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January 2, 2012
missing ohio
During that glorious period of my life when I was mooching off my girlfriend, Maddie, there were inglorious bouts with something I've come to derisively call "employment."
One such lapse was my working as a chauffeur. The job was mostly nerve-wracking, as the general motoring public tends to go "Oh look! A limo!" and lurch toward the object of their focus. One might think I met a lot of celebrities, but for the most part I met frat boys who puked in the car and young newlyweds who forgot to tip.
One day, my boss called me excitedly. "Here's the address," he audibly wriggled. "Pick up is at 9am. And John—you owe me, man. You owe me."
This worried me slightly, but I parked the limo in the specified driveway at precisely 9am. At 9:57am, the client came outside. She was jiggling beneath an impossibly tight sequined evening gown, but what I mostly noticed was the tiara and sash reading "Miss Ohio."
"We're late," she snapped accusingly. "Let's go." And thus did I ferry her from her Columbus home to some kiddie pageant in Toledo.
On the day my father died, I had a horribly debilitating flu and the clutch on my Jeep died. I spent 10 hours in the mechanic's waiting room, miserable, not having strength enough to sit upright, fielding phone calls from grieving and/or angry relatives. And it was only the second longest day of my life.
Miss Ohio was certain of two things. 1) I was beneath her and therefore damned lucky that she deigned to speak to me and 2) what she had to say was endlessly fascinating. And what, the reader asks, does Miss Ohio have to say for 11 hours? Exactly one thing: beautiful women have it so hard in America.
We're objectified. We're underestimated. We can't eat. We have to worry about make-up and exercise constantly. Women resent us. Men only value one thing from us. We're defined by our beauty, and that's horribly unfair, she said from beneath her tiara and sash while putting on make-up.
It went on forever. I would have gladly gnawed off my own leg if that would have liberated me from her insights. Instead, I employed the chauffeur's equivalent of going "All right, then" on the phone; every time she paused, I would raise the privacy divider. And every time, she would lower it to share some newly remembered anecdote about being victimized because of her beauty.
I raised the divider one last time and called my boss. "I hope you're calling from a motel!" he chirped.
"Negative. The client is a puseous [redacted]. I'm officially requesting permission to be myself."
"Knock yourself out, " he sighed. "This was a one-time gig anyway."
I couldn't wait for the divider to lower again. What would I do with my new green light? Kick her out by the side of the freeway? Oh, how good that sounded. "Let's see how long it takes a beautiful woman to get a ride," I would tell her, kicking her ass to the curb in a shower of sequins. Of course, she wouldn't bounce even twice before 18 guys stopped to rescue her. And then she would tell him that I hate her because she's beautiful. No, that would not do.
"So," I said in my imagination. "Just how many times a week does a complete stranger tell you to shut the fuck up?" Yes. That would do. I awaited my chance. The divider lowered, and through it flowed anecdotes about how men, bosses, teachers, strangers, etc. think she brings no value besides her looks. And I changed my plan.
"So what other value do you bring?" I asked sweetly, as though genuinely interested.
We drove the last hours in icy, glorious silence. There was no more conversation. There was no tip. And there was no other value.
posted by john at 7:26 AM • permalink