A Perfect Escort

I arrive at the police station with apprehension. This, after all, is HUPD. I find the Harvard Escort Shuttle Service in a tiny corner office. I had expected a "Pizza Ring"-like operation: visions of drivers flying out the door in fireman-like fury raced through my head. But I saw no panel of phones, no running drivers. Amazingly calm for an operation that received 26,042 calls, transported 26,030 people, and traveled 48,717 miles last year, according to John C. Miller, Escort Service Supervisor.

But behind the numbers, the callers and the miles, are the dedicated, sleep-deprived drivers. "I want to try to help the riders understand what the drivers do," Miller says. Surely, driving around from 11 p.m. to 4 a.m. must make for some interesting experiences. Dedicated investigative reporter that I am, I sacrificed part of my Thursday night to bring you the truth. I went into that building with a mission: to seek out the lesser-known stories of the shuttle service.

7:23 p.m. Back at the station.

A calm Richard Bolware '90-'93, dispatcher, is training two new recruits. "There is this guy who always calls," he says. "I'm not sure what his name is exactly. He calls himself '007.' He says very crazy sort of Dennis Hopper-type-movie things: 'I'm down here at CIA headquarters; come pick me up. I need an escort from Nashville, Tennessee to New York City.'" Michelle R. Kawamoto '95, one of the trainees, jumps in. "He calls here and has these theories about who assassinated JFK. Sometimes they'll put him on the PA system and everyone will listen."

Thinking about how my future could use a friend like Oliver Stone, I am eager to find out who killed JFK. Bolware reveals, "He told me it was the Chinese secret police. Some ambassador. I don't remember his name."

7:33 p.m. Still at the base, waiting-my escort is late.

I repeatedly urge Richard to give me the perfect story, representative of the escort service's dedication. He can't think of anything off-hand. "There was this one time when nine people came running up to the car..." He cuts himself off, claiming he can't tell me that one. But the car has arrived for me now.

As I leave, Michelle reaches into a drawer. "Here, you'll need this," she says. Ready to pack a weapon. I put forth my hand. She offers me a pink marshmallow sugar-bunny. I graciously decline and exit the office.

7:48 p.m. I meet the escort.

In the tank-sized, white shuttle car, the tunes are blaring and the heat is blasting. I give the opening speech that I'd been preparing for a week, now.

Me: "I'm trying to find out about stories and interesting happenings on the Harvard Escort Shuttle. I'm looking for you to share anything you have with me: humorous anecdotes, great stories, anything exciting" (I look at her warmly, trying to gain her trust).

Liz Barnel '95: "How long am I driving you around for?"

7:52 p.m. On the beat at Longfellow.

Liz remembers, "Over there I got stuck in the van when it was icy. I couldn't move, and there was someone behind me honking and someone in front of me, honking...I couldn't do anything. I have the radio, so I'm calling them to get HUPD or something to get me out and there's no one coming."

There's nobody there, as sometimes happens, so after waiting for a few minutes we leave.

7:52 p.m. On the road.

I try conversation.

Me: "Why do you work for the escort shuttle service?"

Liz: "I got quaded--lottery number 406 of 406."

Me:"I'm sorry. So, you are also on a mission?" (empathy, empathy)

Liz: "It's like I was called. I get people who were quaded down to the river, so they can see how the other half lives."

7:58 p.m. Cruising Beacon St.

A passenger sits silently in the back. Liz and I talk about the radios and conversations with the dispatchers. "Over the radio, one night a dispatchers. "Over the radio, one night a dispatcher asked 'What is the meaning of life?' So a driver tried to answer, and then the other one jumped in, 'No, no that's completely wrong."

8:05 p.m. Awaiting orders by Widener Gate.

Liz demonstrates her expertise. "If you stop at this light, when it turns green you can hit the pedal as hard as you can and as soon as you get to the next light, it will turn green. The lights are just timed perfectly...of course, I would never do that."

8:17 p.m. Near Kirkland House.

A customer enters. Mueen Batlay, from the Kennedy School, provides a cross-country comparison of escort services. "They drove very fast on the USC escort shuttle. It was very exciting to take it. I don't know much a bout this escort service."

8:34 p.m. On Mass. Ave.

Time for more small talk. Thinking about the cold, lonely nights she faces, I ask Liz what her favorite radio station is. "88.9, from 8 to 11 p.m.," she answers. "After 11 it goes off and they start playing blues. Once, some woman told me 'I thought this hip-hop rap thing was out of style now. "She was an older woman, in grad school."

8:49 p.m. On JFK St.

Things are slow. Liz impresses me yet again: "The light on Mass. Ave. and Everett goes 'don't walk' eleven times. Then it stops and turns green." Encouraged by the friendly, laid-back atmosphere characteristic of the escort, a passenger in the back jumps in, "Lights are regulated on purpose by businesses or gasoline monopolies. For example, in my town WalMart has a special light in front of the store. It's red when all the other lights are green. They found out that in one out of 100 possible chances, you will remember you need something and will just turn at the light instead of waiting for it to change."

9:04 p.m. On JFK St., the other way.

Liz:"One of the passengers we get pretty frequently at the Law School works at the video place down here in the Galeria. Whenever she calls, she has gummy bears or chocolate that she gives to us. She's like our grandma. Richard calls her Mama something. We all know her, we are always wanting to escort her."

9:08 p.m. Parked. Both of us. Alone.

My time in the escort is nearing an end. Confident that I've gained Liz's trust. I press her for the story of all stories. Cautiously, she whispers, "Some passenger was on, and he just got really sick and started throwing up out the window. In the process, his cap fell off in the middle of Beacon St. There was some story behind the cap; it was sentimental to him for some reason. The passenger asked the driver to go back for the hat, and they did. After that, the escort driver made him clean up the side of the car."

I left the car satisfied. My mission was complete, I had gained new insights into the JFK fiasco, and I had even been offered a sugar bunny. Candy, conversation, a safe drive home, no pressure for a parting kiss, and the open possibility of further dates: This is the best escort one could hope for.