On Saturday night, we traveled from the Lower East Side to the Upper West Side in style… a black stretch limo with tinted windows and a personal driver named “Donnie”. Since getting a job, we’ve really stepped it up. Forget taxis, subways, and buses. Move over Donald Trump. We roll with the bigwigs now.
We left a restaurant and patiently waited outside for a cab despite the subzero temperatures and beginning signs of frostbite. Yet, no yellow beacons of light appeared. Finally, Ben caught sight of a “gypsy” limo and hailed it over to our corner. The driver rolled down his window, asked for our destination, and then unlocked the door to our salvation.
Everyone climbed in and stretched out on a leather seat while “after hours” mood lighting faded from purple to green to blue. Although Donnie played fun tunes that we sang along to, he failed to stock his ride with refreshments for the weary, thirsty stragglers he found on New York City streets and sidewalks.
When we arrived at our street, Donnie straddled the limo diagonally over one corner, barely missing a group of four guys. Ben and I hopped out, tickled that we rode home in a limo. Across the street, the group of guys slowed down and pointed at us.
“They think we’re famous because of the limo,” Ben said. “Shield your face.”
We covered our faces with a free hand, ran across the street, and pretended that the attention embarrassed us. I cursed myself for not having any sunglasses to shield me from the growing number of paparazzi.
The limo paid for itself.
We left a restaurant and patiently waited outside for a cab despite the subzero temperatures and beginning signs of frostbite. Yet, no yellow beacons of light appeared. Finally, Ben caught sight of a “gypsy” limo and hailed it over to our corner. The driver rolled down his window, asked for our destination, and then unlocked the door to our salvation.
Everyone climbed in and stretched out on a leather seat while “after hours” mood lighting faded from purple to green to blue. Although Donnie played fun tunes that we sang along to, he failed to stock his ride with refreshments for the weary, thirsty stragglers he found on New York City streets and sidewalks.
When we arrived at our street, Donnie straddled the limo diagonally over one corner, barely missing a group of four guys. Ben and I hopped out, tickled that we rode home in a limo. Across the street, the group of guys slowed down and pointed at us.
“They think we’re famous because of the limo,” Ben said. “Shield your face.”
We covered our faces with a free hand, ran across the street, and pretended that the attention embarrassed us. I cursed myself for not having any sunglasses to shield me from the growing number of paparazzi.
The limo paid for itself.
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