A General Foods International Coffee Moment (and its Accompanying Music)

Something happened at work the other day that made me smile … cry … feel … think. Before I can even begin to talk about this particular event I have to convey a bit of backstory first, to highlight the significance of its impact in a few key areas of my own self-awareness: connections, judgment, time, music, and probably a few other peripherals.

 (It might be a good idea to have a second cup of coffee lined up.)

As a chauffeur, I meet a lot of people. In this business, discretion and privacy are a big thing; I’m not supposed to talk about clients. In this case, I’m not so much talking about a client, but a special interaction between me and another person.

The chauffeur’s job is only to get people where they want to go. We are not encouraged to talk to our clients, but can if they are the ones to initiate conversation. It can be a bit of a fine line to not talk about anything personal, because sitting in a car alone with someone can bring up surprising subjects - maybe not personal so much as deep. We all feel an odd sense of privacy in a car. When the windows are up or when it’s dark outside there is an idea of separateness from the world we see through the windows – and it could be just that, our looking through a window, that causes that feeling. How many different ways do we ‘let go’ in the car? And if we have another person with us? I’ve had some of my best serious conversations with friends or family in a car – and my best quiet moments, too. It’s like the sense of privacy can make it seem like a confessional of sorts.

The business itself is funny – or at least the perception of it is. First, there is definitely an obvious ‘snob factor’; just the ability to hire a limo or black car can, to some, imply a higher social standing. There’s a difference between flagging down a cab or calling an Uber/Lyft and walking out of an airport to find someone holding a sign with your name on it next to a running car that already has the heat or air conditioner turned on. The cab or app driver may be there for you, but there’s a bit of a ‘beck and call’ consideration to the chauffeur.

I would be remiss if I didn’t mention the sexism in this business, as well; this is definitely considered to be a job for the boys – something that is made obvious to me on a daily basis.  I’ve been acknowledged with a horrified, “They sent a woman?” and a delighted, “Wow! My first female driver!” – and both of those exclamations were from women. There’s also the sexism from outsiders, usually male, whose mental image of a female chauffeur involves a uniform that includes thigh-high stockings, garters, and high heels; they tend to assume that I get hit on all the time.  Every day I hear some form of surprise that I’m a chauffeur and a girl. I was a school bus driver for many years; while that field is primarily made up of female drivers, no one bats an eye when they see a male driver.  I have to admit that it does get a little tiring to hear people wonder out loud if I’m capable of getting them where they need to go.

Despite those two most common trains of thought, my clients are diverse. I never know who I will get, what perception there is, or whether or not they will talk to or even acknowledge me. It’s pretty much a surprise every time – which actually makes it fun. It’s even funny on the ‘celebrity’ side; in some cases, the driver is treated as part of the furniture or made to feel a part of a secret event.

In any case, each moment I have with a client is different, yet each new meeting shows me that no matter how different we are – or what my perception of our differences is – I always find a shared trait beyond the obvious.

When I meet people for the first time, I’m able to see these certain levels of connection and how deep those connections run. It can be compared to the idea of having many friends, but only doing certain things with some of them based on their own likes and dislikes – you share with people what you have in common with. Many of my close friends jog and go to the gym regularly, but as close as we are they would never consider to invite me to participate in these activities with them – and I am not offended by that. It’s like that. The shared bond, interests, feelings … whatever … are obvious. We all know what it’s like to ‘click’ with someone, and it doesn’t only happen sexually or romantically.

We are all connected by this invisible thread, but with some people that thread can overlap and cross itself and at that juncture point the impact is more involved or intense. These connections can happen with people you have history with and people you may only know for five minutes.

I love having those random talks with people; you know, those out-of-the-blue serious conversations that seem to spring up out of nowhere and can happen even with strangers – the ones that make you aware that you are not as isolated or as separate as you believe yourself to be, and that confirm the idea of a Universal order over the supposed chaos. Those moments are grounding.

If I feel I'm being judged (whether I’m right or wrong) I have a tendency to get defensive; I have always hated being pigeon-holed. I resent being told that my age, marital status, gender, financial standing, method of dress, or any other single aspect of my person should be any kind of boundary on what I can (or supposedly should) be, do, or say. I hate, hate, hate, when my friends say, “I’m too old for …” – no matter what they are talking about. I am 50. Big deal. I will still wear my bikini, paint my nails bright orange, swear, talk dirty, try new things … dream new dreams … and follow them. My age will never be a point of ending or limit for me. The fact that I’m someone’s mother has never caused me to turn into some homogenized, asexual, bland, “perfect” example for my offspring to clone. How I dress, what my interests are, and my highest level of formal education are not sum-total indicators of my intelligence. My gender does not require me to be passive.

The more I notice judgment about me, the more I have noticed my own judgment of others, an awareness that has helped me to let it go more and more. The idea of stereotypes and archetypes can be useful, but they should never be blanket discriminations. I’ve learned to stop referring to people in their thirties as ‘little kids’ and twenty-somethings as ‘twinkies’. Fastidious grooming in another person is no longer considered by me to be a quality of anal retentiveness. An obvious display of wealth does not imply aloofness or snobbery. Low cleavage is not a sign of low moral ethics. (We all know the parameters we use to judge others by.)

(Go ahead, pour that second cup of coffee now.)

Music means a lot to me. No, music means a lot to me.  I don’t play an instrument, my ability to read music is less than rudimentary, and people would probably be willing to pay me not to sing. I write lyrics, all the while whining about the fact that I can’t write music. I’m very good at Name That Tune (I can name that ‘80s tune in two notes – three, for ‘50s, ‘60s, or ‘70s tunes). I name blog posts and story chapters after song titles. The theme of music as a “Universal Leveler” has shown up in much of my writing. I resent (resent) certain radio personalities who choose songs that supposedly ‘relate’ to a caller’s story, because I can usually choose a song (actually, three off the top of my head) that relates better. The playlists on my iPod (Walkman, mixtapes – how far do you want to go back?) are not only sorted by genre and decade but by moods, feelings, and situations - and I never let people go through my playlists because they are too personal. If I walk into a store and I hear music I like over the sound system I will start dancing and/or singing, no matter where I am. I’m fairly certain airport and grocery store security cameras have plenty of footage of this. (That is actually a family trait and a witness to any of our conversations will hear at least one musical reference or line of a song sung.) I sleep with earbuds in. (Do you know they have pillows with speakers in them? I bought my first one 25 years ago.) I had to physically leave the concert of a friend of mine once, because her music brought up so much in my head that I needed to get to a notebook to write it all down, after my writing notes on my arm became an obvious distraction to those around me (that was the last time I ever left my notebook in the car).

I share songs with people. If the song I shared didn’t play an obvious part in something we experienced together, then I heard something in it specifically for who I shared it with. On the flip side, if someone shares a song with me I will always read into it – any anyone that knows me knows that (even if they feign ignorance). My best friend calls sharing music with me “speaking Susie’s language”.

Anyone, friend or lover, who has ever gone to a concert or musical event with me at any time is bound to me. Whatever our situation is now, I will always hold you connected in that special way.

No matter what I am doing, there is music playing around me somewhere, even if it’s just in my head.

(A little secret about us Breck Girls: the hair thing isn’t just about glamour; sometimes it’s about camouflage – hair can hide flaws like tired eyes, a new zit, or the earbud in my left ear attached to the cord running behind my neck, under my shirt and down my back to the music player in my back pocket or the left inside of my jeans. I’ve worked many jobs quite successfully that way – for years. There have been many, many occasions where I’ve listened to one song on a continuous loop in this manner for as long as two straight months if it inspired an idea or comforted me.)

Do you get it now? Music is HUGE to me.

Now, I can tell you about the event at work:

The day itself was already unusual; I did not spend the day in a black car, but instead started the day in a small limo bus, then a car, then a larger bus. That can make things feel rushed when you know you have to keep going back to change vehicles between pickups. I had just gotten into the car and was driving to pick my passenger up from his hotel to take him to a business meeting in a corporate park when I got the call to go back to work and grab a bus afterward for my next job. I was mentally figuring out the time I needed to do that when he showed up, this gentleman who was obviously older than I was, but in that ageless sort of way that could have been as young as twenty years my senior and as old as forty years older. He was wearing a suit, nothing sharp or trendy but it was fitted and reminiscent of old southern wealth, yet his manner of speech was all business, with no discernible accent.

Chauffeurs arrive early to pick up their clients; I’m usually earlier than the required fifteen minutes, but wait until exactly fifteen minutes before to text them to let them know I’ve arrived. I had just pulled into the hotel driveway when he came out the door and walked straight to my car. Usually that implies that the client is rushing, although he didn’t seem to be.

After we were both settled in the car, I turned in my seat to face him to confirm his destination. It was when he pulled out his smartphone and started tapping the screen that I noticed the three heavy gold rings on his hand (each one sporting a large diamond), a gold cuff bracelet, and an absolutely perfect manicure – then, again, it could have been his hands that made the manicure look so good; I notice people’s hands (don’t judge me).

He was silent for the first few minutes of the ride before he spoke again, to ask me how long it would take to get to the office. I gave him a time estimate but then corrected myself after glancing over at my cell phone and noticed my GPS app had an ETA of one minute over what I had told him.

He laughed and said, “So close – but no one is perfect!”

And then he surprised me.

“Do you know that song? ‘Perfect’?”

An out-of-the-blue song reference? Right away I asked him whose song he was talking about, because I thought of at least three songs with that title – and, yes, I will admit to wondering how he would know any of them because they were all fairly new.

“Ed Sheeran.”

(Wow! Really new!)

I told him of course I knew it, and that I was particularly fond of the version of it that Ed Sheeran sang with Andrea Bocelli – and he said his favorite version was the duet with Beyonce!

My outright surprise made me aware that I had more work to do on my judgmental assumptions, even minor ones.

He got quiet for a minute. I was watching the road and wasn’t aware he was doing anything until he said, “This is for you.” And he played the Andrea Bocelli duet version from his phone, which he held out in front of him so that I would be able to hear it.

The song itself is beautiful and can certainly evoke an emotional response; as far as I’m concerned the Bocelli version is even more intense. And there we were, the two of us alone in the car, just listening to that song.

I could feel the smile on my face immediately; the tears that followed caught me a little off-guard, though, but I was suddenly overwhelmed with emotion. What a special moment! What a special moment! I couldn’t help but feel … I can’t even describe it. A beautiful song played for me and ‘offered’ to me like that? Offered, yes. That was how it felt. He held the phone out to me for the entire song, not pulling his arm back until the last note ended.

Because he waited until the song was over to move, I heard the beginning notes of another song. My two immediate and simultaneous thoughts were:
1: a realization that he didn’t search YouTube to get the song but already had it on a playlist; and
2: a recognition of the following song (yes, I knew it in two notes) – a song that I consider on a par with "Perfect" and have together on the same playlist on my own iPod.

Then, he played "Perfect" again, only this time he played Sheeran’s duet with Beyonce. And we both just listened to it.

Afterward he said he wanted to share another of his favorite songs, “I Will Always Love You”, making it a point to tell me it was not Whitney Houston’s version – and I knew it was going to be Dolly Parton’s. Just before the song began he mentioned a few reasons why he liked it better than Whitney’s version, but quieted immediately when the singing started.

My time with this gentleman lasted no longer than twenty minutes, but in those twenty minutes I was blown away. In that brief time period we were together, separate from our possibly significant age differences (to a possibly more significant age difference), financial statuses, career paths, genders, and even time. It was like there was only one of us in the car, one comprised of us. Separate, yet together, and made up of every possible variation of warm and positive feelings – love included, in an inexplicable way. 

It was a moment I could never have imagined and now one I’ll never forget. How could I? Even the small but noticeable detail that this older gentleman not only had and used his smartphone with the ease and familiarity of someone younger than he was, but that he used it for fun and not just business purposes! Everything about his actions belied any silly assumptions I could have made regarding his physical appearance (let that be a lesson to me).

How was it possible to get so much from one short interaction? I’m aware that even now, as I’m thinking about it days later, I’m grinning rather stupidly and my eyes are a little wet. I also know that I will always be able to feel all of that again, just by remembering it.

But what does it all mean? I have a tendency to ask that question. A lot. Lately, I’ve been learning that looking too hard for a meaning can prevent me from seeing it, especially if what I’m supposed to get out of anything is something I overlook as too trivial or too simple. Sometimes things just happen to make us smile – and in the grand scheme of things, in the middle of a frustrating, busy, or excruciatingly ordinary day, isn’t that enough?

Now, every time I hear the song “Perfect” by Ed Sheeran (any version) I will relive that time again, yet another opportunity to “celebrate the moments of my life”.

Thank you, Sir. The afternoon was ... perfect.