Grab your beverage and snacks, for this tale is quite the event to read…read more
A couple weeks ago, I returned from a business trip. My flight landed in Boston just as the commuters were beginning their daily assault on the city. I weaved through the sea of paycheck cattle, managed to take shelter in an outbound commuter rail toward my home town, and felt entirely relieved to be nearing the end of my travels.
Not so fast.
It was apparently naive of me to give Attleboro the credit of assuming it was the type of place where cabs regularly frequent train stations. They don't. At least, on this clear sky morning they decided not to. Thus, I was left with cumbersome luggage and underdressed for the colder-than-when-I-left frostiness. To my brief relief, and may I emphasize the brevity there, I spotted a policeman watching over a minor road repair job. I approached the cop and asked if he knew anyone for me to call or how I might get home.
At first, he said he simply did not know. Preferring not to let my tongue lash at law enforcement, I took a few steps away and had barely relinquished myself to cursing the use of my tax dollars when Mr. Cop had a streak of brilliance, and remarked to me to try Houle's. As soon as he said the name, I knew I recognized seeing the name around.
The same name around town on the same cars around town since I was birthed, but I digress. To stay chronological...
I called Houle's and, growing increasingly frozen, managed to stammer out that I needed a ride and was on the street near the train station. The guy on the other end of the line, who I can effortlessly envision resembling Jabba the Hutt, demanded that I tell him where I was going. I guess "home" wasn't clear enough the first couple times I stated it. Had I not been at his mercy, I might have said, "Well, I took the train to Attleboro to catch a taxi the rest of the way home to Cincinnati actually."
We rose our voices at each other with every line. The back of my mind was starting to think, "Well, this one is hopeless. Might as well let off some steam." Surprisingly, he ended our correspondence with, "Ten to fifteen minutes." *click*
I pondered finding an alternative and leaving Houle's hanging, if someone was even coming at all. Curiously, a taxi actually did come. It took a few extra minutes, but beggars can't be choosers I suppose. I hobbled into the taxi, putting my luggage into the rust-bucket wagon with zero help from Mr. Chauffeur. Also worth noting is that my fair driver had to ask where I was going, entirely negating the necessity of the phone battle I had waged before.
Ok, back to my point above about the cars. Yikes! Ever heard of reinvesting in your company, Houle's? These things are time capsules in the least exciting way possible. The seats were different colors, not in the "I'm chic and artsy" way but rather in the "Yea Bob? I need a passenger seat. Ya got 'nething?" way.
It's 2013. Every half decent taxi offers to take a card for payment. Ones that qualify as good even offer *drum roll* a screen with such novelty info as weather and news. Houle's? The back of a head and a trip to the ATM for patrons low on the green.
After my ATM pit stop, we did finally get home. I paid (and did tip, for what it's worth) and zoomed into the comfort of my home with a speed unparalleled since Usain Bolt in London.
My experience with Houle's was over...and never to resume again.
