dispatcher (who we were on a first name basis with already due to our constant need for directions) and complained bitterly about the horrid man they dared to call a driver. We only had an hour of our Prom left and it didn’t look like we’d even make it to the club. We felt cheated, let down and thoroughly disgusted. At 1:30am the limo pulled up to the Café and the driver told us he had gotten lost trying to find a place to get a sandwich.

My friends had to literally hold me back from kicking him in the nuts.

By the time we made it to the club there was only 15 minutes of dancing left. We left the limo and gave the idiot driver explicit instructions. He was to wait at that exact spot for us to come out. We told him that he was not to leave, not even to go to the bathroom, because we’d be back in less than half an hour.

Confident that he finally understood the severity of the situation, we went to our Prom.

It probably won’t surprise you at all that when we entered the club, the first person I saw and the first person who saw me, was my ex-girlfriend. We had only broken up three weeks before but she already had another boyfriend while I couldn’t even get a date for the Prom. She was looking radiant in a little black dress and sexy high heels with a handsome, popular and rich guy on her arm. By this time of the evening I looked more like a half dead penguin in a bad wig who had just run a marathon by dragging himself along by his eyelids.

She’s probably still asking herself what she ever saw in a loser like me.

My limo friends and I met up with all of our other friends inside the club and told the story of our hellish evening to anyone and everyone who would listen. We then danced to every song, no matter how horrible, because we had come too far and through too much not to dance. 20 minutes later at 2:10 am, the last song was played and everyone was told to vacate the premises. Some of our other friends were going to Jones Beach to continue the party and watch the sun rise and we agreed to meet them there. My limo friends and I were the last people to leave the club. Against all the theories of Darwinian evolution, common sense and self preservation, our idiot driver had ignored us yet again and disappeared.

Big surprise.

Sighing in resignation, we made the call to the dispatcher. Apparently, our idiot driver and moved the car about 10 minutes away from the club and then fallen asleep in the back. It took three calls for him to wake up and answer the car phone. By the time he made it back to the club it was almost 3am and my friends and I had had enough. We decided to forget Jones Beach and just write off our big Prom Night as a spectacular loss.

It was time to go home and have a good cry.

I was the last person to be dropped off. By the time I made it home it was after 7am and I was so tired I didn’t even bother to curse the driver when he forgot to open my door for me. I had been out all night and all I had to show for it was a wrinkled, cheap tuxedo, a no-longer-poofy pompadour, and the memory of being lost in some of the worst parts of the Bronx with an idiot driver who wanted to stop and ask the ‘nice gentleman with the gold teeth hanging out at the payphone’ for directions. To top it all off, two weeks later I received a limousine bill for $600.

That bill was never paid.

So, how was your Prom?

Part I – The Limo of Doom

“Let me get one more picture, GeekMan. You look so handsome I could cry!”

“Moooom!”

I rolled my eyes while my mother made cooing noises and lined up the Polaroid like a shotgun at my acne covered face. We were standing outside our Brooklyn apartment building waiting for my rented limo to arrive and whisk me away to my High School Prom. I was dressed to the nines in a rather threadbare, black, rented tuxedo that smelled of mothballs and cheap detergent, and my $30 second-hand shoes had been shined to mirror brightness by a combination of a black magic marker, an old washcloth and generous amounts of spit. My brand new contact lenses were causing me to blink furiously and my eyes were watering at an almost biblical rate as I stared intently down the street and willed the limo to appear like magic and save me from yet another silly photograph. Catching a glimpse of myself on the window of a parked car, I cocked my head to the side and smirked at my reflection in my best Michael Knight impersonation.

“Damn,” I thought as I straightened my bowtie. “Eat your heart out James Bond!”

I patted my Dipity-Doo and Aqua-Net styled hair back into its limp and very un-cool pompadour and tried to smile for the camera. As soon as the little black box had vomited forth yet another iron-clad example of why I should never be allowed to breed, I again asked my mother for the time.

“Mom, where do you think the limousine is?”

“Don’t worry Geek, I’m sure he’ll be here soon. He’s a professional.”

“I know mom, but maybe we should call…”

“Stop fretting and let me take another picture of my darling boy.”

“Mooooom!”

The limousine was already almost an hour late. Being the one responsible for the limo, my friends had decided that I was to be the first person picked up. Of course, that made it my responsibility to make sure everyone was picked up on time so we could head off to our fancy dinner and the Prom. Even though not one of my friends had a real date for the evening, we were all prepared to enjoy ourselves to the max.

We were going to have fun Porky’s style.

Although I was all of seventeen, I was a real city boy so I didn’t own a car and hence had no idea how to actually drive to any of my friends’ houses. Because of this, I was hopeless at giving directions unless it was by foot or train. All I did know was my friends’ addresses (written down on a piece of paper for the limo driver) and their general locations on a map. I was positive that that was all I’d need to give the driver for him to find my friends.

It worked for taxis, so why not limo’s?

My friends lived all over the five boroughs so it had been calculated that we’d need about three hours to pick up everyone and make it to the restaurant in time for dinner. One of my friends lived close to me in Brooklyn, three lived in the wilds of Queens, one lived in the unknown and dangerous seeming Bronx and one would meet us outside the restaurant in Midtown Manhattan.

BTW, Staten Island doesn’t really count as a borough because… well, it’s Staten Island.

We had reservations for dinner at a fancy restaurant called Top of the Sixes at eight o’clock and it was already six. I was beginning to get worried, especially since I had gotten this limo based on a ‘friend of the family’ type connection and my friends were counting on me to pick them up and get them to the Prom on time. We had all decided to go to this shindig only two weeks before and finding a limo was very hard to do at the last minute during Prom season.

I didn’t want to let my friends down.

Just as I was about ready to explode into a fiery ball of anxiety, the limo turned the corner and I felt myself relax. I think I might have visibly shuddered as the pent up frustration in my body was expelled in one massive sigh of relief. My muscles relaxed to the point that I needed to hold on to something just to keep from falling down.

It was like a full body orgasm without the mess.

As the long, black limo pulled up to my apartment building, I smiled and waved farewell to my mother and walked out to the street. The limo driver was a young man, barely in his twenties and he immediately popped out from the drivers seat and opened the passenger door for me. As I got in he gave me the first warning of the horror that my night would turn out to be.

“Sorry I’m late, but I got lost.”

Unfortunately, my danger-sense was as yet undeveloped and I failed to comprehend this early warning of impending doom. I shrugged and let it slide figuring that anyone could get lost, even a New York limo driver. He shut the door smartly and hopped back into the front seat. With one final look at my mother standing in the doorway we were off.

Cue horror music.

As I sat there in the limo I became enamored with its sleek and sexy interior. It had big, wide leather seats that could easily accommodate all seven of us, little lights for reading, neon lights running around all the windows and a deep, black carpet. It also had a separate tape deck for the passengers, a mini bar and, oh my god, an actual car phone!

I felt like a rock star.

As we stopped at the light at the end of my block, the divider glass that separated the driver from the passenger lowered itself. It was the coolest thing I had ever seen. Alas, it would turn out to be the best thing about the entire evening.

“Where to, sir?”

Wow. He called me ‘Sir’.

“I have a list of addresses for my friends here. They’re listed in the order that they need to be picked up and we need to hurry because we have a dinner engagement at Top of the Sixes at eight.”

I handed him the list and sat back in the seat nearly bursting with pride because I’d managed to use the word ‘engagement’ in a real sentence. I amused myself for a while by daydreaming about using other grownup and important sounding words in sentences later on in life. Words like ‘loquacious’, ‘fastidious’ and ‘avocado’. Five minutes later we were on the Belt Parkway headed for NYC.

A small man with a large trumpet began playing ‘Revelry’ somewhere in the vicinity of my left temple. I hastily leaned forward and knocked on the privacy partition.

“Excuse me, driver?”

“Yes sir?”

“Shouldn’t we be picking up my friends?”

“Sir?”

“My friends. The people I’m going to the Prom with?

“I’m taking you to meet them at the restaurant now, Sir.”

The little man played louder.

“No. Nononono. You don’t understand. We need to pick up my friends first, ok?”

“Your friends, Sir?”

“You know, my friends? I gave you a list of their addresses a little while ago? We’re supposed to be picking them up so we can all go to dinner and then to our Prom?”

“Oooohhhh! I’m sorry sir, I didn’t realize you wanted to pick them up first. Although, to tell you the truth, I thought it was a little strange for you to be going to dinner all alone in a limo.”

The little man on the trumpet was joined by a choir singing ‘You’re Screwed’.

“OK. Well, we need to pick up my friends, starting with the one on the top. She lives only a few minutes from my house so all we need to do is go back to that area and get her and then we’re back on schedule, right?”

“Sure sir.”

“Great.”

The choir and trumpeter paused for dramatic effect as the marching band filed onstage and waited for their cue.

“Uh, Sir?”

“Yes?”

“Do you know how to get there from here? I seem to be lost.”

The marching band burst into an ancient Scottish polka on their out-of-tune bagpipes. They were accompanied by the sounds of the veins in my forehead bursting like cannon-fire as I suddenly developed a twitch in my left eye.

“You’re lost?”

“I’m afraid so, Sir.”

“You don’t know where you are?”

“No Sir.”

“You. Are. Lost.”

“Yes Sir.”

“OK. Fine. No problem. I can handle this. I’m cool, I’m calm and I’m collected. There’s no need to panic. My friends won’t kill me, right? They’ll understand it wasn’t my fault, right? Right?”

“Sir?”

“Shut up.”

“Yes Sir.”

“Alright. I’ve got it. This limo has a car phone, right?”

“Yes Sir.”

“Great. Then I suggest you call your office and get directions.”

“Excellent idea, Sir.”

He looked directly at me from the front seat and slowly, ever so slowly, blinked. Neither of us moved to pick up the phone.

“Sir?”

“Yes?”

“Would you happen to have the number to my office on you? I forgot to bring it with me.”

Oh. My. God.

*** Next time, the Prom Dinner Fiasco ***

Fade in:

Scene: The GeekMan’s front door. The scene begins when some people arrive at the door and begin knocking. There doesn’t seem to be a response.

[knock, knock-knock]

“Mr. GeekMan? Mr. GeekMan, it’s Uncle Sam. Are you at home?”

[old woman voice from inside]

“Geldman? There’s no Geldman here, sonny. Now go away, unless you’re here to give me my eight o’clock Ben-Gay rubdown and bunion massage.”

[/old woman voice]

“Mr. GeekMan, is that you?”

[little boy voice from inside]

“My grandma’s very sick, mister man. You better go and get tested for E. coli right away before you get sick and die. Like my grandpa did, cause he was stupid like you.”

[/little boy voice]

[more knocking]

“That’s not funny, Mr. GeekMan. We know you’re in there. Stop playing around and open this door so we can talk like civilized people.”

“Who says I’m civilized? Maybe I’m a crazed, rabid llama wearing a full-body human-suit made out of fried jellyfish. Maybe I’m in here plotting to take over the world by inventing rubber hair replacements for middle-aged men in Shri Lanka. You better run. I’m not civilized. I might eat your spleen!”

“Mr. GeekMan…”

“For that matter, who says you’re civilized? From what I can see through this peephole you look more like forked-tongued, shark-toothed mafia collection bruisers to me…”

“Mr. GeekMan, please. You know very well who I am and why I’m here, so stop stalling and open up. We have a lot to discuss and I’ve got a lot of other people to fleece… errr, I mean ‘tax’ today and I’d appreciate it if you would stop these shenanigans and let me do my job before I call my superiors and order you to be audited.”

“All right, all right. Bureaucratic paper-pusher. No sense of humor…”

[sounds of many locks, chains and bolts being undone]

“That’s better Mr. GeekMan. Can we come in?”

“Before I let you in, would you mind telling me who your friends are?”

“Oh, sure. This is Mr. Hugh Ohmemore, Mr. Sid Deetax and Miss Stakesullcostya. The two big guys in the back are with the ‘We Break 4U’ moving company and I believe you already know Mr. Quarterly.”

“Moving company?”

“I’ll explain once you let us in. You are going to let us in, aren’t you?”

“What if I say ‘no’?”

“You know that nice homeless man who talks to himself and hangs out in front of the train station every morning with no teeth and a paper cup? The one who smells like year-old urine and stale beer?”

“Yeah.”

“You’ll be his love-bitch.”

“Uncle Sam! Old buddy, old pal! Don’t just stand out there like a stranger; come on in! Can I get you a Fresca?”

“No thank you, Mr. GeekMan. We’re just here to collect what you owe us so if you’ll just stand aside, we’ll take what’s ours and be on our merry way.”

“What? Wait a minute; I just dropped off my tax stuff this morning and I know I sent checks in those envelopes. Big, fat, bank account hemorrhaging, ‘I’m going to need to sell blood and body parts to cover this’ –type checks. How could you be here already?”

“I can’t divulge all our secrets to you Mr. GeekMan. Let’s just say we’ve had our eye on you for some time and leave it at that, ok?”

“…”

“I’m sorry, what was that?”

“Nothing. I didn’t say anything.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. It’s just that when I clear my throat it sometimes sounds like ‘son of a bitch’. Ignore it.”

“Hmmm… That was ‘humor’. I recognize that.”

“Alrighty, then. Why are you here Uncle Sam?”

“To collect what’s due. According to our records, you made a small sum of money last year and, since you’re a Freelance Graphic Designer, we get roughly 99.9% of your yearly gross. After looking into your bank accounts we knew you wouldn’t be able to pay us so rather then let you pawn your fabulous geeky toys in order to raise cash, we’ve decided to simply come to you and help ourselves to your most prized possessions in lieu of payment. This saves you the hassle and embarrassment of a full-fledged audit and helps get the money your government needs to run properly into its coffers faster. Wasn’t that thoughtful of us?”

“Oh crap. Uh, why are those two moving guys looking at my home theater speakers?”

“Correction. ‘MY’ speakers, Mr. GeekMan.”

“Crap. Crap, crap, crap. I can’t owe that much, can I?”

“Oh my, Mr. GeekMan. This is only the beginning! Your front and center speakers belong to me now, the rear speakers and subwoofer are going to the State, and Sid here gets your DVD player and TV.”

[GeekMan is in complete shock]

“I think it was very generous of us to leave Miss Ex-Boxx in your care. Don’t you agree?”

“Wait a minute! I can pay you! Don’t take my baby away! How much do I owe?”

“You can see for yourself right here on this document…”

[paper shuffles]

“Holy horse jockey with hemorrhoids! I can’t pay this much. Dammit man, Bill Gates couldn’t even pay this!”

“I thought as much. Ok boys, grab our new stuff.”

“Oh. My. God. Not my home theater. Please, anything but that…”

“Sorry Mr. GeekMan, rules are rules.”

“You bastard. Do you expect me to pay?”

“No, Mr. GeekMan. I expect you to cry.”

Scene ends: GeekMan is crying on the floor of a now desolate and empty apartment.

Fade to Black

I really, really, really hate tax season.