I recently flew to Hartford, CT for a gig. A convention celebrating television shows from the 90’s. Yes, I am that old. Yes, my biggest show … the one that went the distance, debuted that long ago. The event was a blast, but this is not about what happened there but rather how I got there, and then of course how I got back.
There is a new trend afoot where companies will offer a transportation buyout and leave the travel arrangements to and from the airport to the talent. This is usually quite fair, and saves all of us time and most of us money, so why not?
I decided to arrange for a cab for the trip to LAX. My experience with Lyft and Uber has been a bit up and down lately. Their drivers are allowed to cancel willy-nilly if they get a better offer and/or a more favorable destination. I am a cautious and organized traveler. I do not want to find myself staring at an app on my phone waiting for “Great news we have found your driver” to finally appear, only to have said driver choose a different rider and road.
I called Beverly Hills Cab Company and booked a ride. A gentleman who would turn out to be the owner called to verify my airline destination and time of departure. I appreciated the call. The next morning, he arrived exactly on time and insisted on helping me load my quite light carry-on and backpack. His name wasVartan Derohaniahan. How this is pronounced is anyone’s guess, but I have his card, so I can assure you that is how it is spelled.
The car was maybe ten years old, the seats worn, but every surface clean. Vartan is a big guy. As I used to say of my dad: he is built like a refrigerator, if it had feet and muscular arms which tapered down to large, worn hands. Hands that have built things, repaired things; hands that can keep an old car in shape, ready, and on the road.
In the nearly thirty minutes it took to reach the Delta terminal, I learned of his struggle to keep his company afloat during the pandemic. It was a Herculean effort, which involved downsizing the headquarters and--something he was truly reluctant to do--outsourcing the dispatch unit to the Philippines.
“How was it when you called?” he asked. “The person was good? Helped you?”
“Yes, he seemed fine to me. And here we are, so I would say yes. Good!”
I asked where he was from, and he answered Iran. There was a silence after he said it as we both took a deep breath. Iran.
“I’ve been to Egypt,” I offered. “And Lebanon for a minute, but—well—now, I mean, no chance I will ever go to Iran.”
“Oh no. I cannot even go there. My children can never go there.”
He has three children, all of whom are serious professionals. They are very close and spend a lot of time together.
“How can those elders over there let it happen?” I asked. “How can they stand back while the government executes their children for speaking out? I cannot understand it.”
“Ahhh.” A sorrowful sigh. “They are brainwashed. They don’t know better anymore. Terrible.”
I could tell he did not want to talk about it.
“Yes, I’m so sorry.”
“You like to hike? See the nature?”
“Yes,” I replied. “I am a dedicated walker … love to roam and hike.”
“Frasier Park is the best place. No one knows it. You can get there in an hour and a half maybe, and before you know it you can be 8,000 feet. So beautiful. My daughter, she especially loves to go with me there. It is so like magic, and no one goes. They go to Big Bear and other places but not Frasier Park. You should go.”
“Oh wow, I will! Thank you, I did not know about it. I will go.”
“You can call me anytime. You need ride–if any problem–you call me. Here is my card. I will make sure you are taken care of. You call me.”
“Vartan,” I said, gazing at the card. “What an interesting name.” I didn’t even attempt to say the last.
I will call.
The flight home was delayed due to technical problems. Hartford to Atlanta to Los Angeles is a long night at its best, but that flight seemed never-ending. I landed around 3AM, half-witted with exhaustion. Tumbling forth into the night, I checked myself. Purse? Yes. Backpack? Yes. Suitcase? Yes.
“You need car, Miss?”
The town car was somehow parked in the bus lane directly across from the baggage claim exit. He wasn’t in a proper area and wasn’t a proper cab or ride-share, butI did not give a tinker’s damn. I headed straight toward him. Mohammad deftly swept up my luggage while opening the car door. A practiced hand.
“We’ll take La Cienega. Is okay?” he asked when we were on our way.
“Yes, sure. Fine,” I answered, and rested my head on the side of the car.
“You are so tired. Is late, sure.”
I was beyond exhausted. Those conventions are sweet and it is wonderful to see everyone, but they require a LOT of energy and all the love you have inside of you.
“Yes, I am. I am tired,” I yawned, trying to form the sentence.
“Is okay. Tomorrow: cheese omelet. You will be okay. Like new.”
He tells me about his company. He runs a fleet of three cars. Somehow it comes out that I am a professional actor.
“Oh, I will tell my kids. They love the movies, the TV. I tell them I drove Sean Connery. They don’t even know him. Can you imagine? He is Sean Connery! I drove him many times. ‘Mohammad from Pakistan! How are you?’ Not a great Connery impression, but he tried. “This is how he say me. I drive him many times. He never talk about movies. Only politics. He loves politics.”
Well now it’s official, I think. He is bar-none my favorite Bond. The others are good and all, Daniel Craig especially, but Connery loved politics. That settles it. He’s the one.
Mohammad also has three kids. The oldest son is a doctor, the daughter an attorney, and the youngest is in tech.
“He makes the most money! Can you imagine? The other two work so hard in school, but he is the one who gets paid!”
“Well, this is America,” I say. “Democracy does not always equal meritocracy.”
Yes, no matter how late it is, or how tired I am, I can still jabber on about things like that.
The street was empty as he pulled up to my building.
“You get some rest now. Tomorrow coffee and cheese omelet. This is what you need. I love cheese omelet!”
He helped me to the door, and I bid him a grateful goodnight.
A friend of mine once asked his brother in Kansas why he voted for Donald J. Trump. He asked this without judgment or animosity, sincerely wanting to know.
“I don’t want foreigners in my country,” was the simple reply.
I think of these two men running small businesses, working incredible hours to keep them afloat and to keep a handful of others employed. They are my age–if not older–but have trained themselves to stay awake, to go the extra mile, to work the extra hours. Like so many other immigrants, they have had to work hard at hard jobs. Their wives most likely worked hard jobs too, all while raising six kids between them, every single one of whom has made good, is a working professional.
I don’t believe in open borders. There must be limits on how many folks can cross into our country, but I do believe in a fair immigration system which allows for people to petition to be a part of the American dream. People whose children might not have survived, much less thrived, in their homeland.
I think of Vartan and his girl scaling the heights of Frasier Park, so grateful to drink in the sights of this place they call home. I think about Mohammad heading in after a long night of making that extra cash and digging into a cheese omelet, thankful for its gooey goodness.
I am glad they are here. They have given so much of themselves to be–and raise–productive citizens. Each, in their own way, reminds me to appreciate what I have and how blessed I am to be here in this place. To drink in its beauty and dine on its plenty.
I kept their cards; they are the good guys. I vow to visit Frasier Park and eat more cheese omelets.
I will call.
On we go …
Well said! We are all probably descendents of immigrants. The hateful people tend to forget that!
Sean Connery big advocate of Scottish independence FYI. Never seem to be in a taxi long enough to get really interesting stories but just like your 2 gentleman the ones I've have been in have the same work ethic.