Shack My Crit Up!

"They're playing that??!!"

One of the way more cool — in my opinion — Chicago classic rock radio stations, WDRV The Drive 97.1 FM (look for their live stream on their website!) is doing their twice- or three-times-a-year "The Drive A to Z," where they select around 2000 titles from their library and then play through them in alphabetical order. It takes them about eight days to get through them, and it's something I enjoy immensely when I get the chance to listen, because they invariably play some songs you just don't hear on the radio very often any more...if at all.

This evening I was driving alone in the cab while they were playing through the Ds, when I heard what my brain couldn't process as reality: Dueling Banjos.

"Dueling Banjos??!! They have that in their library?!"

Naturally, I cranked the tune, as I haven't heard it in years, certainly not in its entirety.

After the final, electronically reverberated, curt chord dissolved into silence, the DJ's voice intoned, "Yes we did."

It's rare that subtle DJ humor so effectively elicits a belly laugh from me, but this was too absurd. Crack up I did!



°

The $52 Tip

At risk of belaboring the fact that I’m a taxi driver these days, I share another story from behind the wheel. One surprising observation I have made since starting the night shift about three weeks ago is that I have drunk passengers more frequently on weeknights than I do over the weekends.

One evening last week — Tuesday or Wednesday — it might have even been the same night as the woman who didn’t know where she lived — I received a fare notice to pick up a passenger named Kevin at a 7-Eleven store nearby. It was only about eight minutes away, and the roads were desolate. I arrived at the convenience store and saw no one waiting outside, and the only person inside was the store clerk sweeping the floor. I stepped in and asked if someone named Kevin, waiting for a cab, was here. The guy looked at me with a confused expression, and said, “No.”

I had another fare or two afterwards, and then I got a fare to pick up at a particular address, which the dispatch message indicated was a White Hen Pantry. The name on the order was Antonio. I drove past where the address was supposed to be, but there was no White Hen Pantry. I drove in both directions along the road to see if there was one a block or two in either direction, but there was not. I returned to the address and saw that there was a liquor store there, and there was a man waving at me. He seemed a little upset — and drunk — and asked me what took me so long. I explained the confusion, seeing as there was no White Hen for miles around the liquor store. Then I asked the guy if he was Antonio.

“NO!” he shouted. “I’m Kevin.” One must bear in mind that we were several miles away and hours after the no-show at the 7-Eleven store.

I put two and two together and realized the call was indeed for Kevin, so I told him to hop in. He carried a plastic grocery bag containing I don’t know what, and he clutched a bottle of some kind of liquor, the brand or spirit I could not make out. Immediately, he said, slurring heavily, “How ‘bout you turn off that meter? You’ll make a lot of money with me. I’m serious.”

It sounded as though he wanted me to do something shady or illegal — or he wanted my help for him to do something illegal. I told him that I had to leave it on so that my dispatcher knew I had a customer and wouldn’t try to send me to another fare. He kept insisting I turn it off in return for some grand jackpot at the end of the ride, but I kept refusing.

He never told me an address, just gave me directions: turn here, go past that light and take the first left, etc.

The first stop along the way was a grocery store that appeared open, but was not. He got back in the car and once again insisted that I turn off the meter, or I wouldn’t see the cash potential.

So I turned it off. He told me to roll on. At the end of the parking lot where the grocery store and a strip mall are, he guided me to a bank’s drive-up ATM stand. There was the cash potential of which he spoke! He stepped out of the car and got some cash, and then got back in and directed me forward. The meter was on again, and this time, when he told me to turn it off, I said, “Look, if you’re going to pay me as handsomely as you say you are, then what difference does it make what the meter reads?”

He replied with indifference. He directed me around a corner, beyond which loomed a large gas station, closed.

“Shit!” He muttered. Despite the fact that he had been sipping from his bottle for the entire ride, it was apparent he was looking for another place to buy liquor. I began to wonder if Antonio at the “White Hen” liquor store had refused his business.

After one more unsuccessful attempt at getting me to turn off the meter, Kevin said, “Okay, my friend. I guess you’re not interested in making a lot of cash. Just take me home.” I followed his directions until he told me to stop outside an apartment complex. He asked me what he owed me.

I said, “Well, the meter shows eight dollars, but the first time you got me to turn it off, it read thirteen dollars.” I knew, if it ever came down to an argument and calling a cop, I was likely stuck with what the meter read at the moment. “Just pay me whatever you want.” I really just wanted him and his stupid, drunken game out of my cab.

Kevin handed me a twenty-dollar bill and said nothing. I never assume — at least not out loud — that I’m being given a tip, so I made change and handed back twelve dollars. He sat there with a smirk on his face for a few moments, and then he handed the change back to me.

He got out of the car, stood by the open rear door, and then he said, “Here,” and he handed me another twenty.

“Thank you very much,” I said, as it was indeed very generous. He weaved off on his way to I know not where.

A little while later, after the night had gone quiet, I moved to the back seat of my cab so I could try to go online outside a free WiFi hotel. I had no success at that particular moment, and, for no apparent reason, I looked down at the seat. Obscured in the shadows cast by the front seat in the harsh dome light of the cab was another twenty-dollar bill! Kevin had indeed come through on his promise to make the night worth my while, but not entirely as he had intended!! The good Samaritan in me was inspired to take the money back to him, however the closest I could get to him was the apartment complex where he lives. I know not which building or apartment is his.

So, score one — or 52 — for Farrago!



°

Scene From a Taxi Cab

The cab pulls up to the bar, the driver searching for the name of the establishment to be sure he’s at the correct address. Outside the bar, a young man points at the cab driver, indicating that he’s the one who called. Next to him is a fairly attractive blond woman, but she is apparently quite drunk.

The young man holds the woman by an arm and she staggers as they approach the taxi, and the driver opens the automatic rear window from the controls on his door. The young man appears displeased.

“Here ya go, buddy,” he says.

The driver consults the words on his computer’s screen. “Are you Ryan?”

The young man’s expression reads frustration; fear, even. “No, but I think he’s the one who called. We called your cab company, anyway.”

“Okay.” says the cab driver. “I’m here.”

The young man opens the rear door and guides the woman into the seat. He shuts the door and says, “She’s all yours.” He leaves without another word.

“How are you this evening?” the cab driver says cheerfully.

“Mm wunnerful,” says the woman from under her stylish hat. She neither sounds nor looks like she feels wonderful.

“Where are we off to?”

“Take me home,” she says sloshily.

The cabbie feels a twinge of the absurd. “And what’s the address?”

Silence follows. Then the woman sighs thickly. “I don’t know.”

Ever helpful, the cabbie reaches for his GPS unit on the center console between the seats. “Is it here in town?”

“Yes,” the woman slurs.

As the cab driver begins to tap on the screen the name of the town, the woman gushes, “It’s at Salem and Miner.”

The cab driver backs out of the GPS address finder and goes back in through the intersection finder, entering the name of the town again. After entering the second street name, the GPS unit reads, “No information.” The streets don’t intersect.

“I can just tell you how to get there,” blurts the woman. And as the cabbie puts the car in gear, the woman adds, “He said it would all be paid for...”

Another twinge hits the cabbie, and he quickly decides that, since this is a short ride anyway, it’s most important that this woman get home safely. If she has no money, so be it.

He drives the car under the inebriated woman’s direction and, after her second utterance of “Where are you taking me?” he decides that following her directions is an exercise in futility. He stops the car and asks her again for the address.

“It’s at the intersection of Salem and Miner.”

“Ma’am, the GPS says those streets don’t cross.” He thinks for a moment. “Do you have your driver’s license? I’ll just get the address from that.”

“Yeah, I have my driver’s license,” she blathers. “Oh. But I don’t have one for this county. I just moved here.”

Gritting his teeth, the cabbie says, “Can you remember the address? If you can’t, then we’re stuck here.”

In drunken despair the woman whines, “Please help me.”

“I’m doing my best, ma’am,” says the exasperated cabbie, “but without an address, I can’t get you home.”

The woman heaves a huge sigh. “202 north Salem.”

“Excellent!” says the cab driver as he subtly shakes his head in the dark car and enters the new information into the GPS unit.

No more than a minute into the trip, the cabbie hears the sound of a cigarette lighter being operated. He turns to face the woman. “There’s no smoking in this cab, ma’am.”

She flicks the lighter again.

“Ma’am, this is a no-smoking cab! Please put the cigarette away.”

The flame licks the end of the cigarette, and the tobacco glows red.

The cabbie pulls to the curb and stops the car. “Ma’am! There is no smoking in this cab, PLEASE PUT THE CIGARETTE OUT.”

She says, “Okay. It’s out.”

The cabbie looks at the cigarette still clutched in her fingers and notices that the cigarette is indeed out. How she managed that he could not guess.

A mere few hundred yards down the road, the cabbie hears the lighter flick again. He just wants to be rid of this woman, now, so he simply opens both rear windows and locks out the rear controls so she can’t close them. He takes silent glee when he hears the woman pushing her window button to no avail.

The GPS guides them to the address, but the woman points to a building across the street. “It’s that one there.”

There’s no parking lot entrance from the street they’re on, so the cabbie backs the car to the intersection and pulls to an entrance across the sidewalk, but it is clearly not a parking lot entrance, but rather to a loading dock of some sort. “Ma’am, are you sure this is it?”

“Yes, I’m sure. You have to go back to the other street.”

Gritting his teeth again, the cabbie reverses the car back onto the street and returns to the street where he originally stopped.

“It’s this one,” says the woman, this time pointing to the building opposite the one she indicated the first time, right where the GPS had guided them in the first place.

The cabbie stops the meter at $8.00. The woman digs in her wallet and produces a five-dollar bill. The cabbie can see that it is the only paper currency there.

“That’ll do. Let’s just get you home.”

The woman looks at him. “What’s your name, anyway?”

“I’m Tony,” he says.

“Tony, I love you!”

He steps out of the car and walks around to the passenger side rear door, which the woman has already opened. He offers a hand, which she accepts, and guides her toward the building, entirely uncertain if she’s even at the right place.

“Which apartment is it?” he asks.

“Six B,” comes her reply.

Of course, six B is on the second floor. The cabbie is fearful that she’ll never make it up the stairs on her own, so he helps her stagger up both flights, and then he helps her to her door.

The woman fumbles for a minor eternity in her purse, but can’t find the keys, so she thrusts the purse at the cabbie who takes the handles and holds the purse open in order that the woman can fumble two-handed. She produces a set of keys and lunges at the lock, but she can’t manage to single out a key, let alone fit it into the lock. She thrusts the keys at the cabbie, and he finds one that looks like a house key. It slides into the lock effortlessly, but, try as he might, he can’t turn it.

“Are you SURE this is your apartment? Are we at the right building?” he asks, picturing a man on the other side of the door, trembling in fear and aiming a shotgun at the door.

“Yes, this is my place.” The woman tries the door handle, but the door is still locked. “God, I have to pee.”

“The key’s not turning, Ma’am. I don’t know what else to do.”

She lunges at the door once more while the cabbie, stuck with his own sense of responsibility, looks helplessly down at his cab parked at the curb, beckoning him return.

Finally, a minor miracle occurs and the door opens to reveal a fairly nice interior and an unenthusiastic, white Pekingese looking up at her as if to say, “Again?”

The woman staggers to the doorway, and the cabbie puts one, final steadying hand on her back. She makes a futile grab for his hand and stumbles into her own living room and says, “Wait. Come here.”

“I’m sorry, Ma’am,” says the cab driver, backing away from the doorway, HELL NO! screaming through his mind. “I’m not allowed to go inside.” He pulls on the door handle. “You have a nice night, now!”

“No! Wait!” In her attempt to keep the door open, her weight carries forward and she pushes the door shut.

Heading down the stairs, the cabbie chuckles to himself, shakes his head, and pities the woman for the morning she is about to endure.



°

Bad Night

It seems odd to me that this taxi driving job started out, with no interference from the taxi cab company, as somewhat idyllic: extremely nice people getting into my cab, some of them gorgeous young, talkative women; people really appreciative of my efforts at courtesy and good service. And the money seemed adequate, with a hint of being good in the future.

Large Richards
Lately, however, things have been a bit on the side of suck. At least once a night for the past two weeks I have received dispatches either to addresses that don't exist, or to existent addresses where no one has called for a cab (a no-show). I guess some people have plenty of time in their schedules to be dicks. I just wonder if they're sitting somewhere they can see the cab as it pulls up to where the address is supposed to be so they can stick their hands down their pants for the final glee as the driver searches in futility, or if it suffices just to know that a cab is being sent to wherever their cell-deficient brains asked for it to be sent.


My First Scary Ride
Sunday night I started around 9:00, about an hour earlier than what I had established as the usual. After one no-show call, I received another dispatch, with a pickup name of Danny. It was an apartment block in a nice enough looking neighborhood in a nice, clean, suburban town. As usual, the number was nonexistent in the building, or the block was laid out weirdly and the building with the number I was looking for was on the other side of the block. Honestly, I don't know how the police can find these places in emergencies.

I pressed the Callout function on my cab's computer, which then triggers a computerized call to the customer announcing that the cab has arrived, and then instructing the customer to enter the number of minutes he or she would like the cab to wait.

I received a "Coming out in 1 minute" response. And then almost immediately a man came out shaking his head. Danny came to the cab and asked if he could pre-pay twenty dollars with a credit card for me to take his nephew only a few blocks down the road. He absolutely could, and after the card was authorized and the transaction completed, he directed me around to the back of the complex where he said his nephew was waiting. On the way I asked him for the address to where his nephew was going. Uncle Danny said he didn't know; the nephew would tell me. The nephew, around age 20 or so, by my estimate, said good-bye to his uncle and then got in. I asked him the address of where he wanted to go, and he said, "I think it's 2421."

"Street name?"

"Uhhh. I don't know the street name." A little alarm bell went off in my head.

"Do you know how to get there? You can just guide me."

"Okay. Yeah. I'll guide you."

So then we commenced on a meandering path from that town to the one adjacent. He directed me only to major roads and seemed to have no clue. More alarm bells. I had started the meter so that the dispatcher would know that I had a customer, as well as to know just how much of a tip I was going to wind up with at the end of the trip. At $9.20 on the meter, the nephew said, "Can you take me back to my uncle's? I'll just stay there and have to [mumble, mumble]... Is that okay?"

Trying to conceal my frustration, I said, "It's fine."

I set the GPS to the original address because I knew we had not traveled in the most time-efficient manner, and, by the meter, I was already nearly halfway through the pre-paid amount.

I dropped him at the place where I had picked him up, and he asked, "How much?"

I said, "Your uncle already paid."

Nephew got out of the car, and I beat it out of there. A few minutes later I called the dispatcher to tell him there was something fishy about that ride. I couldn't put my finger on it, but I was suspicious of the whole thing. The dispatcher asked me if it looked like the kid was trying to make some sort of drug deal connection. I told him that I saw nothing of that sort, but felt possibly that he was casing the cab, perhaps for a later attempt to do something to me or another driver. But would they pay $20 to do that? Maybe if it wasn't their credit card...

Later in the evening I had another call to a different town, this time for Benny. After "Danny," the alarm bells were ringing again. I activated the Callout function, and the response was that the customer would be out in one minute. Five minutes later no one had come down from the apartment. I pressed the Callout again, and again I received a one-minute response. Five more minutes later (that's the time I'm required to wait before I can request a callout or request a no-show) there was still no one in or near my cab. So I pressed the no-show request function. No sooner had I done that than two young men came out of the apartment building. They stood behind the car for a few moments while one of them finished smoking a cigarette. Then they got in the car. The one on the passenger side said, "Why you didont call?" His voice was thick with an eastern European accent.

"I did call," I said, but my answer apparently didn't matter to him, nor did the fact that I "didn't" call. "I tell you where to go."

Amid a non-stop conversation with his friend in what I can only guess was Russian...maybe Ukrainian, he directed me to another apartment building about $7.00 away. Then he asked if I could then take them to "the liquor store. Is good for you, yes?"

"Absolutely," I replied, while the voice in my brain was replying, "Get the fuck out of my car!"

So I drove them to the liquor store, waited for them to get their elixir of choice — while fearing they were going to rob the place — and then returned them to their destination. The fare was $11.00, and the guy gave me $18. Not so bad for being a somewhat unnerving couple of passengers.


What the Suck?
I spent the rest of the night fighting — and losing to — the urge to sleep. One more fare from a bar I've picked up from at least twice each week that I've worked nights, and Rose, my dialysis Gramma who loves me, and for whom I park in her zone at 3:30am so I'll get the call to pick her up (the dispatch computer sends the closest cab).

From 4:00 on it was so dead out there that my computer booked me off for lack of activity! I had sat on one post for more than three hours, so I decided to move, and to get a breakfast sammich and some coffee. Of course, no sooner had I started on my way than my computer came to life with a fare! Easy pickins, the guy was headed to a nearby commuter train station, where I dropped him off.

When I booked back in to the system, I saw there was an open fare in a town about ten miles away. I have no idea how long it had sat open, but I booked it within a minute or two of seeing it. I fairly raced to the address, as I knew it was at least a fifteen minute ride to get there, answering the dispatcher once when I was asked my ETA to the customer, which, at that moment, was less than five minutes. The customer never canceled, but when I got to the address, the Callout response came back as "Invalid response or no answer." At that point I have to wait five minutes before I can ask for a No-show, but after the alloted time I did another Callout, just in case the caller was on the phone or something. After another five minutes, I hit the No-show. Fucker.

From there I finally got my breakfast, and then I went to the Village of Schaumburg office to turn in my application for a chauffeur's license.

So, on the night, I took in $52. I spent $21 to fill the gas tank at the end of my shift. The chauffeur's license application cost $60 (and that's the half-year rate!). I finished the night $29 in the hole.

Aren't jobs supposed to make you money?



°

Dietro il Volante

I wound up not being required to attend the play rehearsal Saturday afternoon, so I chose to work extra hours Friday night. It didn't amount to a hill of beans — or cash — like I had hoped it would. It was especially slow for a Friday night. That, or there were a lot of other cabs out there.

I was asked to help out in one of the oft-abandoned west zones, and the dispatcher told me he would help me out in return later in the morning, so I did it, which led to me being sent to another fare out there, only that one was a no-show. Then he sent me a fare from Elgin to O'Hare airport, a $46 fare! But still, the night amounted to a small mound, not a hill.

In the morning I booked off at 9:30 and headed to the Apple store at Woodfield Mall to see if they had a car power adapter for my Mac laptop. They did, but it was too much product for what I need. Thanks, but I don't want 2 USB ports, an espresso maker, and a sock warmer as part of the package. What, is the thing manufactured by U.S. politicians? I'll have to look online.

Then I went to the Verizon store to see how much it would cost to get an "air card" so I can get online from my cab during the slow times at night. Too much, it turns out, so, if I can find an affordable power transfigurometator, I'll only be writing in the cab, and not posting.

As I was leaving the parking area near the Verizon store, an older gentleman very timidly hailed me — with his index finger up in the air, not the typical "Hitler salute" kind of hail. It actually took a second for it to register that he was actually signaling me!

I was off duty, and I really wanted to go home, but then the newly awakened business man in me thought, "ees more money!" so I cranked my window down. He spoke in another language, something like "libero Woodfield Mall." It sounded like Spanish to me. Then he showed me words written on the back of a computer-printed map: "Woodfield Mall."

At first I thought he was just asking directions, but then I said, "You want to go?"

He said, "Yes."

I booked back in to the dispatch system and started the meter. Woodfield Mall was literally only blocks away, but the fare was going to be at least enough to pay for the steak, egg, and cheese bagel I had just eaten at McDonalds in Woodfield before I hit the Apple store! As we neared an entrance to the mall parking lot, I asked him "Which store do you want to go to?"

He replied, "Centro commerciale." Only the second word was pronounced "ko-mehr-chee-AL-ay." That's Italian!

I asked him, "Are you speaking Español, or Italiano?"

He said, "Oh, no! Italiano!"

I smiled and blundered through the few words of Italian I know: "I'm Italiano! Mi nonno di Abbruzzo! Castel di Sangro." I'm Italian! My grandfather is from the Abruzzo region. The town of Castel di Sangro." At least I think that's what I said. Either that, or I told him I wanted to taste his underpants. I have to find my Italian phrase book.

He said, "Ah, Abbruzzo! L'Aquila; Pescara." (towns in the region). And then, in pretty good English, "I know Castel di Sangro."

By then it was time to drop him off. The meter read $5.40 — which, I believe, was the exact amount of my steak, egg, and cheese bagel and cup of coffee. It was the end of the ride for him, but the end of a really neat experience for me. I had the chance to mangle someone else's native language for him, and he got to meet the ascendant of century-old Italian expatriates. He gave me six dollars. He said he wanted something back, and I thought it was change, but he actually just wanted a receipt. So he left me with a sixty-cent tip.

Cheap dago bastard.



°

Behind the Wheel

A view of the back seat in a taxi cab

On Friday I completed my first full week working full-time as a cab driver. While I haven't met any truly interesting characters — yet — there have been some interesting people passing through nonetheless, brief visits, short conversations about a wide range of topics — or absolutely no conversation at all — and then the silence of an empty rear seat within the hum of the wheels rolling me toward the next fare.

It's unfare, I tell ya!
As I am still new to the job, I am at a distinct disadvantage to the other, more veteran drivers receiving dispatches from the same company. To keep the technical part brief, the company has divided our service area into zones that are marked off electronically by a radio-GPS system. The computer/radio in each car is constantly transmitting and receiving, and the central dispatch computer can inform the human dispatcher where any car is at any given time. If I'm in a zone where a customer lives who has called for a taxi, and if I have priority in that zone (no other cab arrived there before me), then the computer will automatically assign me the fare. If no cabs are in the zone where a customer needs a ride, the zone number goes up on the in-car computer screen, and any driver who wants that fare must press a request code and the number of the zone where the fare is waiting. When it's busy, the veteran drivers who know which zones are close enough to them to make it worth their while, and that of the customer, can enter the request into their computers very quickly, whereas I must still consult the book to see if the open fare is in a zone close enough for me to get to in a timely fashion. Quite often, before I have even grabbed the training book to find the town corresponding to the zone, the fare is snapped up by another driver.

It's the nature of the game in a pool full of sharks. What is more frustrating is that quite often these other drivers abandon the zones to the far west and northwest, and those fares will sit open for quite a long time. I have made some of my best money chasing those fares while the other drivers hold out for the longer rides to the airport.

The most frustrating, however, is chasing one of those fares a l o o o n g way, only to arrive at the customer's house and learn from his wife that he left "20 minutes ago... in another cab." GRRRR!


The cab driver diet
I have shared in these pages my efforts to lose some weight and get into shape. I had started in February, and through July I had managed to go from 210 lbs down to 190. That was five months and change, and I remained at the 190 lb. plateau through the rest of the summer.

In one week of working twelve-hour shifts I have dropped another five pounds. I have been acutely aware of how easy it is to eat poorly when there are so many poor options on practically every street corner. I have restricted myself to one or two sausage McMuffin with egg sandwiches from McDonalds each morning, and some variation of a balanced protein/carb, light meal in the evenings. I have not eaten lunch all week, and I have spent an average of $11 per day to eat.


"The best cab driver ever!"
One of the things I have noticed as a taxi cab customer is how often the cab driver does little more for the passenger than open the trunk to allow the passenger to put his or her own luggage in, drive the passenger to the destination, and collect the payment. In the training class the instructor emphasized the customer service aspect this company tries to push. I don't know if it's that emphasis, or if it's my experiences as the paying customer, but I have fully embraced the service aspect of this job. Granted, that may change when there's six inches of snow on the ground and 18 degrees on the thermometer, but we'll burn that bridge when we come to it.

I worked days my first week, with a brief taste of the action on Friday and Saturday nights. As the next weekend approached I decided to try working nights to see if it would be lucrative.

Within five minutes of firing up the computer and booking into the system Friday night at 10:00, I was running to pick up a fare to the airport. I didn't even get a chance to buy a cup of coffee! From the airport, on my way back to my designated work area, I received a fare in the zone through which I was passing: a pickup of two women at a motel. I arrived, went inside and asked the desk clerk to call their room and let them know their cab was there, and, when they came down, the cab was sitting at the lobby entrance with the rear doors open. I stood by the open door and closed it after they got in. They were two young women from Michigan in town to see Pink in concert the next night. But Friday night they wanted to go to a nightclub called Hunters, which I learned only a few days prior — from my cab driver trainer — is a gay bar. I asked the ladies why they wanted to go there, and one of them said, "Because there's nothing else to do in this crappy little town!"

At first I thought she meant Chicago, but before I opened my mouth I realized she meant that little suburb where they were staying. They were tired from driving all day, and they didn't want to go too far for some fun. The taller one seemed perhaps a little drunk, and she was flirting with me, saying that she thought bald heads were sexy. Then she said she thought guys with long, flowing hair were sexy, too. It then occurred to me that she was probably okay with most any guy as long as he had a head.

We arrived at Hunters, and suddenly the girls were nervous. Flirty girl (I think her name was Kimmy) asked me if I would come in with them...I could leave the meter running! I said, very politely, "Aw, HELL NO!" I gave them a business card with my name and mobile number handwritten on it, and told them they could call me if they wanted me, specifically, to drive them back, but I warned them that if I was busy, they might have to wait, or I might not be available at all. They went inside, and as I pulled away, I saw a transgendered man with butt implants out to HERE, huge boobs, puffy lips and wearing a short, red 'fuck me' dress heading toward the club entrance, and I thought out loud, "I'm SO glad I'm leaving!"

Twenty minutes later they called. By the sound of the woman's voice on the other phone, they were in WAY over their heads! Unfortunately, as I was leaving the parking lot at Hunters, I grabbed a fare that turned out to be a long ride from a comedy club at the local mega-mall to a hotel all the way down in the city!!

It was actually eight women in two cabs, and when the organizer of the group, and the caller of the cab company, saw me, she was thrilled that I was under the age of 60. Apparently their ride from their hotel to the suburbs had been helmed by an elderly limo (van) driver who had to stop along the way because he realized he was wearing the wrong glasses. These poor women had seriously feared for their lives. My four ladies were quite tickled by — and quite vocal about — the fact that I looked over my shoulder before changing lanes! $76 cab ride, $20 tip!

I was amazed at how busy I was Friday night. From 10:00 and the first ride, it was all pretty much non-stop until about 1:30 am. With about an hour afterward to try to catch a nap, I watched a fare sit open on the computer — another one in the far west zones — for at least 20 minutes, and no one grabbed it. Finally, and thinking it was some poor old lady trying to get home from work, I grabbed it only to discover it was a full-fare ride of about 15 miles! When I got the two young men and one young woman in the car, they pretty much ignored me for about 10 minutes until the young man snuggling with the young woman in the back seat suddenly spoke to me: "What's your name, brother?"

From there we engaged in light conversation about music, at which point I learned that the two men were in a rock band called Train Company. By the end of the ride I had learned that they had a CD out, they are enjoying some local celebrity with airplay on one of the Chicago progressive rock stations, and that if I would stick around for a couple minutes after I dropped them off, they would give me a free CD!

I haven't listened to it, yet.

Later in the morning I caught another airport ride. I grabbed it, and was a little too far away to make the scheduled pickup time. It was another fare that had sat on the computer too long. The woman was a little upset that I was five minutes late, and couldn't understand that, as she had made the call the night before. When I explained that the system calls the cab only about a half-hour before the pickup time, she calmed down a little. She was also impressed that I had gotten out of the cab and opened the door for her, and that I didn't drive like a maniac, and that I didn't smell like a week-old bath. She even said that, by the end of the ride, which she had started in a bad mood, she was in a good mood again!

The next evening my phone rang at 6:15, waking me from my fitful, daytime slumber. It was Kimmy and Krissy, the two Michigan girls, asking if I could come pick them up to take them to the concert. Of course I could!

After I picked them up, I told them the bad news that I wouldn't be able to pick them up after the concert because the village of Rosemont, where the concert venue is, has an exclusive contract with two taxicab companies, and mine isn't either of them. If I got caught picking them up, I could get a pretty hefty fine. I told them to just take one of the local, authorized taxis, and they should be just fine.

Around midnight I received another call from them. The taxi line was miles long, and could I please, PLEASE come pick them up? I asked them to walk away from the arena and the crowds and let me know where they were, and I would try to sneak around to get them. After a couple of more phone calls back and forth, I parked behind a hotel, out of sight of any of the Rosemont police officers on crowd- and traffic duty, and guided them to me.

They were very happy that I had worked so hard to get them into the cab and save them from waiting forever, and as we neared their hotel, one of them said that the next time they come to Chicago, they're calling me to be their cab driver! The other one said, "You're the best cab driver EVER!"

And I am.

Sunday night I didn't know what to expect. How much bar traffic could there be? Who was out that late on a Sunday night? Surprisingly, there was quite a bit early on, all short rides.

I received a fare that turned out to be at some bar in one of my home zones. As I arrived, the bar appeared to be closed, and I thought I had another no-show on my hands. I walked toward the doors, and they were locked. But seconds later a young man and a very attractive young woman came out and said that the other guy would be out in a few moments. That was fine with me, and as I headed toward the cab to wait, the young woman shouted, "You're the best-dressed cab driver I've ever seen!"

I turned back around, looked down at my khaki pants and my short-sleeve, button-front shirt — business casual at best — and said, "Thanks!"

She then proceeded to tell me of a worst-case scenario she had experienced in a cab, the driver of which had his small, pet dog with him that bit her and she was "bleeding all over the place." Then she said she would definitely want to ride in my cab! I was thinking that this could be a nice ride (wink, wink).

To my dismay, the other friend came out, and the two guys got in my cab, leaving the woman behind. Then I learned that the guy who had been with her and had been making out with her in the parking lot had only met her that evening. He was kicking himself and calling himself stupid because he felt he had neglected to say or do something for her. He asked me to turn around so he could go back to her, and I did. Back at the entrance, his friend talked him down, asking him, "Is it really going to make a difference?"

Tall boy got back in and said, "You're right."

And then I said, "You got her phone number, right?"

You would think I was Sherlock F. Holmes by their reaction!

And then I felt knees pressing against my kidneys through the seat foam at my back, so I slid my seat forward about an inch or two. Tall boy shouted, "Dude! This fuckin' guy is awesome!"

His friend shouted, "You're the best cab driver EVER!" I am not exaggerating. He said exactly the same thing Krissy had said a mere 24 hours earlier!

And then they both started quoting — I think — Wiseguys, and chanted, "This fucking guy! This fucking guy!"

Oh, yeah. They were both pretty drunk.

After that it quieted down for a couple of hours, during which I cat-napped. I caught a really short ride at 4:30, an old lady who needed to get to her dialysis appointment. When I left her at her destination, I got the first of three consecutive, $30-plus airport rides. cha-CHING!

I'm liking the night shift! And never have I worked ten 12-hour days in a row, and ENJOYED it! This is truly weird!



°

Strange Indeed

A tired mind goes to strange places.

I worked Sunday from around 11:30 in the morning with plans to knock off at 8:00. A couple of late calls to the far west suburbs kept me out, and then they were very difficult to find, or far to get to, and I wound up getting home around 11:00. I had planned to start Monday at 4:00 am.

Not one to be deterred, I delayed my wake-up by half an hour, started a half-hour later than I had intended, and worked 14 hours Monday on only 4 ½ hours of sleep.

After I called it a day I stopped at Rosebud of Schaumburg for their Monday all you can eat spaghetti and meatballs special. While I was waiting and watching my waiter who was also one of the bartenders, and waiting because he was really busy, the phrase "like a chicken with its head cut off" came to mind. I've never seen a chicken get its head cut off — and I don't EVER WANT to — so I've never seen if the body actually runs around, or if it just flops and flails. But then I got to wondering about the head. Does anything on the other side of the cut stay "alive" afterward?

And then my mind drifted to the poor humans who have met such a fate. I would venture to say that our bodies are a little more sophisticated than that of a chicken, but I don't recall ever hearing that the headless portion continues moving in any fashion after gravity (and that's quite a fitting word!) has had its way. And again, but what about the head? Is it like being hit with a blunt instrument, where the temporary interruption of nerve impulses cause a momentary lack of consciousness...? Only, in the case of a beheading it's permanent, of course.... Or would the sudden cessation of oxygen to the brain cause immediate lights out?

How awful that would be, no? If the last moments of cognizance were of the point of view of a window on a ball rolling around on the floor and seeing the rest of your body from a distance and perspective — and in a condition — you had never seen before!

My apologies. As I wrote above, a tired mind goes to some strange places, indeed. Time for bed!



°