An Incident Report

noreply@blogger.com (Camille Jacks) — Mon, 20 Dec 2010 18:54:00 +0000

by Camille Jacks


Just another day in metropolis. It wasn't romantic,

though in the beginning, I had very vivid

fantasies that it would be.

The ad read," CHAUFFEUR WANTED:

No exp. necessary, training provided."
Lies all lies. I applied and got the job, before I knew what hit me.
A little guy named Kevin ran the office from a renovated garage.

Lucky me. My interview consisted of filling out a basic

application and an ogling from Kevin.

Name: Nina Jacobs


Address: Venice, CA


Education:College BA Liberal Arts


Experience: N/A


Why do you want the job?: I like to drive.

I lied, I didn't like to drive but taking one long look

at the guy running the show I thought, " I'd better write

something, he'll understand, and think is positive."


I was right. He spent longer pretending he was a mountain climber

and my legs were mount Everest than reading my application.

If my hopes and dreams meshed with company policy it was a

secondary concern. I was hired.


"When will I begin training?", I asked.


"Are you busy right now?" He looked at his watch.


"No, not really." I told him, eager to get off unemployment.


"Great." He tells me handing over a piece of paper, drivers in the

business call run sheets. Then he hands me keys and walks me

over to a shiny black Lincoln Town Car parked in the driveway,

while I taught my eyes to absorb the information scattered

throughout the page.


"You know how to get there?"
"Not off the top of my head."
"Just go that way," Kevin said pointing north.

"Straight down until you get to Sunset Blvd. Then turn left,

 you can't miss it."


"Got it."


I start up the ole Lincoln and rev the engine.

Very smooth. I pressed down hard on a button next to my arm,

my window suddenly disappeared inside the door.

Like the bat-mobile, I thought.

I adjusted the mirrors feeling great.

"One more thing." Kevin says walking beside the car as

I reverse down the drive. I stop and Kevin hands me a

heavy black two-way pager, about six inches long and three

and half inches wide.



Was I suppose to make calls with or use it for protection?

I wasn't sure.


I made it to my destination right on time.


I knock on the door. It opens, no ones there.

I step in and look around. Then a big suit case plops down

in front of me nearly smashing my toe.



When I look up, there's a second one beside it.

Just as big, just as heavy.



"You can go ahead and load these." A female voice instructs

from behind the wall of luggage.



"Sure," I say, sounding delighted and no longer sure who I was.

I found myself grunting and sweating all the way to the trunk,

twice. As the second suitcase dropped in I brushed my hands

together a few times thinking this job was no big deal.



I started to close the trunk when the same female voice shouts

out to me, "Wait there's one more."



I released the trunk and watched it bounce right back into

position, then started moving the suitcases around trying

to decide how much room I would need for the third bag, hoping

it of course, that it wouldn't be too big. And of course, it was.



"Golf clubs." the woman tells me.

She's little, about a foot shorter than I am.

I now understand why I wasn't able to see her before

this fresh fiasco.



"You have to take them, don't you?" I asked her thinking

that I could talk her out of it. She didn't look like a golfer.

Turns out, she wasn't.



"They're my husbands, I am meeting him in Las Vegas and these

have to be with me, or else." She explained pretending

that her index finger was a knife as she ran it across her throat.



I didn't think he would really cut off her head but I let her go

on with that notion, I was out of ideas.



"Kevin said my luggage would fit. So there must be a way."

She went on, walking around the car taking mental measurements

then finally holding her arms apart so that one hand was on the

top of the club case and one hand was on the bottom.

Then she locked her arms in place pretending to hold the case

while she walked around the car a second time.



"I could lay it across my lap in the back seat." She suggested.

We tried that and almost squashed her, poor thing.



Then I got a flash of inspiration. The passenger side front

seat was always pushed forward because no one ever sat there.

That was the solution I thought, the golf club bag would fit

nicely next to me in the front.



I eased the passenger seat back, dropped down the window

and sat the golf club bag in place. Because it wouldn't bend,

I had to prop it at an angle so that the last foot of it poked

out of the window, but the plan was a GO.



It worked, well mostly, it worked. We drove like that all

the way to the airport. Me, the golf clubs, and my half-pint

passenger.




The next day I reported for work. Kevin was in the office

taping up an autographed head shot of some model when I walk in.




He sees me, stops taping, and stomps over to his desk.

When he returns, he's shaking a piece of paper at me.

"What's this?"

"An incident report."

"I wasn't in an incident." I pointed out.

"A customer said you hung her husbands $10,000.00

golf clubs out the window."

"How else was I suppose to get them in the car?"

"Where's the phone I gave you?"

I use both hands to take it out of my purse.

"Right here."

"Well the next time you are in a situation like that,

why don't you use it to call and ask me? You don't

call the shots around here! I'm in charge."



"I agree. I promise never to think for myself again.

You, happy now?"


"That all depends."


"On what?"

"Whether or not you'll give me a massage."

Disgusted I walk out.

"Never mind. Just stay mad then." I mumble.

"How 'bout a hug, then can I have a hug, just a small one."

I give in. Hugs are harmless. He walks into my arms,

his forehead in my breasts, and he stays there a while

making moaning noises. Great. Maybe this is a good time

to ask for a raise?



When it's over, Kevin hands me my run sheets for the next day.

How bad could it be?

Driving Toward You

An Incident Report