The tales of the Geneva Shore Report Uber driver.
I never did a pick up from a private jet before. When I got the call I got excited. I’d driven by the private airport out on Highway 50, a few miles east of the butcher shop, many times, but I’d never driven down the access road to see what was there. From the highway it always looked like a collection of overgrown chicken coops. I took off in my friend’s Mercedes. It would be my last ride in his car, as my car was ready to come out of the shop the next day. It was late.
My last ride because it wasn’t the weekend, and I’d decided to stop driving rides late in the night during the week. I was making enough mostly, and the a.m. (during the week) rides were too weird, and didn’t tip well enough. I pulled up to one of the giant chicken coops the flying people call hangers. There was another guy there, standing next to his car. I parked, got out and approached him to pass the time. I was early, but I wanted to get the lay of the land, so to speak, about the hoity-toity private airport. I was also interested in my ride. He was some sort of corporate mogul visiting a girlfriend in Lake Geneva. In truth, my imagination filled in that last part. I didn’t know his business. I took a dislike to the waiting man immediately. He wouldn’t shut up. All he talked about was his brother coming to pick him up in the best private airplane ever built. Blah, blah, blah. When he finally shut up, he asked me why I was there.
I instantly decided to tell him I was waiting for my partner. I stopped there. I don’t know anything about airplanes. His descriptions of the twin turbine propeller Navajo, pressurized, fell on deaf ears. I didn’t know a Navajo from a Cub or anything else. His plane landed with the usual clattering roar propeller planes make. It taxied over and shut its engines down. The man’s brother got out. The man brought him over to meet me, and it was more of what had happened before. They were proud of their little Navajo. It actually looked pretty cute. All of a sudden a low rolling thunder came across the tarmac. A big white jet, almost as big as a commercial plane, floated toward landing. The roar of it’s jets reversing was deafening. The big unmarked white plane taxied to where we stood, and stopped, just back from the Navajo. It sat there with its engines spooling, not shutting down. A big door opened near the front, and a set of stairs automatically telescoped down to the concrete. I stared. The other two guys stared. “That your plane?” the first guy I’d met asked. I nodded dumbly. I didn’t know what to say.
An arm extended out of the doorway and a hand waved me toward the plane. I said goodbye to the two men and walked slowly toward the plane’s stairs. I went up and stepped into a wonderful world of luxury and leather. “The luggage is back here,” someone yelled from the rear of the plane. I didn’t care. I was glued to one of the plane’s port holes, watching the men admire the huge jet and walk toward their car. I wasn’t going anywhere until their car was gone.