The Chauffeur

The road to Reno stretches far ahead of us, but we all wish it is even further away then it is. I glance back. Style is working on his book, The Game. Every once in a while he reads a sentence to get some feedback. I’m sitting on the side bench staring through the darkly tinted windows at the passing space. We’re in the limo.

Just a few months ago Style told me he was going to get an SUV to carry his surfboards. Always at odds with the beaten path, I persuade him to buy a 120″ stretch caddilac limo instead. They’re cheap on ebay. A day after he agrees to buy it we’re in Houston driving it back to LA. I like people who are impulsive. It turns out to be a fabulous surf car, and a pretty great road trip vehicle at the same time.

Driving at the moment is Cliff, one of Style’s friends. A somewhat macho guy who is the head bouncer at a hot Hollywood nightclub, he’s the nicest guy in the world once you get to know him. They’re doing a movie or TV show or something about pro dirt bike riders, and we’re on our way to Reno to meet them and watch them ride. Always looking for an adventure to lay waste to my free time, I’m along for the ride.

“Ok, now when you pull up to the gas station, before you fill up come open the door for Tynan and I.”

It’s Cliff’s first time driving. We have a little tradition where whoever is driving opens the doors for the people in the back. It’s not a huge deal, but it’s a small touch that makes riding in the limo even more fun.

“No.”

He didn’t know that it was the “house rule”, so to speak.

“I’m not doing it. I’m not your bitch. You open your own door.”

Style and I look at each other.

“Dude, it’s just for fun. No one’s saying you’re anyone’s bitch. Just like when I was driving I opened the door for you and Tynan,” argues Style.

“Well, from now on I’ll open my own door,” replies Cliff, “You don’t have to be my bitch, and I don’t want to be yours.”

“It’s not that big of a deal,” I offer, “It’s just for fun.”

“I don’t think it’s fun. I think it makes me a bitch.”

“Are you THAT insecure in your masculinity that you think that opening a door makes you a bitch?” asks Style. There’s a reason he’s a great pickup artist.

We continue to argue as the opera lights of the limo whiz by the mile markers. Style and I are having a good time, but Cliff has serious moral quandries about opening the door for us. We actually call Cliff’s wife to discuss the subject. She agrees with Style and I.

Finally Style and I come up with an idea.

“Do you think that the dirt bike riders are bitches?” Style asks.

“Of course not. They’re men. And I GUARANTEE YOU none of them would ever open a limo door for anyone.”

I know where he’s going with this.

Style continues, “I bet that all of them are so secure they would open the limo door and not think twice about it.”

Within seconds a bet is made. If the majority of the dirt bike riders agree with Cliff, Style and I will each squeeze through the partition separating the chauffer from the passengers and exit through the front door. If the riders can agree that it’s possible to open the doors for the passengers without becoming a bitch, then Cliff must open the left door for me and the right door for Style every time we stop.

Everyone satisfied that they’ve made a good bet, the limo lumbers on. There’s silence – everyone’s thinking about the bet.

Ten minutes later we pull up to the gas station.

“It’s your limo. It’s not that big of a deal.”

Cliff opens the doors for us and we exit like gentlemen. We never asked the riders their opinion, but I have a hunch Cliff made a good decision.