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Toll tales come from booth dwellers
By KAREN STEEN TOWN 'N COUNTRY -- If you think toll booth operators' jobs are boring, you haven't heard their stories. Like the one about the family of four who drove up naked. Or the bloodied murder suspects who needed directions -- fast! Or even the flustered father who handed over three quarters and a dirty diaper. Tampa toll booth operators have seen it all. They see hundreds of thousands of commuters fly by everyday in a blur of humanity: mostly hard-working people, but some drunks and desperadoes as well. Just ask Joslyn Feemster. She looked out at a car one day and saw an entire family naked. There they were, in broad daylight, wearing only smiles. "The mother and father were in the front seat, and the son and daughter were in the back seat. I tried not to stare, but it wasn't easy," Freeman said. "I guess they were headed north to one of those nudist resorts." Feemster works the morning shift on the Veterans Expressway. Three shifts cover the work day and each has a personality of its own. Morning commuters rush to work in disarray -- dripping-wet hair, no makeup on the women, toilet-paper Band-Aids on the men. Jackie Howlett says she gives motherly advice on grooming to some of her drivers, such as the young businessman in a suit one morning. She smiled, caught his eye, then ran her finger beside her ruby red lips and across her chin. "Toothpaste," she told him. He rubbed away the powdery white film, thanked her and was on his way. And just as they're getting used to everyday interactions, something unusual happens. James Hummel said one day he looked up as a woman drove up to the toll booth. But then Hummel realized it wasn't a woman; it was a man in a dress. The man's eyes locked on Hummel's. "Yes, believe it. Take me as I am," the man said. Hummel smiled and handed out the change. Just another day at what he calls "the office." When the sun goes down, the night shift operators take over. They never know what to expect. Guavaween and Gasparilla bring out the party people who drive through the lanes in bizarre costumes, sometimes stoned or drunk. When the operators warn them not to drive, some get out of their cars and continue the party until the police arrive. Some nights are not as festive. Feemster looked out of her booth one morning at 2 a.m. as a gray Oldsmobile drove up with two men in the front seat. Shaking and bleeding, their clothes ripped and disheveled, they asked for directions to Pinellas County. The driver abruptly handed Feemster a bloody dollar bill. She backed into the booth and waved them through, figuring they'd been in a bar fight. An hour later, however, a police officer drove up and questioned her. He told her a murder had occurred within a mile of the toll road. Feemster said she felt edgy and afraid for weeks and now prefers the day shift. Like any other job, there are rules of protocol to be followed. No food in the booth, no long conversations, and no gifts accepted. But occasionally you make an exception. Every week or two, a Krispy Kreme van rolls up and a woman inside deposits four dozen donuts for the break room. No one has ever refused her offer. The vegetable man sometimes brings a flat of tomatoes to pass around. One morning at the Waters Avenue ramp, Hummel saw an Asian man pull up to the booth, appearing not to know what to do. Hummel quickly figured out that the man could not speak English. Hummel used hand gestures to try to explain coins. The man smiled and handed Hummel a can of foreign coins. The line of cars was backing up when Hummel noticed a familiar Asian customer a few cars back and motioned for him to come and help translate. Within minutes the toll was paid, directions were given, and traffic was moving smoothly once again. The next day the new customer returned with his daughter. She paid the toll while her father handed a bonsai tree out the window to Hummel. "For you," she said. Hummel tried to refuse, "No -- can't take." But the daughter was insistent: "You have to." Hummel made an exception and took the plant home for his mother to enjoy. A few years back, Howlett made an exception to the no-gifts rule during the Christmas holidays. One of her regular customers came through the lane and handed Howlett a handmade ornament. It was round with beautiful fabric scraps folded and glued with ribbon trimming. Howlett said the woman told her she was the first human contact she had every day, and that she wanted to thank her for smiles and good wishes. Howlett said she took the ornament and put it on her Christmas tree, and has every year since, as a reminder to never underestimate the impact you can have on people. Besides giving directions, change and salutations, operators share humor and heartbreaks and life in between. If someone's car breaks down, they call a tow truck. Occasionally a car hits one of the cement barriers or gates and the operators are there to give help and call for assistance. In their sterile stainless-steel cubicles, they have paper towels for spills, Band-Aids and a fire extinguisher. One day a woman rushing to the airport asked Howlett to pray for her father's cancer operation. Three weeks later the woman appeared in Howlett's lane again and thanked her for praying. Her father had done well though the surgery. Another afternoon a man came through with a work injury. A chain saw had gashed his face from forehead to chin, and he was trying desperately to get to the hospital before he bled to death. Howlett waved him through, saying, "Get going! Go ahead! Go ahead!" Weeks later he returned to her booth with a track of stitches down his face. He said he wanted to thank her and let her know he lived. The personal connection she experiences with folks just passing through was never more pronounced than on the infamous morning of Sept. 11. She sat in her isolated booth collecting tolls and exchanging niceties, oblivious to the devastation that was unfolding. Radios are not allowed in the booths. Near 9 a.m., a customer came through screaming that a plane had just hit a building in New York. Within minutes, another driver grimly told her another plane was headed for Virginia. Next came a man cursing foreign governments, and another yelling it must be Saddam Hussein or Moammar Gadhafi. People were so overcome with anger and emotion they couldn't speak, she said. Howlett prayed and cried along with them. Her customers were her only source of information as that morning dragged on. The terrorist attack magnified the need for human contact, but operators are accustomed to comforting drivers, cheering them up or just being helpful. "Diaper Dad" is a good example. Hurriedly taking his baby to day care, a dad looked to Howlett for help. He paid his toll then handed her a loaded diaper. He begged her, "Can you please take this?" Howlett laughed as her nostrils scrunched up in rejection, "Sure," she said. "Have a nice day."
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