when Nate and I would pretend we had a chauffeur
we called him James.
Home, James, we'd instruct.
Now we say it when we finally arrive home after a journey, preferably one arduous in some way.
I picked my dad up from the airport, from Belize, for the alleged "last time."
I drove him to his Idahome.
He was so glad about the cool, dry air and the half price gasoline.
Calvin threw up in the car just south of Pocatello.
Home, James, he said.