“He starts fights. I finish them.”
The Prince of Saudi Arabia’s bodyguard drove me to work this morning.
I have the rare pleasure of driving a 2002 Audi A4 with a sunken ceiling headliner, front seats whose backs have simply lost their motivation and fallen off, and an attention-whoring cooling system that has figured out a way to break itself four different times because it’s too emotionally unstable to ever be satisfied with a single mechanic.
In light of a recent and desperate ploy for attention executed beautifully via a flourish of white smoke billowing from the engine, I took an Uber to work every morning this week. The joke is on you, Audi, because despite your unwarranted cry for help and predictably immature stab at my schedule and freedom, I’m having a great time.
I started my commute this morning with a Lyft request, swiftly cancelled in light of a 75% price increase. How lucky I was to have opened my Uber app instead. A distantly Persian looking guy in a full suit and tie appeared in a little circle on my screen, and “Sevan” was my ride en route.
I got into an unassuming Honda CRV and greeted a stubble-bearded driver dawning a collared shirt, tattooed forearm, and hunched shoulders that seemed to say “I’m savvy and trustworthy, but if the situation required, I would stab you deftly and without hesitation.”
“We’re going to Sherman Oaks; I’ll direct,” I said, returning to useless snapchat browsing and general iPhone petting. “How long have you been Ubering?” my go-to line appeared per usual when the silence became uncomfortable.
“Since November.”
“Full-time?”
“This is part-time. I hate sitting around when I have a break from my usual job,” he said plainly.
“What’s that?” I asked the innocent question that somehow always leads to responses so alarming and so casually uttered.
“I’m bodyguard for the Prince of Saudi.”
I let the sentence hang against the dull whir of the air conditioner for a minute. Being an American who’s never once read a politics or world events article on purpose, I wasn’t even sure if Saudi necessarily meant Saudi Arabia. The guy wasn’t big — he had to have been well trained.
I went to work thinking. He looked pretty limber. He had a certain shrewd intensity about him. A sense that he knew what he was doing. That you should choose words carefully, because there might be an M-16 in the trunk.
He exuded focus— focused, that was the word. Like a guy that cuts straight through antagonism and focuses on directing your neck to a position conducive to separating vertebrae. I had a feeling he had formally studied pressure points.
“You work in the US?”
“Yes.” The answer was resolute. “I protect the Prince at his estate on Wilshire and his mansion in Beverly Hills.”
It was now clear he was talking about the prince of Saudi Arabia.
“How did you get into body-guarding? You must have been in the military,” I prodded.
“Yes.” He was stone cold and straight forward. This guy was about executing missions, and his mission was to get me to my target destination in Sherman Oaks.
If there was traffic, he was getting around it. If we got hit, he was out of the car and neutralizing the threat, and the other driver’s family was spending the following months progressing through a process of searching for their loved one, confusion about why they never saw him after his commute to work one morning, and a prolonged period of mourning. If there was a homeless guy asking for money at a stop light, he would also be neutralized. If the homeless guy was a veteran who had been saving a single grenade from Vietnam for the right car to blow up when a bad look was exchanged, my driver would literally jump on the grenade. The threat would be neutralized.
More conversation was necessary. I needed to gauge whether his silent commitment could be compromised.
“Do you Lyft too?”
Sevan laughed. “Lyft is Mom and Pop.” I laughed, and it encouraged him.
“Lyft is the little burger joint no one goes into, and Uber is the McDonalds on the corner.” I agreed, despite my history as a satisfied and consistent Lyft customer, and offered a meaningless but encouraging response.
“Lyft has my number — they’ve been calling me. Calling me to drive. Like begging.” He paused. “I’m not putting no pink mustache on my car.”
I laughed again, and the sound rang clear and naked in an otherwise silent car. His face was emotionless, stone cold. This was serious now. It was not something to joke about. Do not bring up Lyft again.
Aside from reminding him of the pathetic neediness and despicably cutesy branding efforts of Lyft, I was building some rapport here. As long as I eliminated all instances of mustache-related words or car sharing services that were not Uber from my working vocabulary, it was safe to investigate further about the Prince.
“How did you get from the military to body guarding for the Prince? I’m sure it’s competitive.”
“I’m from the valley. My uncle knew one of his associates. He was familiar with my skill set. He asked if I would want to work for the Prince. It’s a steady job; good salary.” He was warming up. I was getting some solid insider information on the industry.
“He needs a lot of protection,” he elaborated, unsolicited. This was going somewhere. He paused and continued.
“I fight so much for the Prince. At least once every week.”
This was getting serious. Emotions were running high, and I needed to capitalize. I stepped in with a killer line. “Do you primarily guard at his estate in Beverly Hills, or where?”
He looked at me, perplexed. “Clubs. Lots of clubs,” he explained simply, unenthused at my weak grasp of the Prince’s activities and protective needs. He allowed me to silently reflect on my ignorance for a minute before continuing.
“Every night. He starts a lot of fights.” He paused for a long, somber moment. “I finish them.”
By now the intensity level was high. I was nearing my target destination and it was time to conclude the mission with some levity if I wanted to feel good about my personal safety in the future.
“Are you driving all day?”
“Just till twelve, then workout. Then happy hour, four to seven.” As always, the tone was straight-forward. Happy hour wasn’t a particularly happy subject, and it was not to be joked about.
“Good stuff, Santa Monica? Hollywood?” I threw in some casual questions, looking for common ground. This was a guy you wanted to leave with a good impression. For safety reasons.
I wondered what sort of happy hours drew in the royal body guarding crowd; what sorts of unfortunate strangers get a little too sauced and say something rude to the Guard. A dimly lit bar in central LA, maybe. The type of place with an unmarked, guarded steel door in the back, where you whisper a word and descend a cement staircase to an underground poker table or a dog fighting ring. A place with tons of old Korean guys throwing bills at each other around two bloodied UFC fighters in the ring with no gloves on. Where the real contenders can fight their way into big money.
“TGI Fridays. It’s great. Lots of girls.”
