I AM MR. SCHLUMBERGER

I Am Mr. Schlumberger

Whenever I arrive at airports, I am always teased by those gentlemen holding signs for other people. I am, of course referring to the army of limo drivers and official escorts who grace the international airport arrival halls with their cardboard signs. The sign always has some company logo of sorts and a last name written in black marker. Names like Mr. Schlumberger or Mr. Wong or Mr. Dowdry. Sometimes, of course, the sign just looks like a ripped off piece of cardboard box. If I were to ever have someone official waiting for me at arrivals, this would be my case. Each time, I file out of customs with the sleepwalking herd of fellow passengers, weary from their international voyage, I find my eyes fixing on these gentlemen. I roll my own baggage cart and speculate. They seem like lost souls to me. I know they have a job to do, but I can’t help thinking they look like lost orphans to me. Or castaways. Or ugly dates at the prom. Indeed, I have never seen a happy driver standing with his sign. It is an obligation and it is clear to read this on their faces. Often, no matter what airport you find yourself in, these souls seem depressed, as if they have been stood up many times. Some have expressions that doubt their client will never step off that plane as if they have been permanently stood up. I suppose that this demeanor is only professional. Indeed why would it be otherwise? I wouldn’t be the happiest of people waiting around in an airport all day, standing next to my rivals. For it is like a competition of sorts. When one person finds his match, and a driver offers to roll his client’s cart to the temporary parking, does he offer a discreet look of contempt to the others left their with their signs? A look as if to say: “I was chosen first”. Like the first round of picks on a softball team, it is the glory of recognition. And beyond all this, lies a fundamental fact. They have never seen the face they are meant to be greeting. For that brief time, it’s a shot in the dark. And thus, for me, the signs are a symbol of hope. Hope of recognition. They almost seem to be looking for a friend. I could be that friend. I could be the person that rolls up to them and exclaims “I’m Mr. Schlumberger” as I grin and raise my palm in the air to catch their attention. “I am Mr. Schlumberger and I am here to tell you that everything will be alright from here on in”. I would offer a warm embrace. “We can leave the airport now. I will give your life a purpose.” They’re not checking identification as far as I know. And they always have a pre - set agenda, somewhere to take the client immediately. No questions asked. All this would work in my favor. I am sure I could leave with them and that it could perhaps be the beginning of an adventurous and probably very brief excursion. The driver, short and a little weary with the slightest traces of sweat under the armpits would offer to take my baggage trolley. I would refuse. I would ask him his name.
“I’m Roland”, he would say.
“Nice to meet you Roland”.
And off we would go, heading toward the dawn of Mr. Schlumberger’s destiny. I am certain that what could start out as a ruse might eventually become my life. But for how long? How long could I be Mr. Schlumberger? And would I want to be for very long? I have no doubt that I could be him on the way to the car atleast. And maybe even the ride in from the airport before I got caught. And for now, that would have to do. As I stroll with Roland through the parking lot, I would, of course keep communication to a minimum. I would not want to trip myself up or say something excessive. Something that Mr. Schlumberger would never say in a million years. I would instead turn the tables. I would ask Roland about his own life, which I am sure would come as a surprise to him, for I would be willing to bet that most customers did not ask much about his life.
“How are you this evening Roland?”
“I am fine Sir.”
“How long have you been a driver?”
“ A few years.”
I would help him load my baggage into the trunk. He was, of course, insistent that he could do it on his own.
“I am a strong man. Do not worry about it.”
He would open the car door for me. I would slide in and admire the interior. There would be air conditioning blowing in my face as soon as he started the engine. I would ask him to turn it off and open the windows. This is how Mr. Schlumberger likes it. If I knew the city I was in, I would recommend a route. We would discuss the route. But I would be respectful. I would not presume to tell Roland how to do his job. Mostly I would sit quietly and wonder where we were going and what I would do and say when we got there. I would let the gentle breeze gently massage my face as Roland found a straightaway to speed along after being frustratingly being held up by airport traffic for so long. It would feel good to empty my brain of all obligation. This would serve me well as I would now be Mr. Schlumberger and he doesn’t worry about such things. Mr. Schlumberger has always had everything easy. From the drivers like Roland who meet him at the airport and take him where he wants to go, to the fact that whatever he did for a living, it seemed to be important. But the secret to Mr. Schlumberger’s success is that he doesn’t make a big deal about it. Life is a ride and it is meant to be savored to the fullest. As traffic became congested again, I would politely ask Roland what kind of music he liked.
“Would you like to listen to the radio Mr. Schlumberger?”
“Not especially, Roland. I was just wondering what your taste in music might be.”
“I like all kind of music really. And if you want to listen to the radio, you just tell me. I have talk radio, satellite, whatever you want. “
“Whatever you prefer Roland. This ride is not just about me. It’s about you too.”
I winked and I knew that Roland could see it in the rear view mirror. This was careless on my part as I had allowed my own humor, my own preferences for parlance slip out when I knew this wasn’t Mr. Schlumberger’s style at all. I began to backtrack on my graciousness.
“Just let me hear something sophisticated”, I asked.
“Sophisticated? What like jazz?”
“Perfect”, I answered as I stretched my arms across the back of the upholstered seat like an eagle proudly spreading his wings. This is an image I had for Mr. Schlumberger. He sat in his town car like he owned it. Maybe he did indeed own it. I didn’t know. Roland took a little while fidgeting with the radio dial but he finally found a station serving up the sophisticated jazz that I had asked for. It was offbeat and aggressive and I hated it. Mr. Schlumberger and I had had out first differences.
“Actually Roland. Changed my mind. Perhaps no music is best.”
He complied and now seemed a little embarrassed that we had got in to the radio issue in the first place.
We eventually pull into a large corporate hotel with many international flags attached to the face of the building. The driveway is long and curved and there are many other town cars and taxis pulling into the space. We have to wait our turn for a bellboy to be close enough to pick up our bags.
“Well this is it”, Roland explains.
“Looks like it”, I respond trying to figure out what it is I am here at this hotel to do.
“Have a nice stay Mr. Schlumberger. I will tell Mrs. Evans that you made it to the hotel.”
“Thank you”
“She may call you later”
The situation was now enriching itself with new characters and a new obligation. Who exactly was Mrs. Evans? Was she my boss? A friend? Maybe she worked for me and I did not have to call her at all if I did not feel like it. Beyond the mystery, it was at least comforting to know that someone was looking out for me. And by “me”, I meant Mr. Schlumberger. It was time to end my time with Roland and get out of the vehicle. Roland had one of those buttons that popped the trunk automatically and I took the opportunity to take my bags myself and place them on the ground. There was already a bellboy waiting in the wings to take me on to the next challenge.
When Roland got out to join me on the sidewalk, there was an awkward moment when I began to suspect that the ride had not been pre - paid. I dug into my jacket as if motioning for an overly stuffed wallet I did not have. It was all in vain, it turns out.
“Mr. Schlumberger, please. No need to tip. I will be here for you tomorrow for the conference. Mrs. Evans was hoping that you could be there early to be there for everyone’s arrival “
This was indeed exciting. Roland had a lot of information for me and if I were a more lucid mood, maybe I could have got more from him. But it had been over twenty minutes and I figured by now, considering Mr. Schlumberger’s stature, and the quality of his hotel, he was busy shouting on the phone to Mrs. Evans about why his driver and a sign with his name on it were nowhere to be seen.
“Well alright then. Take care Roland”
I felt like hugging him. But I held back. This would have definitely given things away.
An overly anxious bellboy was now dragging my duffel bag up the stairs to the hotel.
“Ah no need”, I shouted as he had already planted it on a luggage cart next to a large brass revolving door. He was already on his journey towards a tip.
I was a gambling man. But as a gambling man you know when not to press your luck. I knew this couldn’t last. I knew that carrying on as Mr. Schlumburger any further would lead into the oh so delicate area of fraud and arrest. For this was not some thriller where I could keep this going all the way into being with Mrs. Schlumberger in their bed at night. No, this was real life. I knew one thing for certain. I had enjoyed being this magnate of a man for the ride in. This Mr. Schlumberger, a titan of something or another. Or perhaps someone really average. I actually still did not know. I certainly enjoyed my time with Roland and my free ride. Although I was not even sure where I was or whether this was closer to where I need to be than the airport.
And then I did something I really shouldn’t have done for it made me seem a little cheap inside. I began to wonder if Roland would like the real Mr. Schlumberger or me better? I experienced the smallest tinge of jealousy. After poor Roland had cut through the confusion. Would he hate me? Or would he consider it a bit of an adventure as I had considered it. Something to tell his kids or the unemployment office. I felt fear for Roland. Would he lose his job over this? Would Mr. Schlumberger would make Roland pay somehow for his mistake. But in the short time being in his shoes, I felt certain that he was a forgiving man and that anyone could have picked up a crazy moron like myself. I also knew that each time Roland waved his sign at the arrivals hall. Each time he sat waiting in the driver’s seat eating stale chips waiting for flights to arrive or trying to keep warm in the winter with a plastic cup of coffee hot between his hands, holding his cardboard sign, he would perhaps remember me. And maybe the lesson he had learned that evening. And I would not forget Roland, the driver. Nor any of the hypothetical circumstances I had just made up.
“I’m at the wrong hotel”, I told the bellboy.
He stood there looking at me through glass eyes as if I had just announced that we were getting married.
I grabbed my duffel bag off the cart and became me again. It was surprisingly easy. I threw it over my shoulder and moved out of the traffic lane. My bag was heavy. I missed Roland already.