On the Road Again

On the Road Again

By Kathryn Kerr Fitzsimmons

Bill had explored, executed and exhausted more than one post-retirement endeavor by the time he decided to drive for Guber. After thirty five years of great success in the corporate world, he felt under a microscope every day he spent in his own home. His career had taken him all over the globe. He was a provider, and an excellent one at that. He gave his only child a life he could never have imagined as a boy. His daughter had circumnavigated the globe five times by the age of sixteen. She was his pride and joy– she made all the jet lag and unidentifiable foods at business dinners worth it. 

The day Bill's wife criticized the way he took out the trash, was the day he applied to join the Peace Corps, at the age of 65. He spent just over one year in Siberia, teaching English and business classes at the Russian Aerospace Academy in Krasnoyarsk– an alarmingly dilapidated structure that put Sputnik on the moon. He was banished from Russia on forty eight hours notice, suspected of being a former CIA agent. He snuck back into and across the country on a thirty six hour train ride, after spending two weeks in Latvia, to retrieve his belongings from his 400 square foot apartment in the middle of the night. For fifteen months, he had lived on a stipend of $15 USD a day, and this was what it had come to. A ransacked living space, stolen photographs and a plane ticket to JFK, scheduled to land on 9/11/01. He spent ten days in Amsterdam, waiting for the smoke to clear, literally. 

He returned to a house in South Carolina that he barely recognized. His wife had spent a large portion of their retirement savings on redecorating and refurbishing a residence that could have won an award on any home and garden tour before its total rehabilitation. At that point, he decided to embark on a two year journey to earn his Life Masters in the game of Bridge– a game he had picked up in his fraternity house fifty years prior. He traveled the country, entering tournament after tournament with various partners who shared win after win. He had a brilliant mind for cards– always had. Between tournaments, he played on-line to earn additional points. He became president of the local Bridge club and reluctantly partnered, on occasion, with men and women who aspired to his level of skill. He preferred to win, but he felt it was his duty to help others along their personal journey in the world of Bridge. When he reached his goal, he decided to write a book, and then another. 

Bill spent two years promoting his books. He spoke at Rotary clubs, in bookstores across the eastern half of the country, at VFWs, and in homes of fellow authors. He gave away autographed copies at Christmas and birthday parties. His first book was supposedly fiction, but the autobiographical nature of the content caused the CIA to order multiple copies and watch him closely for a time. His second book was also supposedly fiction; and was published just before a presidential election whose outcome was startlingly close to the contents and details of the pages he had written. People wondered. Friends and family questioned. He claimed it was pure fiction and his knowledge was merely a coincidence. 

While Bridge had taken a back burner during the years of book promotion, Bill still enjoyed his status and involvement at the club. Until one day, his most tried and true partner announced he was moving to Vermont to be closer to his grandchildren. This news was a tougher pill to swallow than Bill had anticipated. His partner was a heavily decorated war veteran. Bill had served his country and fought in Vietnam, but this part of his past was rarely mentioned. Still, he felt a close connection and a deep respect for the man with whom he had shared hundreds of hours of a game he loved. When his partner moved north, Bill retired from Bridge forever. 

Watching the news, walking the dog, playing golf, and managing the finances to accommodate his wife’s insatiable desire to spend money soon gave way to a level of boredom and apathy with which Bill was uncomfortable. He liked driving. He always had. Through nearly forty years of first class world travel, he was most comfortable behind the wheel of a car. It was peaceful. It gave him ultimate control. He had driven on the “wrong” side of the road through Europe. He had navigated the narrow, winding, mountainous roads of Hong Kong. He learned the ins and outs of Tokyo, which is notorious for having few legitimate landmarks in the inner city streets. He had even taken a turn behind the wheel of an outdated, opened top Land Rover on safari in Africa, avoiding herds of elephants and wily baboons swinging from trees in his path. He could certainly drive people around in a comfortable, clean, well kept sedan within the local roads of his small, island town in the low country of South Carolina. 

And so it began. He developed a following. Apparently, there weren’t many reliable Guber drivers in his area. He made one promise to his wife. He would not drive at night, due to his slightly impaired vision at the age of 75. His daughter reminded him that this was wise for many reasons. Late night pick ups meant late night drinkers. He would need a bucket, in case of inebriated passengers who might toss their cookies on a moment’s notice. He never broke his promise, because he was a man of his word. He had a five star rating within a month. 

Bill had always been a man of few words. His wife was the chatty one. She could carry conversation for both of them, and always did. But his passengers changed his life, and provided him with a daily report over many dinners that intrigued and entertained anyone and everyone seated at the table for the next three years. The repeat clients were no less dull than the tourists or locals who occasionally needed a ride to or from work. He had a standing appointment with a neighbor who needed a ride to the “Inquiring Minds” center for those with dementia. He once got a call from a woman outside a porn shop, who carried two grocery bags full of sex toys and had hair down to her knees. He drove a barber from his condo to his shop two miles down the road on a regular basis, and always heard stories about his feral cats who shrieked outside the windows all night long, and left presents on the doorstep each morning. He drove a young woman to get an abortion, and when he realized she didn’t have a ride home, he waited, and returned her to her apartment free of charge. He delivered multiple lost cell phones and wallets to gentlemen having fun on bachelor party weekends, who claimed their wives would divorce them if they lost their third or fourth phone or wallet in one year. He accrued cash tips ranging from a twenty dollar bill to a hundred. He took famous musicians and actors to the airport. He didn’t know who they were, but his daughter always did. He drove a family with a child dying of cancer to the emergency room, because she had spiked a fever and her oncologist was on vacation in Turks and Caicos.

He drove. He delivered. He listened and he learned. He felt needed, relevant, and more invigorated than he had throughout all the years he had earned six figures or more.