Angel In A Turban

As we rushed out though the smokey maze of the Casino at the old Sahara Hotel in Las Vegas, it suddenly hit me that he had once again forgotten to give me my bonus. It stopped me in my tracks.
Damn him!

We had just finished a week-long, Estate Jewelry Show.
I was bone tired from being on my feet for over twelve hours a day – in heels, and to add insult to injury, our plane reservation left us no time to eat before the flight home, so to top it all off—I was hangry.
In other words—I was in NO mood.

We had grossed over one million dollars – in a week, the two of us, and I was about to fly home empty-handed, once again.

You see, I had a boss that hated to pay me. He just did.
And no carefully scripted notes, or heartfelt talks, or angry outbursts on my part had done anything to change that.

I had coached him repeatedly on the merits of showing respect. It wasn’t difficult, all he had to do was pay me. And not make me ask for my money, which I HATED.

What would this be? The third time that day I’d had to ask him for my money? I was quite familiar with this humiliating fucktard, power play, and I was sick of it! Listen, I had done everything I could think of to sidestep this idiocy! Even after years of his bonus structure consisting of whatever loose cash he had in his pocket, not his fat, overstuffed money clip mind you—but instead his pocket change, I had won one battle by finally getting him to agree to a pre-set amount.

“Why are you stopping?” he yelled impatiently. His aluminum wheelie suitcase, a rectangular R2D2, skipped from wheel to wheel, trying to keep its balance. I could’ve sworn it looked back in my direction with a “help me” face.

He continued his frantic march through the casino toward the door, not even turning around to see where I was.

“ I’d love to get my bonus before we leave?” I asked for the third time, running to keep up. I knew that if I let it slide, even for a day or two, the odds of getting it would become so slim even a Vegas bookie would pass on that bet.

I wasn’t sure he’d heard me when, in one fluid motion, he arced to the right, making a wide, sweeping, u-turn back in my direction. Then he reached into his murse (man purse) and dumped a handful of gambling chips in my direction. Surprised, I reached with out with both hands in time to catch most of them, but watched several make a break for it, rolling on their sides with great momentum underneath the dollar slots nearby.

“That should cover it; now hurry up, we don’t want to miss our plane.”

I stood there red-faced and flabbergasted, knowing I didn’t have any time to cash them in. Quickly, I shoved the chips in every pocket of my purse, and proceeded to get down on my hands and knees to see if I could retrieve the ones that had made their escape.

The pot-bellied, middle-aged woman, who was dangling a cigarette with two inches of ash from her lipstick stained mouth, straddled two stools in front of three slot machines. Without ever looking away from the rapidly rotating numbers she was counting on to change her life, her foot kicked the chips my way, like a bedroom slippered hockey stick.
“Uh, thanks” I mumbled, crawling on the ground in my skirt and heels, totally in awe of her concentration.

“Janet, let’s go!” He bellowed from inside the automatic revolving glass exit doors and then turned right to join the cab line.

I could hear those damn plastic chip clinking together in my bag as I ran to catch my flight back to LA.

In the hour that it takes to get from Vegas to LA, I began to seethe with rage.
Not only had he made me repeatedly ask him, he had literally thrown poker chips at me in lieu of my bonus! I had never felt so disrespected In. My. Life.

I don’t know about you, but when I get in touch with that level of anger, I have a tendency to burst into flames, tears.
Hunched down in my middle seat toward the back of the plane, I cried and cried and cried. Big, wet, sloppy tears.

I decided I would rather die than take the prearranged ride home to Park La Brea with he and his wife. I know that’s what we had agreed to but seriously, someone was going to die if I got in that car with him— and I was way too overdressed to go to jail.

As we walked out to the curb, I saw his wife’s car to the left and without making a sound, (or so much as an indecent hand gesture) I made a beeline to the right and jumped into a cab that just happened to be waiting there in front of me.
The moment the door shut… I lost it.

I began to sob like a little girl, gasping for breath, snot running down my face.
There I was, trapped in a horrible working situation with no solution in sight. What do you do when you ask someone repeatedly to treat with respect and they blatantly disregard that?

I know what you’re thinking, quit! I couldn’t quit. I had the kind of career everyone wanted. Travel, great pay, jewelry, prestige. Which led to a lot of financial obligations, AND I was single.
Wahhhhhhhhhhhh. That always made me cry even harder.

As we wound our way through the late night traffic on LaCienega, I could see the dark, soulful eyes of the cab driver, looking at me in the rear view mirror. If I hadn’t already guessed that he was from India, with his deep brown skin and white turban, his accent gave it away as he asked softly,

“Beautiful lady, why you cry?”

“Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh, I’m just feeling so saaaaaaaad, I don’t know what to do.”

I could see his eyes searching my face in the rear view mirror as I accidentally wiped snot into my hair with the back of my hand.
“Beautiful lady, don’t be sad, it can’t be that bad,” he cooed in his soothing, heavily accented voice.

“Ohhhhhhh it is, I think I hate my boss…he doesn’t show me any respect…he paid me with…”

I started to wail louder, “With poker chiiiiiiiiiiiiips!”

For dramatic effect, I grabbed a couple out of my bag and threw them on the seat.

“Beautiful lady, you have God’s respect and that’s all that matters.”
Really? I guess he had a point.
The cab slowly came to a stop in front of my high-rise apartment building.

Since I had cried the entire ride home, I had to scramble around to find my bag and scrounge for cab fare. As I did, the lovely turbaned cabbie grabbed my suitcase from the driver’s side backseat where I had launched it, opened my door, and wheeled my bag inside the lobby, depositing it in front of the elevator doors. When he returned to the cab, I had composed myself enough to hand him his fare.

“Here you go, thank you for being so kind to me.” I said sheepishly through the tissue that was attempting to clean the river of snot from the side of my face.

“Oh no beautiful lady, you keep that. This ride is on me.”
And before I could argue with him or even thank him, he pulled away into the dark Los Angeles night. As I watched his tail lights fade into the distance, I realized a couple of things that gave me goosebumps.
They still do.

Number one: I never told him where I lived.

I just got in the cab and fell apart while he drove me home — to Park La Brea, which is a labyrinth of apartments, turnabouts and one way streets. Even with the best directions from the back seat, many a cab driver has made a wrong turn and been spit back out onto Wilshire Boulevard.

Number two: There are ten high rises. How is it that he had he managed to navigate all the twists and turns and one way streets inside the complex to deposit me right at my door?
The only answer? He was an angel. Plain and simple.

When I finally managed to come out of my stupor and slowly walk inside to the elevator, I noticed he had propped the doors open with my bag and pushed the button to the ninth floor!

My floor! How did he know?

I really believe that angels are everywhere and only show themselves when we need them.

THAT is the story of my Angel in a Turban.

Carry on,
Xox