Cahn't Git Theah From Heah

I have lived and worked for the last seven years in Northern Arizona. Northeast Arizona to be exact. If you look at a map of I-40 as it dips down (like a pimple) about seventy miles west of the New Mexico border, that’s Holbrook. That’s where I live. Of course, to call it B.F.E. would be doing B.F.E. a huge injustice.

Currently, I am working as a medical transport driver for the largest personal transport company in the state. It is called AAA and was started with two taxicabs by two Iranian gentlemen in 1982 (can anyone say: ‘Habibbe we must flee with our gold before the Shah falls!’). Of course, these guys have become phenomenally successful owing largely to their Draconian management style (but that complaint is for another day).

Now, as an example of said success they had to recently renew their fleet of cabs for the Sky Harbor (Phoenix) Airport contract, because Ford stopped producing Crown Victorias. So there I was a few weeks ago at the ‘shop’ espying 122 spanking new, hospital-white, Chevrolet HHRs. Just for the airport trade! The HHRs in question were lined up, waiting patiently for the paint shop to provide them with their fresh new glossy-yellow finery.

After all, Yellow Cab is Yellow Cab and only one of seven cab companies that AAA owns in Phoenix alone.

But I digress. What I drive is a massive, what I like to call: “Po’ Man’s Amalance.” It’s a 2006 GMC one-ton cargo van (the one with the 155" wheelbase and the 6.0-liter engine). What ‘Savana’ is used for is to transport wheelchair and stretcher bound people to and fro, often for hundreds…and hundreds of miles. The wrinkle is, all these folks are destitute and on Arizona State Medicare (Oooooo, the stories they do tell being all isolated and medically challenged. But that’s also for another day).

Okay, I’ve described where I live and what I do. Ergo my job description is: Rural Stretcher Transport Driver. Accent on the Rural.

And this being a blog concentrating on the dialectic, I’m sure you all can appreciate the confluence of conveying the largest van known to humanity while picking up people living off of the GRID.

Case in point: just today I had a customer whose address I couldn’t locate on Mapquest (happens a lot). Fortunately, everybody has a cell phone nowadays, so I call up my fare and ask directions: “Well, you come down off the hill (which in these parts means dropping from 7500 feet above sea level to 6225), and you’ll pass three mailboxes. Go by those mailboxes until you get to the two mailboxes. Take a left there (here is where I leave the pavement, egressing onto a washboard, gravel ‘County Road’). Follow that ‘road’ (seven miles) up over the hill (ascending back to 6800 feet) until you see an A-frame. After the A-frame you’ll take another left at the white trailer…you can’t miss it. Oh, and somebody tore the ‘street’ number sign down, so make sure to watch out for the white trailer. After you turn, go down a ways until you see a couple of junked cars… that’s us.

And guess what? I found his ass ON TIME.

I’m surprised the van still has a front end… but I found him on time.

Bio

A little about moi (yeah, I'm a French-Canuk).

First off, I am wayyy too old to be on the 'blogosphere' (is that term stale yet??). Secondly, I am a veteran of 20+ years in the restaurant business; a Mc'Donald's neophyte who eventually graduated to the Executive Chef position at the highest dollar 'Gentlemen's Club' in Orlando Florida (anybody remember Rachel's??).

Consequently, (oh yeah, there've been other things along the way like marriages, a child, a 4.0 university G.P.A. at age 47, a few years living under bridges, yada yada) I am a once sweet kid but with a natural French cynicism amplified by years of dealing directly with the public (mmmmm..... sweet and salty, the ultimate chef's dialectic).

So, here we go.

This One Should be at the Top!

Ugly 'n Lovely.. .

This blog will strive to highlight the dialectic thrust of everyday life, like a chocolate covered pretzel.

Sweet and salty.