When I got outside, I found that the number I had been given corresponded to a rather large limousine, not the town car I was expecting.

I replayed in my head the phone call I had made to order the car, trying to determine whether I had mistakenly ordered the wrong thing. I could not fathom how that could have happened. I was in a rush, so I jumped into the limo.

The inside was plush, with the seats arranged in almost in an O formation and bottles of water all around. To my right was an ornate bucket that appeared to be there to keep wine or champagne cold.

This was definitely not my typical ride. I began to worry that the client was going to see the bill for a limo and throw a fit.

I called out to the driver in a tone that was probably a bit of more brusque than I intended.

“I thought I was getting a regular car,” I said.

“Well,” he responded gruffly, “I guess it’s your unlucky day, then.”

— Randi Goring

Image

Chivalry on Sixth Ave.

Dear Diary:

In summer 1991, the man who would become my husband and I were in Midtown when the sky opened up. We were caught in a downpour without an umbrella.