It's Okay To Come Home If It Doesn't Work Out

It's 3:23 Monday morning. I am terrified by my life and existence.

Friday was St. Patrick's Day. I hoped this would translate into a big night in the cab, because work had been sucking. Business had dropped off considerably since January. I figured that student loan checks were beginning to wear thin, combined with the approach of mid-term exams at the university and spring break. What used to be $250-$280 nights a couple of months ago had dwindled to $150-$190 nights in March.

On top of that, I had skipped out early the previous Friday night (at 1am, before bar rush, when JW's car went down, and I volunteered mine) and sat out Saturday entirely. Saturday was the first of two days of vicious hail storms. I had awoke to the tornado sirens around 3pm. I called in and volunteered to sit out, since we were down a car. Phyllis didn't sound happy about it, but she told me it was okay.

I didn't want to drive that night for obvious reasons. People drive bad enough as it is, but seem to go completely retarded the instant the first raindrop hits the ground. I envisioned it raining all night, and I didn't want to fight the weather. Most of the Crown Vics have identical glitches in the windshield wiper switches, and pretty much only work reliably when you toggle the switch on and off manually for each wipe. This sucks pretty big-time, and I can't imagine doing it for a number of hours in severe weather. Plus, with the rain and temperature swoons, it's hard to regulate the temperature in the car to keep the windows from completely fogging over when groups of 2 or 3 are constantly getting in and out. You go from perfect to zero visibility in an instant, and fight the defrosters for the duration of the ride. When you're almost clear you unload and the cab is stuffy and too hot.

So, I called in and got out of it. I looked forward to a Saturday night off. Plus, I could spend it with my lady-friend and attend Cully and Xena's party (in anticipation of Amy's birthday--I was insistent on constantly reminding her it wasn't really her birthday yet). Let it pour.

Well, it did. Hailed like a bastard. When it started, I realized that I had left Corpsy in the driveway for the first time in a couple of weeks. I considered going out to move it, but I didn't want to get wet and I had personally never seen it hail bigger than a marble or for more than a couple of minutes in Missouri.

I watched out the window as golf-ball sized hail began pelting the North side of Columbia. Shit, that was big. I again considered moving Corpsy, but I figured it would stop as soon as I tried to go outside. It hailed steady until the yard was almost white. The larger hail looked like incoming bombs as they splashed home in the muddy torrent that had become the back yard.

And, for the first time in my life, I took shelter from a storm. Two 'supercells' were converging on Columbia, and they had been producing tornados. I joked that it was hard-on time for the friendly weathermen I used to watch tell boring jokes about the predictable weather when I dressed to go to work mornings as a mechanic. Supercells.

I still wouldn't have retreated, and would have probably climbed on my roof had I been home, but hunkering down in a closet for those 5-10 minutes ranks as one of the smartest things a woman's influence has induced me to do. It blew over quickly enough and my modest attempts at some afternoon romance on a bed of laundry and pillows in the dark, while confronting mortality, were just as quickly thwarted. Something about the possible severity of the situation.

It sucks, as a male, to have to answer to allegations of "are you trying to have sex with me?" The answer will always be yes, though the you don't want to say, simply, "yes." In this case, my efforts were about a 1.5 on a 10 scale, which is only slightly higher than buying a chick a drink or getting the door for her. Regardless, it was fruitless.

After the storm blew over, sometime after 5:30 or so, I went out to have a peak at Corpsy.

When I first purchased Corpsy, my $250 1992 Chevrolet Corsica, I fell in love with how perfectly ordinary it was. It was simply a car. A grandma car. No frills. Four doors. Gray-on-gray. I used to always insist on a utilitarian four-by-four, and drove a 1975 Ford Bronco from 2000-2005. Far from practical. By 2005 I ran without a top or doors for about 10 months out of the year. No carpet, no plastic. Two bucket seats and a roll cage.

"What do you do when it rains?"

"I get wet, bitch. But, seriously, I drive fast, like a cheetah, and avoid the raindrops."

In the fall of 2004 I was working as a mechanic and bought and sold a ton of low end cars. I drove a 1989 Chevy Corsica all winter, a Chevy Corsica I picked up for $50 off of comomusic.com, after one of my first visits to the site. I leveraged myself into a swank (by comparison) $350 1992 Chevy Blazer after a couple of months, and passed Corsica #1 on to my father, who takes my niece to school in it, 36 miles round-trip, each day. I drove that bitch to Chicago with a Finnish chick and a Chinese dude a week after purchasing it. I took the title with me so I could sign it and leave it with the abandoned car, should it break down.

The 1989 Corsica was calico in color. Corsicas were notorious for paint defects, and this one was shaded and patchy like a tabby cat. It had a few minor dents and dings from having suffered through a teenaged driver who couldn't kill it. The front seats had covers and the headliner was ripped out. But, the bitch still ran strong at 180K, and the cruise control even worked.

So, when I saw an ad in the paper for a "1992 Chevrolet Corsica--$250, needs work, you tow," I was quick to call.

"What's wrong with it?"

"I'm a girl--I don't know."

I got lucky and snapped it up that afternoon. Though I was the third caller, my voicemail was the first she listened to, and I was nice enough to strike an impression.

Unbelievably, Corpsy had nice paint (had been repainted to correct the factory defects), under 100K, new tires, only one door ding, and all four factory hubcaps. If you knew anything about Corsicas, you'd know these fell off the second you drove off of the lot.

Corpsy had only known two prior owners in her 15 or so years. One door ding and some minor sun-scorched fabric peeling off the otherwise-comfortable driver's seat. If you used your imagination, you could believe you had time-traveled back to the George Herbert Walker Bush era. Corpsy was a such a perfectly preserved specimen of a perfectly ordinary car. Something that had survived for 15 years unscathed. No abuse, no reckless drivers, no no-fault ice-storm mishaps, no rust, no fender benders. It could have still posed for the owner's manual cover shot.

So, it was with some minor chagrin that I took Corpsy's first knock, some 2-3 days prior to the storm, when my new lady-friend drug Corpsy's mirror alongside the body of her own car. It just scuffed and chipped the paint off of the edge of the mirror, and bent the housing away from the door. I winced a little, and straightened it back by hand, with all of the due care but brute strength of a doctor popping a shoulder back into socket. No major harm done, still functional, a bit bruised, and maybe a little arthritic a few years down the road.

It must have been a precursor to the storm. Some sort of unrealized warning, like the restless behavior of barnyard animals before a twister. As it was, Corpsy got pelted pretty good. No broken windows or anything, though, just some ball-peen hammer-style dents dimpling the hood and roof, and maybe one or two on the side.

Just another lesson in atrophy, I guess. You can't keep anything nice.

How's that for an aside?

So, yeah, I was back to work St. Pat's day, hoping to make some money. The hail storm had been particularly hard on several A*1 cabs. My first night after the storm I was in #2, a new (to us) '94 or '95 Dodge Caravan (#3's replacement). It had a circular crack in the driver's side of the windshield and lots of severe hail dents. A few cars had broken lights and lenses. On the upside, I think that the storm was the death-knell for old #10, but I hesitate to believe it, like when the horror-movie villain goes down too-quickly 45 minutes into the flick.

So, for Friday, I was dealt #16. Avid blog readers (with peculiar memory quirks) may remember me writing about "Sweet 16" early on. She was a Lincoln that went bad. Had to drive it with shitty brakes that pulled to one side. The last time I was in it was the first night #3 broke down on me. She had been decommissioned shortly after that, around the beginning of the new year. Her number and radio had found its way to another new A*1 cab, one I have affectionately dubbed "Shorty Longback."

Now, those of you who are mullet-acute will recognize this designation, along the same vein as the Neck Blanket or Tennessee Mud Flap. You know--business in the front, party in the back. I call #16 Shorty Longback because he/she is a 20'+ extended Dodge 350 one-ton van. Snub nose with an abnormally long, extended rear portion, hanging several feet past his/her 11' wheelbase. The nose is made even more pug-looking by #16's dapper cap, an oversized van-specific white plastic illuminescent Taxi light up top.

Functionally, Shorty L'back is the mechanical twin to #15, which is the raised-roof wheelchair van I have described. However, #16 retains its original, svelte roofline and has three full rows of bench seats--church van style--in back of the front captain's chairs. All trimmed in muted blue vinyl, save for the sometime-replaced tan driver's seat. Minus a rattly running board and some squeaky brake-shoes, the van is in great mechanical shape, save for a badly grounded gas-gauge and a non-working radio, with a clock that's an hour and twenty minutes fast but won't respond to any of the buttons.

Initially, I was less than thrilled at the prospect of getting the crap beat out of my by driving an unloaded one-ton van over every pothole and expansion crack in Columbia for 12 hours. Never mind that it is a land-yacht, and one not easily docked in the compact-friendly parking spaces of downtown Columbia. However, I had spent an entire night in #2 earlier in the week, and there aren't many things I hate worse than a Caravan for a cab.

Don't get me wrong, I owned (briefly) a '93 Grand Caravan (picked up from Social2 for $300), and enjoyed it. However, there is a big difference in a 130K minivan and one that gets the crap beat out of it on the road 24 hours a day. Those vans just aren't built for the abuse. The suspensions fail quickly, followed by the steering. Front-wheel-drive CV axles get sloppy and noisy. The trannies suck. All of the plastic crap on the dash begins to squeak and rattle mercilessly. The sliding doors are hard to open and close completely, and the locks stick on them. The interiors are usually light gray cloth and stain and age horribly. Nothing to spend 12 hours cruising in.

But, the S.S. Longback is built very much like a truck. So, sure, it's going to ride like a truck, but all of the ergonomics--door handles, etc.--are the tried-and-true base technology employed by Chrysler since the 70s. They are much more durable and can withstand the abuse a taxi full of drunks can dish out.

So, if I wasn’t going to be in a cruiser (Crown Vic), I'd much rather pilot the S.S. Longback. Since it didn't have the wheelchair lift or cavernous aftermarket raised-roof of #15, it didn't suffer the same rattling, clattering, and reverberation. And, passengers would be directly behind me, instead of 12-15" back. Plus, on a big drunk holiday like St. Pat's, having seating capacity of 10 comfortably meant I could pull some big groups and make that money. Watch out, Taxi Terry.

So, I was handed the keys to #16, and given a call right away. When I started her up I noticed that the gas gauge needle was on 'E'. I only had $14 on me (after not working a day or two, having slow nights, and paying my bills). Crap. I couldn't afford to put gas in the pig. I ended up getting $9 from Phyllis, which would at least get me a little further down the road.

My first call was a regular from the mall. He manages the housekeeping department there. He asked if we could stop by the gas station (he pre-pays cash and gets a flat rate). That was perfect, since I need to throw the $9 in it. 87 octane was $2.39 per gallon. You can bet that the needle barely budged, but I could relax a little bit, knowing I wouldn't run out of gas for at least a few calls while I built up some cash. Dude tips me $2 on top of the cash charge, which is pretty cool.

Next, I had a call over on Mehl. I have a regular customer there who is a writer and always tips $5. I had gave him a link for my blog but never heard any word from him. There are only about 5 places on Mehl, and I swung in where I always pick him up, since I couldn't get dispatch back on the radio. I was looking at the door in front of me when a woman walked over from across the street.

I was for her, but hadn't ever got the address. She was only going so far as the Backyard Burgers on Clark lane, a $4.80 fare. Along the way, she mentioned that she had lived in Springdale, Arkansas, where my good buddy Brandon lives. She tipped $1, and apologized for not being able to do better.

My next call was at the Sunset Trailer Park. It's a fairly shitty place South of the AC exit. At least it was still daylight, so I could find the trailer easy enough. It was some older cracker woman with a hole in her sweatshirt. I was taking her to the Gerbes on Nifong.

She had just returned from the funeral service for her ex-boyfriend's sister. She told me of all of the funerals she had attended, including a husband's and two daughters'. The fare was $10.05. I told her I wasn't worried about the nickel.

Next, I picked up at a sorority house and took 9 girls to McGinty's. They were mid-level sorority girls, an 8 or 9 among the best of them, mostly 6-7s, with maybe a 5 bringing up the rear. It was right at 6pm. McGinty's was already full. They were trying to figure out who was paying what on the fare as we neared. "You give me $2. Remember, I bought you Taco Bell. No, I gave you $5 the other night. Remember, I bought you a beer." The fare came to $13.80 and they gave me a $20. Good girls. I'd forgot what tips looked like.

Next I had a call at Providence Walkway in the projects. The apartment number is right off of the Switzler side, but I was supposed to pick them up on the Blind Boone side. I had gone through the same bullshit confusion with the same address the Tuesday before, changing positions and circling for 20 minutes for a no-show. Dispatch kept telling me to park on the Blind Boone side, by the dumpster. But the dumpster is on the Switzler side.

Either way, I pulled up and saw three whacked-out black people. An older black man (56, I would find out), a fat woman with crazy shockazulu hair, and another fat black woman I hated to recognize.

It was the drunk woman who I took to Wal-Mart with her mom a couple of months ago, whose credit card was declined, and I took back home. The return trip had gotten hairy when I picked up another passenger. The were drunk and crazy, talking about the food in jail. The incontinent mom had paid with wet money,

They were more than 50' or so down the sidewalk, with a bunch of Aldi's bags. The one I recognized was gesturing at me, like she expected me to drive my 20' van down the sidewalk in the projects. After a few rest stops, they made it to the van, wheezing and chattering, with all of their shit.

The woman was drunk again, and very demanding. Although there were three of them, carrying the bags, she wanted my help loading them. This is the same woman who has shorted me both times I have dealt with her. The old guy got in the seat behind me, and wanted me to guess his age. They were all drunk. It was just getting dark. I had to pull the fat woman with shockazulu hair into the front passenger's seat. No easy feat. They had a plastic bag with assorted cans of beer, including High Life and Keystone Light. They were drinking cans of High Life when they got in. I had cheap beer spilled in the floor before I could get out of the parking lot.

While the drunk 56 year old was trying to talk to me about his age, the drunk bitch kept saying "we only got $4.50. We told 'em that. We only got $4.50." As if I had banked on a tip.

Our minimum fare is $3. There were 3 of them (2 extra passengers=$2 extra). So, a minimum $5 fare, and the promise of $4.50. Thanks, dispatch.

They were yelling nonsensical bullshit the whole way, which, thankfully, was a short one, a half-mile around the corner. I pulled into the driveway at the apartment building and they were yelling for me to turn around behind the apartment building so they doors would be on the right side. It was just getting good and dark and as I swung the big van around behind the apartments and headed back up the narrow driveway. With the stench of cheap beer and all of the commotion, I scraped Shorty Longback's rear quarter panel along some bizarre phantom retaining wall. Still getting used to it's dimensions.

As if that wasn't infuriating enough in itself, along with the whole ride thus far, I've got a drunk 56 year old giving me shit about my driving. And now they're demanding I help them with their groceries.

I helped get them out of the van, just to get rid of them quicker. Then they said they had to go in to get the $4.50, and demanded I come in with them. I went down into some funky smelling basement apartment. Some other random dude was walking out. The ringleader accosted him for money. He said he didn't have any, and then she disappeared. After a couple of frustrating minutes, Shockazulu came out of a room carrying a commemorative state quarters display, and began snapping quarters out of it. I left with $3.25, High Life running under my feet and on my street guide book, and a 3' scratch on the newly-painted #16.

The scratch wasn't terrible, but it was noticeable. There were a number of creases and dents worse than mine that had been in the van when they purchased it and they had simply painted over them. All of the big vans sport similar pin striping, but I knew I'd have to own up to it. I also knew that I would be enraged if I would be expected to pay for it, as they wouldn't likely fix it anyway and it would amount merely to punishment. But I'd have to deal with that later.

My next call was from Columbia Regional to the Ronald McDonald house. The new mom was pretty hefty and had to use the step-stool provided with the S.S. L'Back to climb into the van.

From there, I grabbed a group-home regular who washes dishes at the hospital cafeteria. He talked about being stressed out, because his boss was always on him to hurry up. His family lives in a quarter million dollar house with a new Tahoe in the driveway. When he goes in the garage I can see a $10,000 John Deer mini-tractor and another $3000 John Deer riding mover, both show-room fresh with unchecked clean pristine black rubber tires, all for a 1/4 acre lawn in a subdivision. And the county pays for his cab ride home.

After that, I had a request on Svvena, a road off of HH on the way to Centralia. I recognized the address as that of a guy I had taken to Chuck E. Cheese's the Friday before. It was a $31.80 cab ride and he gave me a $50. He requested me for the ride home, and tipped another $5. Those two fares accounted for more than a third of my money that night, and made it an easier decision to ditch work early.

The guy had had his 7 year-old daughter with him the Friday before. It was her first cab ride. He mentioned that you could buy beer at Chuck E. Cheese's, but they'd only sell you one every two hours and they kept track of when you ordered. He was an electrician, recently divorced after 18 years of marriage (he was 38), and he took a real liking to me. He was proud of two things in his life: his skills as an electrician and his two daughters.

He was missing his front teeth and had a 3 month-old hair cut from Snip 'n' Clip. When I came back for them, they had walked to the mall and bought some movies. A live-action version of Beauty and the Beast and Sin City. We stopped at a gas station on the way home, and the dad went in. He came back out and got in the car. The daughter asked what he had bought.

"I bought some soda."

"What did you get?"

"I told you, I was getting some soda."

"That's vodka."

"Okay, It's vodka. You want to see my ID?"

This time, dude was by himself. His girlfriend had just kicked him out. He had been crying, and his dirty work clothes were covered in beer, looking like someone had thrown it on him. He got in the cab with some extra clothes.

He didn't really know where he wanted to go. He said he had "fucked up." We stopped at the gas station so he could think about it. He asked if he could change in the van. I said no problem. He took off his shirt, distracted by the drunk speech coming from his own mouth. He slipped on a button-down flannel shirt, and went to button it, as he spoke, staring vaguely into space, tears in his eyes and teeth MIA.

The side of the shirt with the buttons on it was flipped over, folded back, so the buttons weren't immediately visible. He fumbled for them, blindly, still looking straight ahead, talking. He was talking mostly about the girl standing outside, smoking a cigarette, whom he had a thing for or with. His fingers weren't finding buttons, and his hands tried to clutch the garment together, pulling the two halves together as if he were bracing against some bitter cold.

After a minute, he said he had put the shirt on inside out, and yanked it back off. He kept talking. His chest and arms were covered with tattoos. Some prison, some professional. Dragons. Missouri Outlaw. He put the shirt back on, this time really inside-out. He kept fumbling for buttons. After a minute, he concluded it was on inside out. He took it off and put it on about four times before abandoning the unfathomable buttons in favor of a zippered hooded sweatshirt.

He got out and went in for a bottle. Something brown. Whiskey. He tried to talk to the girl outside of the gas station, who was smoking a cigarette and talking to someone else.

He got back in and we took off. The meter was at $12.80. He gave me a $20. He wanted to go, alternatively, 1) to Darlene's Hideaway, 2) the VA Hospital, 3) his ex-wife’s, 4) some place warm. He cycled through these options several times, using my cell phone to call and plead with his ex. He was crying again. He mentioned not taking his medication and being in 'treatment.' After a couple of rejections, we headed to the Hideaway.

We were almost there, and near $30 on the meter, when he tried his ex again and gained clearance to come home. We changed directions and headed to a trailer park off of St. Charles Road. He gave me another $20.

His spirits were lifted a bit by his ex letting him come home. He talked about jail some, tattoos some, his 14 year-old lesbian daughter some. "Can I tell you something?"

"Sure."

"I like black women. I love to fuck black women."

"Who doesn't?"

We were in the trailer park when my phone rang. It was his ex, and asked if he was still in the taxi. I figured she had changed her mind, if she had ever made it up. After a couple of minutes, though, we were at her trailer. The meter was at $38.80.

"I gave you a $20, right?"

"You've given me $40. We're cool. Do you need any change back?" He said no and gave me another $10.

From there I picked up BJ from work and took him home.

My next call was a group of 6 heading downtown. "You guys look like a smart crowd. Lot of import drivers." I made a good impression on them. It wasn't a long call, but there was $5 for the extra passengers, bringing the fare to $12.30. Someone handed me $15 as they piled out. "Do you need any change?'

"No. We're cool." The last guy out stopped and handed me another $5, thanking me again.

After that I picked up 2 at the Heidelberg. One of them was the kid on crutches that I took to the gas station for beer a couple of months ago. He had tipped $6 on a $5 fare that time. His friend was a drunk jackass, and he apologized for him before he got into the cab. They each had a beer and I was counting the seconds before it ended up on the vinyl floor.

The guy rode me a bit about taking Elm to Providence, then wanted to stop for beer. He wanted a break on the wait time. I figured he would be cool and tip well, but his friend was going in and he was a mess. It took a few minutes and I didn't run time. The friend managed to finally spill a beer upon reentry to the van.

Along the way the dude kept singing the praises of the mandolin. He used the work 'dank.' A couple of times. I got them home and got a $5 tip. The drunk jackass thought it was funny to yell "12" penis!" when I was trying to radio in the credit card information.

From there, I grabbed a group of four from a dorm, headed to a party south of town.

Next, I grabbed a group of four and brought them downtown to the Field House. My friends Jerod and Brandon had called me from downtown, and wanted to ride around in the cab. I had seating for 10, so, why the fuck not? I swung by the Artisan and picked them up en route to the Field House.

It was a short trip, just to East campus. They thanked me for picking them up and apologized for the short ride. I told them I was just glad not to be going into the projects. They took it in reference to St. Patrick's day, and said, "yeah, I guess those people don't really celebrate St. Patrick's Day." I said something about maybe smoking green crack. That got them laughing and I snagged a $5.20 tip on the $4.80 fare.

My next call was at Snappers. On the way over, I mentioned the guy with no teeth and the baseball bat, and Brandon, having read the blog, said, "you mean Angel?" It was indeed Angel, though he had no bat in tow. I think the best tip I had got out of Angel was $1, maybe $2, but he tipped me $5 on a $4.05. Nice.

After that I had 4 cancellations in a row, from 11:45 until 12:35. One called in, and the others I had to drive out and wait in vain. Once at the Forge and Vine (had to get out and check), one at the Tokyo Spa (had to get out and chat with the whores), and one at Everett's (the waitress was nice enough to come out and apologize). I blamed the fiasco on dispatch. My friends got a first-hand example of their garbled communication, poor organization, and misdirection. Any other time and I would have been in a blind rage, but I felt better just having people there to empathize with me.

I still wasn't getting anything out of dispatch when I headed back downtown. I pulled out of the street on Broadway, in front of the Penguin. There was a girl about 20' away, and she seemed to be gesturing, in a patronizing manner, for me to drive to her. I was stopped where I was so I wouldn't be blocking traffic or the valet service at the Penguin.

She was a college girl, not overly svelte, wearing a green T-shirt and a few strands of beads.

"If this bitch won't walk 20' to the van she's probably going to be a real cunt. I don't even want her in the van." I went ahead and pulled up to her. She gestured for Brandon to roll down the window, again, a little patronizing.

"We called A*1...for a taxi?"

"This is it. Hop in, it's the fun bus." She collected a much hotter friend and piled in. I thought about waiting for another fare, but, after 4 cancellations, I decided to take what I got and not piss them off. "Where are you guys headed?"

"Take us to Grindstone McDonalds."

"Where do you want to end up?"

"Take us to Grindstone McDonalds."

"Okay, we can do that, but we do charge wait time. It's a $1 a minute, and it could easily be 20 minutes this time of night."

"We don't care. We'll pay. Just take us to McDonalds."

"You want me to leave you at McDonalds, or am I taking you home after that?"

"Yes."

"Where's that?"

"Grindstone."

"Grindstone...? Where at on Grindstone?"

"Grindstone."

"Grindstone...Canyon? Apartments?"

"Yes. Grindstone Canyon Apartments."

We took off, rolling down Broadway. The girl in the Green (Mandy, we found out) immediately launched in on her ex-boyfriend, who was "fucking a 19 year-old." It sounded especially funny coming from a girl who may have been 22 at best.

"I'm going to fuck her with a pit bull."

I looked at Brandon and tried to stifle laughter. "You mean you're going to fuck her with the whole pit bull, or just the pit bull’s penis?"

"The whole thing. I'm going to fuck that bitch with a pit bull. And I'm gonna peel the skin off of it." I looked at Brandon again, quizzically, laughing way too hard. Then she said something about a pickle.

"Oh, pickle. I thought you said pit bull."

"Yeah, I'm gonna make a pit bull fuck her. Then I'm going to make a lion bite off her nipples. Then I'm gonna shove a whole pizza down her throat. Then I'm gonna make a bird eat the pizza. I'm gonna make a bird eat a pizza out of her fucking throat."

It was almost too much. I was laughing my ass off. I couldn't help but think she and Wesley Willis would have made a good pair.

The hotter chick was laughing pretty hard, too, and was now laying with her head in Jerod's lap. Mandy was by herself in the seat behind them. She never slowed down. She said something about needing to buy a guitar or something. I flipped on the dome light and handed the mandolin back to her. She immediately began strumming away at it, improvising some shockingly funny lyrics. This continued all the way to McDonalds and through the drive-through.

I hadn't laughed that hard for that long in a long damn time. I had a coughing fit and thought I was going to die. My head was hot for about an hour afterwards, I had coughed and laughed so hard. It ended up being a $30 fare.

After that, I picked up two groups at the Regency. One was going to East campus, the other to the Reserve. They didn't mind sharing. I got another $5.20 tip on a $4.80 fare and then ended up taking the Reserve couple back to the Best Value Inn. It was a $20 fare and another $4 tip.

I went back downtown and picked up another 2 fares simultaneously, one group of three and another group of two, both going to Bearfield. I got them there and there was some confusion over the fare. I told both groups I would cut them a deal for sharing (even though they picked up and dropped off at the same places--no delays). It should have been $12 and $13, but I told them $10 each, meaning $10 for each of the two groups. The second group of 2 were in the back, and they didn't know why they weren't all just one group. It looked like it was going to get heated, and the group in the middle gave me $13 and bailed. The guys in the back happened to be black, and the guys in the middle wanted to avoid any potential racial tension.

I kept my head and explained it to them, and the guy was satisfied with my explanation. I guess he thought I was trying to hustle them, and we all parted ways with no hard feelings. They even tipped a $1.

I had another call from a fraternity house to Bearfield, and then dropped off Brandon and Jerod. There was a guy passed out on a bench on 9th Street. I honked my horn 5' behind him and yelled at him, but he wouldn't wake up. I saw him, still there, about an hour later, before I went home for the night.

I had one last call, a regular from the Diner, with two extras, going to Rolling Rock.

I ran $288 on the meter. My cut of that was $100. I also pulled about $75 in tips, making for a very good night.

I was in the S.S. Longback again Saturday. Apparently that will be my new ride on Friday and Saturday nights. I am supposed to be the clean-up man, running wild without the aid of dispatch, grabbing all of the flags and calls on Broadway I can. This is something of a promotion, I believe, and I've caught the attention of some of the old crew.

I also told Phyllis about the scratch in #16 when I finished up Friday night. She took it pretty well. I think she appreciated a driver actually owning up for once, so hopefully that is the end of it. She did make a joke about "no more scratches" when she handed me the keys on Saturday.

I'm not going to go into any detail on Saturday night. It appeared as if everyone got it out of their systems on Friday, as I was completely dead. I averaged a call an hour through bar rush, and had less than $10 in tips at 1am. I also had some douchebags and cancellations. Highlights include a group of 6 bankers going from the Stoney Creek Inn to Shiloh. 6 of them and they managed a $1.20 tip on a $12.80 fare, leaving their empty beer bottles to clank around in my van. I also had one girl eat shit on the curb walking to the van. No blood.

After my $288 on the meter Friday, I ran a whopping $125 on Saturday. That's fucking lame. I got like $46 from that, along with about $33 in tips ($13 on one fare), so a little better than $6 an hour. I came home and baked a pineapple-upside down cake while listening to the Meat Purveyors and arranging flowers.

I had a pretty good night tonight (Sunday). Drank some beer. Went to sleep around 1:30, woke up in a sweat at 3:14 to blog.

Hopefully I can get back on track with my blogging. It has been nonexistent for a while because my schedule and routine have been disrupted due to me shifting my hyperfocus onto a female. Honestly, I'm ready to renew my efforts to find a different job. The money has really fallen off, and Spring Break and finals are coming up. And, I can't imagine how dead it will be in the summer. If anyone wants to employ me I'll promise not to write a tell-all blog exposing the seedy underbelly of their business.

Ciao,
Garner

Pucker Up, Buttercup

Well, well, well.

Greetings, good people. I am coming to you after an unanticipated week-long absence. I have missed two updates. My sincerest apologies.

I got my last update up early, a week ago last Thursday. That Thursday night I went and saw The Greencards at the Blue Note.

It was a pretty good show, with a tiny crowd. The Greencards are a four piece: (from right-to-left) a Chicagoan on acoustic guitar, and Aussie chick on electric bass, an Aussie dude playing mandolin/bouzouki, and a Brit on the fiddle. They formed in Austin, Texas, and were pretty good. Very tight and precise, musically, though their aesthetic was a bit too polished and pretty for my particular tastes.

I tried to chat them up a bit, after the show. I wanted to offer them some encouragement and some kudos from a genuine Ozarks hillbilly. They seemed to think that the people here were more in tune to the kinds of music that they had coveted from abroad as the grew up. I hated to burst their bubbles, but told them that people in the Midwest listedned to Toby Keith and Britany Spears.

At first it appeared that Carol Young was only going to fan the flames of my older-woman fetish. But, I had to take points off for the elctro rig. She had on some dark indigo dungarees that bunched up on the tops of some square-toed brown leather cowboy boots.

"Tell me those aren't harness boots you're weraing?"

"What's that, love?"

"You know, with the straps and buckles on the ankle?"

"Yes, yes they are," she said, pulling up a pants leg for the reveal.

"Damn, I've looked all over for a pair but can never find the ones I'm looking for." She proceeded to tell me in too much detail about some catalogue or other I could find them in. That helped kill some more mystique.

I was about five Bass beers deep, so I called for a cab. Virginia told me it would be about 2o minutes. I looked at my watch. It was only 11:30. I had been feeling a cold coming on, and figured I should curtail my drinking. Ah, fuck it, might as well do it up right. I cancelled the cab and trod on over to Eastside.

I played 21 or more songs on the jukebox, and drank some more Bass beer. Steam was there, and I met Sawyer from comomusic. I also met a lady-type.

When I woke up the next morning, I heard a droning tone coming from somewhere. I thought it must have been Peat's alarm clock or something. When I got up I realized it was my computer. One of the scrooby-kittles had knocked over a soda, which had spilled in my keyboard. I was trying to resurrect compy, but, since the keyboard was malfunctioning, it tried to open 22 or more programs at once. Compy crashed pretty hard. The power button is messed up on the CPU case, where my buddy broke it while trying to fix it for me. I thought it might work again when the soda dried out.

But it didn't. I decided to let it go to hell for a couple of days.

So, here's a week ago last Friday:

I got saddled with #10, and went by Streetside, where I purchased a Wanda Jackson CD.

I started off with a CMAAA. I've bitched in the past that these are usually like $3 and $4 calls. This one was actually pretty decent, 8 miles for $16. Not a bad start. Some old woman going home up North from her chiropractor's appointment.

On my way back in on Paris road, I was dispatched to the Family Pawn. I pulled up to a black guy with something big in a box inside a plastic garbage bag. I guess he had road his bike in and got it off of pawn. I loaded his bike--a Wal-Mart cheapo with rusty chain--into the trunk, and headed back North to the Crescent Meadows Trailer Court in Prathersville. It was a pretty good fare, no tip.

Next, I worked my way over to Smithton Middle School for a time call. It was a light-skinned black girl, 12 or 13. I can't help feeling a little creepy rolling up to a middle school with a mohawk, picking up adolescent girls.

I took her home to Columbia Square apartments, where her mother was waiting, sitting on the sidewalk outside their apartment. She paid the fare. The girl had stayed late for rehearsal for a play she was in. It was fun talking with her.

Next, I was dispatched to an address on Coats. I pulled into the driveway a couple of minutes early, and waited, since it was a time call. And old woman dottered out and found her way to the back door of the Lincoln. She said, for future reference, that she preferred to be picked up at the street, rather than her driveway, because she didn't like walking in the gravel. Or some such shit.

She opened the door and inspected the seat for a seat belt. I told her there was only the one in the center, but that she could sit up front if she preferred. Which she did. She noticed the mandolin bag. "Oh, do you play banjo?"

The rule of thumb is this: if it has strings and is not a guitar, 70 percent of people will call it a banjo. About 10% will still call it a guitar. Perhaps 15% will ask if it is a violin, and maybe 5% will correctly guess that it is a mandolin. But, when someone askes if I play banjo, I say "actually, I do, though this is a mandolin."

She said that her son had played guitar and banjo, though he never took naturally to the banjo. I speculated that it is easier to transition from the banjo to the guitar, than vice versa.

She was headed to Jesse Hall. I asked if she was seeing a show. She said she was, "42nd Street." The fare was $5.o5 and she tipped $1.

Then I had a call in the hood. West Sexton. I picked up two people there, and took them to the Best Value Inn.

From there, I grabbed my regular from North Anne, and took him downtown.

Then I had a call on North 6th. It would be a round-trip. I pulled up and a black guy got in. We went over to Lakewood Apartments to pick up his lady. "You're not going to keep that thing running when I go in, are you."

"Gotta run wait time. It's a $1 a minute. 5 minutes is $5." He grumbled a bit and went in. $4.50 or so in wait time clicked off. I saw him come back out, follwing a petite black girl wearing a micro-mini that barely covered Christmas.

They got in and he immediatley acted shocked at the meter. I told him it had been four and a half minutes. The chick said something about there was no way, that he hadn't been in there two minutes, but then the dude said, no, it did take a while, though he was nonetheless unhappy about it.

I turned the Lincoln around and started to pull out of the parking lot. "Uh, we need to get there. We live here, we ain't sight-seein'." This was the chick.

On the drive back over the guy was bitching about spending money to pick her up. "What are you fittin' to do with that little-ass skirt on?" She mouthed something or other. "I'll make you think, little-ass skirt. I'll put my cigarette out on your leg, wearin' that little-ass skirt."

I got them back to their casa and the chick jumped out. The fare was $16.80. He gave me a $20, I gave him 3 $1s. He waited. "You want me to dig that $.20 out?"

"Hell yeah, I do. I can't be short with you, so you can't be short with me."

I dug in my cargo pocket and found a dime and 8 pennies. "I got $.18."

"You ain't got change? You out here driving a cab an you ain't got the right change?"

"Don't got it."

"You gonna come back and bring me my $.02?"

"I'll come back and bring you your $.02."

"Man, I'm just fuckin' with you. I don't care about no damn $.02."

Then I grabbed two people from Southpark and shuttled them over to South William. The guy had me cutting through parking lots at the dorms and stuff on East Campus to get him there the cheapest. He smelled strongly of coffee.

From there, I picked up a guy who's quickly becoming a regular. He's the one who works for a florist downtown. He has a handlebar moustache and dense tattoos on his forearms. He said he was going to meet his girlfriend at Hoot-N-Anny's. He said that he had been dating her for six months and had got no play. Apparently she had got knocked up before and was paranoid about getting pregnant. He said that he was going to giver her one more chance to give it up, or he was moving on. I wished him luck.

After that, I was dispatched to Patricia's IGA to pick up Marilyn. Marilyn is a pretty cool old lady who lives in Boone Landing, less than the $3 minimum away from the IGA. She doesn't want to pay the wait time while she's shopping, but we'll usually wait a couple of minutes for her if she just has to grab something quick and we're slow. The driver who had dropped her off was off on another call, so I was dispatched to pick her back up.

She tipped me $2 on the $3 fare. She said she hadn't tipped me as much as she had intended the last time because she didn't have much cash on her then. I hadn't cared enough to remember.

Then I grabbed a guy at the Fairfield and shuttled him to Cody's. He said he was going there to meet up with some chick he had met earlier at Everett's. He was some half-assed salesman. Not really personable or interesting, but the type who reads those books on how to win friends and influence people and then tries to employ the practices described therein.

He asked me if I was a student and and I mentioned law school. I said something about getting "burned out" and he went on a little tirade.

"It just frogs me to death to hear someone in their 20s talk about getting burned out. You don't get burned out. If you don't want to do something, that's different. But you don't get burned out."

Fuck you, Dr. Phil. I didn't ask your fucking opinion. And maybe you should try something like law school and/or the corporate legal world before you dispense advise on job stress, douchebag.

He tipped $4 on a $6 fare and asked for my card.

Then I grabbed some kids from Parkade and took them to Eastside. A couple of them had gone to school with Cully. I had them laughing with my shtick about how shitty #10 was.

After that, I took some dude on Sylvan round-trip to the Citgo for beer.

Next, I was dispatched out off of Scott Boulevard for some people going to Truman's. I couldn't understand half of what dispatch had been saying all night. I was a little tired and somewhat short-tempered. I didn't recognize the street name and had to look it up in my book. Dispatch broke in 2 or 3 times to ask if I was close or not. That wears me out. I'll get there as soon as I can, and I can't give you an ETA if I don't know where I'm going.

He was saying something about having another call out there, going the same way. But, he said I was picking up 4 at the first address, so I didn't think I'd have room for two groups. In addition to Derek not making any fucking sense, the mic on #10s radio sucks and it was a pain in the ass to get through to him. Then he was slow with replies.

I found the first group and headed to Trumans. There were only 2 of them, but dispatch hadn't given me the second address, so I figured I would just run them first and come back. It was a brother and sister, in their mid-40s. The chick had flown in from Alabama. Their Aunt Fannie had died, but they weren't too upset over it. I guess Aunt Fannie had been something of a pain in the ass. I dropped them off and set up a time call for them to go home. Dispatch asked me if they had requested me, but I told them not to save the call for me, since it was out of the way and they didn't tip much.

Then dispatch asked me if I had the second fare picked up yet. How the fuck could I pick them up when no one had given me the address? I got the address and headed back. Again, dispatch was on me 2 or 3 times before I could get there. Apparently the guy kept calling back and was threatening to call another cab company. So?

I pulled up and found a drunk dude wearing painter's clothes standing in a driveway. Some white-trash bitch was watching from the porch, her arms crossed in disapproval.

Apparently, this was the wife of his friend, and she had kicked him out of the house after they got in an argument. The guy was on the phone because he was in a big hurry to get out of there. He was over it by the time he got in the cab, though.

He was pretty fucked up. He asked me if I smoked weed. "All the time." I don't, but it's easier to just say that than make them feel awkward or like I'm going to narc them out or something. He fired up something or other in the car, but it didn't smell like any weed I ever smelled. It smelled like ass.

He couldn't really decide where he was going, or in what order. Potential destinations included: the liquor store, his pot dealer's, and his house. He stammered through each possibility before deciding to 1) stop for beer, 2) get dropped off at his dealer's, and 3) to walk the rest of the way home from there. He paid the fare, which was around $18, and tipped a couple of dollars.

After that, I was dispatched to the Super 8 over on Clark Lane. It was two guys who had been driving through Columbia on their way to Mardi Gras at Soulard. They decided to stop and party for the night in Columbia, though I figure they had started some time before, along the drive on I-70. Apparently, their friend couldn't wait to get into a room at the hotel before releiving hiomself, and was pissing in the parking lot when some cops rolled by. He had taken off running and they had lost contact with him. All they knew was that he had made it to a bar somewhere, but they couldn't understand him on the phone when they called him.

They thought he had been picked up at the Quick Trip accross the street. They wanted to go downtown. Along the way, their buddy called. He was at Silouette. They asked me what the place was like, and, upon telling them, they decided to leave his ass there and find something to do downtown. I gave them a quick rundown and dropped them off at Eastside. I think I got about $7 tip out of them.

Then the dude called back from Cody's. He didn't have much to say on the return trip, pretty deflated. I asked him if he ran into the chick from Everett's. He said he did, but with no further comment. He tipped me another $4.

Dispatch sent me from there out to the Lake of the Woods exit. It was a woman of near40 heading all of the way across town, off of Scott Boulevard. It was a hefty $28.80 fare or so.

Then I grabbed two guys from outside of the Penguin. Their buddy is the guy who has the hot dog cart set up on Broadway. They had been drunk and trying to help sell hot dogs, which had annoyed their buddy. They bitched about him most of the way home.

Sometime after 2am I had a call to pick up at Dominos on South 9th street. The Dominos employee unlocked the front door and a drunk college student came to the car. He said he wanted to go to the Reserve and that he wanted to go through a drive-through along the way. He asked what it would cost to get to the Reserve and I estimated $10-11. I also warned him that the wait time at the drive-through would be $1 a minute, and that it could easily take 15 minutes at that time of night. I hadn't pulled out of the parking lot yet, and the Dominos employee came out towards the cab. "Everything alright?" The kid said he wasn't worried about the money and I drove him to Hardees.

Luckily, for him, there wasn't much of a line at Hardees. Just one car and Cully in front of us. We made it through in good time, only costing $6 in wait time. He bought about $12 in food.

I turned and headed for the Reserve. We were climbing the hill up Old 63, about a 1/2 mile away, the meter showing about $13.80, when the dude said "I think you're trying to scam me." Let's review the facts: I said $10-11 cab fare to the Reserve, and there was $6 in wait time (about 1/3 what I had estimated). When I got him to the apartment, the fare was $16.80. Which makes my estimate pretty fucking accurate. I re-explained it to him, and he was still adamant that I was ripping him off. No tip.

My last call for the night was out of Grindstone Canyon Apartments. It was a young married guy, who had just lost all of his money playing poker. He had borrowed cab fare to go home, and he expected his wife to be very pissed at him, because it was so late and he was drunk. Even after telling me about losing all of his money, he managed a $4 tip on a $12 fare.

Here I am a bit confused. I think I am missing my little card-of-notes from Saturday. So, I am going to fast-forward, I think, to Monday.

Monday: I was in #9, a very clean and fully-functioning '94 Crown Vic Interceptor. My first call was a short one, from downtown to Cliff Drive. $1 tip, on a $4 or $5 fare.

Then I was dispatched to pick up a regular from dialysis. She has all of her limbs, though she is typically very weak after dialysis and I escort her into her apartment and unlock her door for her.

After that, I jetted over to Paquin. It was a heavy-set SoCal looking guy, going to class at Columbia College. He was winded from the jaunt to the car, and wheezed for most of the trip. "It's been a long time since I've seen a real mohawk. I think the last time was in 1984."

He said he had played bass in some garage bands in Southern California. He paid the $4.55 fare with 2 $1 bills, a Susan B. Anthony dollar coin, a Sacajawea gold dollar coin, 6 quarters, and one nickel.

Then I had an out-of-town call, from the University Med Center to Bowling Green, Missouri. I wasn't really sure where Bowling Green was at. When I finally found the fare, after 10 minutes or so of idle mandolin picking, she didn't know how to get there, either. She had only lived in Missouri for a year-and-a-half and had came to Columbia via ambulance. I asked dispatch how to get there. "Go to the Kingdom City exit, take 54 to 19, then watch for Bowling Green signs."

We headed that way. At the Kingdom City exit I asked if she minded if I stopped to get a soda. She said 'no,' and asked if I could get her a Mountain Dew. She said she didn't have any money on her, but that she would repay me when we got to her house. No problem.

It had just got good and dark. She fell asleep and slept most of the way.

19 and 54 are the same highway in places. I missed a turn onto 'Old 54' and took 19 all of the way to 61, some 16 miles north of Bowling Green. That was about 20 minutes and 20 miles out of the way. No big deal, really, but I only got paid for the 86 or so miles it should have been, which only amounted to a $81.80 fare.

She woke up and I got her to her house. I had assumed she lived alone, which was why the social services was paying to transport her home. When I pulled up to her trailer, there were 3 cars in the driveway. She had to pay me the $3 co-pay and the $1 for the soda, and told me to come in. She was wearing the socks the hospital gives you, with the rubber-tread stuff screened on the bottom. She had them on upside down, with the tread portion on the tops of her feet. She steadied herself along the hood of the car to her porch, treading carefully on the gravel.

The trailer was all lit up. She opened the door and I followed her in. I heard voices from a back room down the hallway. It sounded like 3 or so people, at least one dude and a couple of chicks. They were doing some dirty-Southern-white-trash-talking about something or other. No one seemed to notice that we had entered. The woman went down the hallway to get her money, leaving me standing unattended in the living room.

I studied the decor. Mounted on the wall was a wooden CD rack. It was rectanglaer, with two vertical rows for holding cds, which were to rest perched on the wooden dowels that broke it into 8 individual storage cubes. Instead of CDs, it held beer coozies. Not really a collection for a collections sake--most of them appeared to be well-used. I counted about 20 of them.

There were also several fishing poles on a rack about head-high in the hall way. After a minute or two, some cracker of about 20 walked into the living room from the hallway. I'm not sure he had realized anyone had came in, but he didn't look too overly surprized to find a strange guy with a mohawk standing in his living room.

"I just drove your...I just brought a woman from the hospital in Columbia..."

"Oh, my mom?"

"Yeah. I was just waiting for her to come back. She had some money for me."

The mom shuffled back into the room. "Have you seen my purse? I had $10 in it."

"How much is it?"

"Four dollars."

The dude opened his wallet and counted out $4. I told the woman to get to feeling better and left.

I took my time getting back. Determined not to waste the 20 miles back-tracking the way I came, I took a different road out of Bowling Green. I somehow got fucked up and ended up driving all of the way to New Florence. I knew I should have looked at a map before I left.

It ended up being about a 4-hour round trip, in all. When I got back, I needed to fuel up. I stopped at my regular gas station--the big Phillips 66 on Rangeline--and topped off the Vic. I was looking at my clipboard, still parked at the gas pump, when I felt someone bump into the car.

I looked up, and a green Saturn 2 door hatchback had backed into the front corner of the Crown Vic. He pulled forward, about 5 feet, and stopped. He turned and looked at me. I already had my pen in hand, and wrote down his licence plate number, as I could tell he was going to rabbit.

He was pulling away when I stepped out of the car. The impact had been ever-so-slight, and there was barely a scuff on the front bumper cover. The chick who worked at the gas station was outside talking to someone and watched him back into me. She walked over and expressed her disbelief that the guy had backed right in to me. The guy looked at me as he pulled slowly around the lot, turned onto Rangeline, and drove away.

He was Mexican, and, I figured, an illegal. There was no harm done to the Vic, but I didn't want anything coming back on me. I radioed dispatch, and he said he had to call it in as a hit-and-run. So, I had to wait for CPD to come and give a statement. After all of that, combined with the Bowling Green fiasco, I had made only $80 in nearly five hours, which only amounts to $28 for me.

When I finally got that cleared up, I was dispatched to the MU Alumni Center. It was the same old lady I had taken to see 42nd Street. She was pleased to find that #9 had working seat belts in the rear. On the way home I debated her on Missouri seat belt laws for commercial vehicles.

From there, dispatch sent me over to a house on Garth. A woman and 4 kids got in the car. I estimated the oldest to be at least 15 or 16. I said it would be "$1 extra for the second adult passenger."

"What second adult passenger?"

"Anyone over 13 is an adult passenger."

"She's only 12."

"Only 12? I guess she's growing like a weed, then, ain't she?"

I dropped off two of the kids at a house, where one of them went in and retrieved some cash. I took the woman and the other kid to the Med Center ER. Along the way, she told me that my transmission was slipping.

My next call was at the Lake of the Woods. When I got to the exit, I asked where i was going. Derek said the gas station at the exit. I sat there for a minute and didn't get anyone. He called the person, and told me that he was headed my way on a bicycle, and for me to drive and meet him.

I drove down St. Charles Road, turned onto Lake of the Woods Road, and, there, by Limoges, I saw a guy riding a bicycle carrying a backpack. He was a cracker, and was wearing shorts. He shoved the bike in the trunk and climbed in.

He had been drinking at TPs, and pissed off his wife. She had told him that if he wasn't home in 15 minutes that she was locking him out. So, he wanted to go to Hoot-N-Anny's. I drove him there, he paid by credit card, and tipped $2.

After that, I went to Booches. I got a young couple (presumably married) headed to Chapel Hill. As we headed down Locust to Providence, the guy asked the chick where she had parked. She said "in front of Tiger Columns, like you said." As we passed, he saw the car and said she had to move it.

They were both drunk. It was an older BMW 525. I offered to move it for them, since we had just passed an MUPD making someone do the perp walk about a half-a-block back. "That would be a pretty bad way to get a DWI."

They were pretty gracious. The guy was talking about the film festival that past weekend, and, I think, Taxi Driver. They tipped $4.

From there, I had a call from Providence Walkway, in the projects. It was a young black couple, headed to Gatehouse Apartments. Along the way, the girl commented on my hair. "What made you cut your hair like that?"

"Boredom, I guess."

"Does your girlfiend like it?"

"Actually, yes, she does." This was a bit of an exageration, at least on the 'girlfriend' part.

About 1am I had a call out of Otto's Corner Bar. That's a fairly upscaled place, so I thought there may be a good tip in it for me. I saw some people get up and start putting coats on when I pulled in front of the door. I waited a few minutes, and was beginning to get a bit impatient, when a wasted chick dressed in punk garb came out, clutching a drink.

She got in the cab, and apologized for the other guys taking so long. She had shocking fried black hair and was wearing a miniskirt with socks and tennis shoes. She said she was from New Orleans, and was bereaving Mardi Gras here in the Midwest. After a couple of minutes, she got impatient, and staggered back inside. It was a further unreasonable 3 or 4 minutes before they came back out. I recognized one of the guys, though, as a semi-regular. I described him once as wearing Edward Scissorhands 80s punk garb. He's got a bit of a Sid Vicious methadone stupor going on.

Some of you probably know him. He's got an arachnid nickname and freelances as a tattoo artist, I believe. There was a third guy, named Austin, from Mississippi.

They were all wasted, and were making a stop on East campus before going to their final destination. I pulled up at the house on Bass and Scissorhands and the chick got out. He was trying to see her safely inside, as she was fucking wasted.

But, it was kind of like the blind leading the blind, as he wasn't much better off. He pleaded with me not to run wait time, since it would only be a second. Of course they were a mess, and it took a couple of minutes to even get in the door.

From there, the door opened and closed a number of times, before Scissorhands stepped out. Then the chick tried to follow. Then a dog ran out. Then scissorhands chased the dog, caught it, and carried it awkwardly back up on the porch. He must have shut it in the door or something, as I heard it let out a yelp.

Next thing I knew, Scissorhands was staggering off of the porch in search of the dog. I hadn't seen it come down the stairs, and thought it might have been hiding under the benches on the porch. Scissorhand seemed pretty distraught, though, and started hollering for the dog. Then the chick came staggering back out.

"What's your dog's name?" Scissorhands was asking the chick.

"I don't have a dog."

Scissorhands started hollering "come here, Jawbone" or "Jumbo" or some varient. The chick didn't seem to know what was going on. I guess the dog belonged to someone else at the house. Even though I was taking a beating on wait time, I couldn't help but laugh, and got out to try to help find the dog. But, it's awkward to call for a strange dog in a strange neighborhood when you don't even know it's proper name.

They finally gave up on the dog, and I got Scissorhands and Austin back in the cab. Scissorhands was stuck on the poor dog's fate, in that stumbling obsessive drunkard's way, where you keep repeating something over and over, unable to get past the thought. I got them home, and the fare was something like $16.80. The Austin cat gave me a $20. "Just give me $3 back."

Scissorhands dug in all of his pockets, and managed to produce five dissheveled and crumpled $1 bills. A good tip. As he got out of the cab I heard a pocketful of change cascading into the back seat and floorboards. "You can keep that, too."

After that charade, I was dispatched over on Highview, in the hood. It was LiLi, the woman I picked up the one time who had thrown all of her old man's clothes away, and had asked me about cold sore remedies. She was with her daughter and grandchildren (2), and they were headed to another house on Leeway.

My last call was to pick up at CPD. I rolled up to see 3 guys, one talking angrily on a cell phone, one running into the street to flag me, and the third taking a hearty beer piss, all over the side of the wall, about eight feet from the door of the Columbia Police Department.

They all piled in. They guy in front, the one who had been on the phone, had been popped for DWI. He was in a bad mood. "You guys all three going to the same place?"

"Yes."

"Where's that?"

"Rolling Rock. You know where that is?"

"Yes I do," and I proceded to roll out. Within a couple of blocks, one of the guys asked how much the fare would be to Jefferson Commons. "Wait, are you going to Rolling Rock, or Jefferson Commons?"

"Yes."

"Well, which is it?" Now, apparently, we were going to Rolling Rock and then Jefferson Commons.

"Turn left here." That would be North on 10th Street from Broadway, completely in the opposite direction of either Rolling Rock or Jefferson Commons.

"Where are we going?" Now the third guy was wanting to go to North 9th Street. I was on Park and 9th when he said to stop. The meter was at $3.55. We'd made a big circle. He put in $5. Then the second guy, who was heading to Jefferson Commons, bailed, too. He said he was going to walk home (~4 miles), since all of his money was at his house. He had already got out and I didn't want to try to explain to him that I would wait at his house for him to get his money.

So now I was down to the original guy, the one who had been arrested. I started to head to Rolling Rock and he said he wanted to go by the Petro Mart at College and Paris, to make sure his car was still there. "Do you just want to drive by, or are you going to stop and buy something?" He had been trying to bum cigarettes up until that point, and had broken and discarded the two they had given him. He said he just wanted to drive by.

When I drove by, he decided he wanted to stop. He went in for cigarettes, but they wouldn't sell him any because he didn't have his ID. He had had to surrender his driver's license when he got the DWI.

So, we drove back across downtown, to Walgreens, where I went in and bought him a pack of cigs. Then we finally headed to Rolling Rock. His buddy had given $5 up front. When we were turning onto Rock Quarry, about a mile and a half from Rolling Rock, the fare was at about $13. He handed me two bills, in the dark. "Here's $20."

One was a $10 and the other was a $20. "That's thirty, you gave me a $20 by mistake." I handed both bills back to him, and he gave me back the $20.

I got him home, and the fare was about $14.05. He thanked me, collected his shit, and got out of the door. The $10 was laying in the seat where he had missed his pocket. I pointed it out to him. "You're determined to give me that $10 yet, aren't you?" He didn't but I still pulled an $11 tip on the deal.

Well, that's two days worth of cab content. I'm afraid that that is the best I can do for you good people tonight. I apologize agian for the week-long hiatus. I got my compy fixed (new keyboard), but also got sick again. I worked Friday night but called in sick yesterday (Saturday). I'm over the hump, cold-wise, though. And, yes, there's a lady-type in the works, so you can look forward to all future blogs being about teddy bears and rainbows.

Ciao,
Garner

Are You Being Served?

Greetings. It is 5:53 Thursday morning. I am still laboring under the effects of a minor head cold.

I slept until 3:30 today (Wednesday), and woke up feeling like ass. I scurried around and took a trip to the MU campus. I needed some supplies from the bookstore. I suppose I could have found a better place to buy them, but that is about the only place I've ever picked up art supplies in Columbia. I questioned my logic when it took me close to ten minutes to find a parking spot, some 1/4 mile from the bookstore.

That sent me flashing back, a bit. I used to go through that every night, looking for a parking spot near the law school so I could go study. I usually parked on Conley or in the parking garage at Conley and Maryland. That's where I ended up parking tonight.

My buddy Galen had a Pathfinder when we were in law school. We were dueling one evening, and he took a parking space I wanted, by the little guard shack thing. When I came back out, before him, I lassoed one of those giant concrete blocks (2x2x3') with the yellow poles in it, and drug it, with my Bronco, squarely behind his Pathfinder. I was laughing to myself about how stealthy I had been when I realized the chain I had used had become lodged in my tow receiver.

Another friend of mine had his truck parked only a few spaces away, so I grabbed a piece of firewood out of the back of it. I was using the stick of firewood to beat the chain loose when a car pulled up, I guess at first to see if I needed any assistance. Here I was, beating on a chain on the back of a 70's Ford Bronco next to a giant concrete block directly behind another parked car. I thanked him and told him I was cool.

The chain came loose and I drove away. The good Samaritan had parked and was walking past the Pathfinder in the garage when my buddy returned and saw the concrete block. He didn't have to think long to realize who did it, but, the funniest part, to me, was that he assumed I had done it by hand. He was laughing to himself at how dedicated I was as a prankster, to have wrestled and lugged the giant block by myself for a gag. Galen was a good deal stronger than me, and it was whipping his ass. He was surprised I had been that strong. When the Samaritan passed by he said "I think I saw the guy who did that." Galen told him he had a pretty good idea as to who it had been.

No charges were filed.

Anyhoo, I parked in the damned old garage and strode my way across campus. I went to the bookstore and selected a few items. It was a very satisfying consumer moment.

After that, I went to Buckinghams, and had some ribs. I was starting to get a bit shaky. I ate the ribs and headed home. I swung by the public library, and grabbed a couple of DVDs. I watched Image of an Assassination: A New Look at the Zapruder Film and part of Rex the Runt.

The Zapruder film documentary was interesting, but as slickly produced and entertaining as the training video at your last job, or maybe the Flint, Michigan, Chamber of Commerce tourism videos. There was no discussion of any of the conspiracy theories, it simply followed the history of the Zapruder film and documented it's digital transfer, restoration, and enhancement. All Hollywood bullshit and conspiracy theory aside, it is unusual to see a man's head explode. Wow, that is some unnatural shit.

I watch Rex the Runt just to see what the fuck those limey Brits have been up to since The Benny Hill Show and Are You Being Served?. It's kind of like listening to one of your 14 year-old's rap CDs to try to figure out what the fuck these kids are talking about nowadays. I thought I might pick up on some trendy, cutting edge shit before it jumped the pond. Well, not just yet.

I also finally sent my pink eye bill to the insurance company. It got messed up at the hospital and I got billed directly. Then I took the opportunity to write a letter on the triptych kitty card I had purchased for Mr. Kirk Rundstrom. I told him, among other things, that he always reminded me of my born-again drywaller-turned-Baptist preacher uncle Phillip, a member of the Donner Party, and/or a manic zealot. I wished him a speedy and complete recovery and gave him my dead Grandma money to buy some chicken with.

I did some mandolin pickin', and then a little banjo. I'm about to get my first mandolin tune (Cripple Creek) under my fingers. That makes for a lot more fun than just practicing the G-scale and chop cords. Five Easy Pieces was on while I was pickin'. That's not the best movie start-to-finish, with some overacting and cliche moments, but, damn if I can't stop watching it whenever it is on. It's nice to have movies like that, which I have been watching off-and-on for some 15 years or so, to compare your growth to. Jack Nicholson's character was kind of my romantic masculine ideal in my younger, meaner days. The older I get the more pathetic his character seems. On the upside, it was from the creator of The Monkees, Tony Basil is in it, and you get to see Sally Struther's nekkid jubblies from when she was as cute as pie.

After that, I burned some time online. I snapped some mohawk pics to satiate the demands of the masses. They don't do the best job of documenting it, but you can tell that it's there. And that I need to clean my bathroom mirror.

I went to Waffle House around 1:45. I ate, came back home, and slept. I took some cold medicine Peat gave me, after a snort of rye. That was keeping me from sleeping soundly. I thought I was in the cab. I woke up for good around 5:38am.

So, I thought I'd blog a bit. I don't know how much I'll get done in this sitting, but, Monday and Tuesday were fairly calm, so I shouldn't have any epic material like last week. I was wanting to check out The Greencards tonight at the 'Note, so I don't know how that might affect my update. Better get it out now, iffin' I can.

So, cab:

Monday. I came in and got dispatched to do a wheelchair right away. #15, the one-ton Dodge van I had been using for wheelchairs, was in the shop. I was sent out in #17. #17 is Taxi Terry's 28 passenger bus. Kelly asked if I thought I could drive it. "I wouldn't want to do a slalom course in it, but I'm sure I can get it from point A to point B." It's a lot like the one in the picture. Surprisingly, it wasn't that bad to drive. It is actually much more ergonomic than the Dodge van and even rides better.

My first call was to pick up at the dialysis clinic. I pulled in and tried to find the best compromise as to where to park the giant van. I needed to back up in the lot so the chair lift was as close to the door as possible, without blocking in too many people, as there were cars lined up perpendicular to the bus on either side of it. I found a pretty good spot, and went in for my fare.

He was an older white guy, with one leg left. I guess dialysis really sucks. It wasn't high on my to-do list, but, man, those people don't seem to be feeling too spritely when I pick them up and they are always desperately wanting to get home as soon as possible. Can't say as I blame them.

I wheeled the dude out and to the van. I had dropped the chair lift before I went in, so I could just wheel the guy up and save a couple of moments. Some dickweed in a PT Cruiser had pulled out of a space behind me and wanted to squeeze between the van and the parked cars, but the ramp made this a dicey proposition. Tough shit. They were going to have to wait.

The ramps on these vans are barely wide enough to get the wheelchair on. You can either wheel them on facing the van, or backwards. I prefer to wheel them on backwards, since I can pull them into the inside of the van easier when the lift is raised up. Otherwise, I have to climb up on the elevated platform, balance myself behind a wheelchair, reach around the customer and under their blankies to release the brakes, and wheel them over the threshold into the van.

So, I backed the guy onto the ramp, which means I have to weasel my way out of the tight confines behind him. In this case, he had a duffel bag hanging on the handles of the back of his wheelchair. I had to take that off so that it would clear. I finally got him up and into the van, and climbed back out to raise the ramp so the PT Cruiser could pass.

Well, I guess that jackass wasn't confident driving his 5.5' wide Cruiser through a 12' wide hole, and waited, expecting me to move. Well fuck him. I'm trying to pick up a one-legged man in a wheelchair from dialysis. The smallest thing I ever drive is a Crown Victoria, and now I'm in a gigantor fucking van. If you can't operate your compact PT Cruiser in that scenario your driver's license should be revoked.

The PT Cruiser waited for a minute, but finally came to it's milk, and, in a daring display of danger and bravado, drove the fuck around. Thanks, A-hole #1. Well, now I had A-hole #2 wanting to get out. Someone blocked on the North/driver's side of the van. I was trying to strap in the wheelchair guy. He suggested I go ahead and pull forward, so A-hole #2 could get out. I did, and he did.

Well, then I had A-holes # 3 and #4 to deal with. A-hole #4 was a dumb old bitch with the giant cataract sun goggles on, in a Windstar minivan. She had been parked, badly, in the handicapable spot in front of the door. All she had to do was to reverse, in the direction she was already turned, crooked from pulling in, and back up about 50' in the parking lot to pull back forward and exit. But she only wanted to back straight up, then pull out normally. Well tough shit, old bird. I'll revoke your license, too, bitch.

I ignored her, and proceeded to try to figure out the straps in #17, which were different from the ones in #15. I'm not taking any chances with these things. Now A-hole #3, some old dickweed in a Ford Escape with a dapper cap, was trying to back out at the back of the van, where he had ample room. But, like A-hole #4, he was incapable of reversing and making a three-point turn, and expected me to move for him. Forward, where A-hole #4 was waiting for me to move backward. I continued to ignore them both and worked on my straps.

Well, A-holes #4 and #3 both got out of their cars and stood, gawking at me, like I was the problem, and I could be somehow motivated by gape-mouthed dickweeds expressing their mute disgust in some A-hole with a mohawk. Again, fuck them. A-hole #3 then told me to move and let A-hole #4 out. I promptly ignored him. He got back in his Escape and negotiated the three-point turn, finally, but now A-hole #4 had backed up and was blocking him in. And A-hole #4 really did need her driver's license revoked.

I finished with the straps and went back up to the driver's seat. Now all I had to do was release the parking brake, put on my seat belt, and back up, and all of the assholes would be happy. But, it didn't appear that A-hole #4 could wait that long. She was backing up right into the front of my bus.

Like she could see anything with her cataracts, or through her monster shades, even if she could judge distances, even if she could rotate her fucking head that far. She was most definitely backing into me. I got it into reverse and managed to move back before she hit me. Of course it would have been all her fault, but I didn't have the patience to wait for some A-hole #5 cop who would blame everything on me because I have a mohawk and tattoos, especially with a sick one-legged man and me never far from my Network moment. Not like I drive for a living or anything.

So, finally, exasperated, all of the A-holes had been discharged to drive slowly in front of people with their blinkers on, in the wrong lane, and generally be fuckwads on wheels. I could proceed in relative peace. During all of that wrangling, though, I forgot to release the parking brake. The rear drums were roasty-toasty and reeked like burning asbestos when I got the one-legged dude home. I unloaded him and headed to my next wheelchair pickup.

Most of the stink had dissipated when I got to the Med Center for my next pickup. It was my first motorized wheelchair, so I thought I could relax as she ramped herself into the van. She was more than eager to help, but not as good at backing that thing up as you might expect. After a couple of tries, I had her straight enough to hoist into the van.

She was in the neighborhood of 50, and had apparently only recently become so limited as to no longer be able to perform her job as a secretary and had been let go. She was on oxygen, and it clicked every few second to give her a fresh squirt of O2. She did her best to be upbeat, joking about paralysis, but she started tearing up when she told me about the going-away party they had for her at her old job. This conversation spanned some 20' in the loud, rattly bus, her behind me, pointed to the side, me trying to keep the behemoth between the lines on the narrow lanes of North College.

I got her home and unloaded. A car in the driveway was blocking her access to her ramp. I waited while she called inside the house on her cell phone to get it moved before I pulled away.

I had another wheelchair pickup, at Rusk Rehab. I didn't get there until 5:20, and I guess it was a 5pm time call. He was already gone. I took #17 back in and got in #6

My first call in the Crown Vic was at Hoot-N-Anny's. Some contractor who was friends with the owner of the Vogue and had been remodeling the ladies' dressing rooms. He said the owner was supposed to show up to help him, but didn't, and he had done the work of two men. He was already drunk, and had a pretty bad back. It was painful watching him wince as he slid stiffly in and out of the back seat.

Turned out he was from Hartville, MO, an even shittier, smaller town to Lebanon's South. Lebanon had been the 'mecca' he and his friends visited for entertainment when he grew up back in the 70s. He tipped $2.70 on a $12.30 fare.

Next I had a call at the Hawthorne Suites. Alright, business traveler. Heading to the Trattoria Strada Nova, even better. He had been from a blue collar background and worked in construction for several years before the interest rates skyrocketed in the late 70s/early 80s, when he went back to college. I talked with him about my hiatus from higher education. Everything was going smoothly. It was a $9.30 fare. He asked if he could get me back again around 9:30. I said yes, then gave him my card. Then he gave me a $10 and wanted a receipt.

$.70 is pretty chincy, given the circumstances. But, gratuities are not guaranteed. I thought he may have been saving a good tip for later, when I picked him back up. It was 7pm when I dropped him. That meant that he likely planned to do some drinking, until 9:30 or so. I figured that would help open the purse strings some, too. Besides the possibility he might want to make a Foxy Sauna run. I thanked him and headed out.

My next call was some regulars, a young black couple whom I had hauled a couple of times before. They tip some every other time. I appreciate the effort. The wanted to go to Dinos, but it was closed. I dropped them off at the Captain D's, instead.

From there, I had to do another wheelchair. I took #6 back in and got in #15, which had returned from the shop. I took it and went back for my original legless lady, the wheelie-woman. I got her home without incident.

Next, I was dispatched to TPs on Rangeline. Dicey. Could be a very-drunk middle-ager.

I got up there and had to go in. I found the fare, a nice-looking Nascar-dad, 49, with a well-groomed moustache. A black dude with a gold grill had just bought him a beer, and asked me if I could wait for him to finish it. I said I couldn't wait that long, but he was welcome to bring it if he could slip out the door with it. He did, and we headed North.

The guy wasn't drunk, though you don't have to be to get a DWI. He said he was twice divorced and had let a younger (36 year old) woman move in with him. Things weren't going so well. They had got into a fight at the bar, she was his ride. He called the cab because he was done listening to her.

His chief complaint was that she wanted him to be mean to another woman, whom he had been friends with since high school, because she didn't like her. When he told her he wasn't going to be mean to someone he was friends with, she had told him to "grow some balls." I could tell he was on the fence with this one, and, if she didn't straighten up and act right, she was about to get the boot. He maintained that he was too old to put up with such shit.

The guy wasn't really even that mad, more disappointed than anything else. He was a pretty cool guy, and spoke fondly of fatherhood, and how it had changed him completely, for the better. He lived way out in the boonies, and the fare ran $32.80. His old lady had beat him home. It was a pretty swank place, a new house on a fab'd lake, with a big concrete driveway and a huge 3 or 4 bay shop to one side. She was in the car, a white Ford Explorer, and it was in reverse. I was afraid she might come shooting backwards as I tried to pass her in the driveway.

"There's no telling how much she's had to drink. She's already crashed my truck, her car..." I dropped him off, and he gave me $40. "Keep the change." Sweet. I got the fuck out of there and back into Columbia without incident.

Then I picked up a girl from the new Kohl's on Nifong. She seemed uneasy in a taxi, and didn't talk much. $9.05, no tip.

Next, I snagged a regular. A kid named Marshall who works at Flat Branch. I took him home. He had known the kid who got shot in the home-invasion up the street from mi casa. Marshall tipped me $4 on a $12.05 fare.

After that,I had another regular, a bartender from Harpos. I ran him home. He tips well. He was pretty wasted, and I had to laugh at him almost falling down as he got out of the car, and doing the drunk rapid-crab-walk-get-there-before-I-fall-can't-possibly-correct-stride-now stagger toward his house.

Then, yet another regular. The girl who works at Steak-N-Shake, $4.55 fare, $2.45 tip.

It was 10:30, and the dude requested me back at Trattoria Strada Nova. He was an hour behind schedule, which, I hoped, meant that he was drunk. Alright, payday. I got there, STAT. No one came out. I waited a couple of minutes, and went in to let him know I was there. He was talking business with two colleagues. He said he'd be out in a minute.

I went back out and waited. He got in no hurry. He took a good 4-5 minutes. When he came out, I took him back to the hotel. I guess he's a salesman of some sort, and comes to Columbia to meet with physicians from the university. He was asking me about some places he could take clients in Columbia. I filled him with excellent information. I got him back to the hotel, and the fare was, again, $9.30. He gave me a $20. "Just give me a $10 back." Thanks, Elvis. And he wanted a receipt. For $10, since the company doesn't reimburse tips. Like this guy would put them out of business, or something.

But that's just me complaining.

Next, I was dispatched to Hooters. My first call there. It was the guy from the Monday before, who was a drunk prick, outed by his lady, who tipped me $32 on a $30 fare, and threatened to kick my ass if I left a mark in his parents' yard.

He wasn't near as drunk, this time. He also had a friend with him. I asked him if I had taken him Wehmeyer the week before. "Probably. I've taken a few cabs out there." He didn't remember the trip.

I took the two of them to Willies. They made a few calls to coordinate with friends along the way. The guy up front (the friend), was pretty cool. He was wearing a dapper suit, a wide-legged, wool pinstriped affair. I guess he was a med student, and didn't really seem up for a night of rampant drinking. The fare was $11.05, I think, and he gave me $15. Not to be outdone, the guy in back argued with him about who was paying, and then gave me $5 more. Sweet. $9 tip. And, they wanted a card to request me back. No problems at all...

My next call was a dude from Target that I had hauled once before. Not much of a story, really.

Then I grabbed a regular from downtown, a drummer in a local band. I was picking at the mandolin when he came out, as a flag. Along the way he was telling me about a side project he was in, with a friend on mandolin, singing (the guitar player from his original band), a guy on upright bass, him on some stripped-down percussion, and a chick singing. He was quick to stress that it wasn't bluegrass, though.

I got another flag out of Campus bar, heading to Richmond. I told them about the dumb bitch 905/915 fiasco from the last night I had worked.

Then I was requested back by the cats from Willies, who had tipped me $9. I took them to a house on Ross, by way of the Petro Mart for beer. It was just after 1am. The dude up front noticed the mandolin, and said that his grandfather was quite the bluegrass musician. He had grown up playing keyboards, had spent 5 years doing the Christian praise-Jesus thing, then broke out of that. He said he'd like to find some people to play with, for fun. I directed him to comomusic.com. The fare was $9.05, and he gave me $20. No change. Sweet. And, I figured to get them once more before I quit at 4am.

I grabbed what I thought was a third flag as I cruised back downtown. He had actually called, and I had inadvertently sniped him from another driver. He said he managed some local bands and gave me his card. He was on the phone, trying to hook up with some chick. Part of that equation apparently hinged on him being able to get in to some place for which he had no key. He kept assuring her that he could go in through a window, and that they could make it work.

The fare was at $3.55. He gave me $7 and took my cell phone number. He said he'd call if he got in and didn't need me anymore. He called back, at $7.05, and I cruised.

My last call came from campus. It's a dude I've hauled 3 or 4 times, from different places. I think he has a bad back or something, and sometimes walks half-way home before calling, as there's no real pattern as to where I pick him up. He usually tips, though, on a short fare.

Dispatch said I could call it quits, then, at 2am. I hadn't got off early in 6 or 7 weeks, and I had been out late both Friday and Saturday. I welcomed going home early, even though I left at least one good call and a tip out there. I had done $215 on the meter, and thought the extra rest would help my budding cold symptoms. I cashed out and went home. With the good tips, I pulled about $130, which isn't bad at all for a Monday. With the flags and requests I had beat the other drivers pretty soundly, besides having some good tips.

Tuesday:

I felt shitty when I woke up. I went in and had a call waiting for me. In Brookfield, MO. Where's Brookfield, you ask? Good question. Take 63 North to Macon, then 36 West to Brookfield. It was a medical transport call. I was to pick up a woman there and bring her to the med center. Cool. That's 3 hours to relax. I have never been dispatched further than Jefferson City, 30 miles away. This was 95 miles, one way, door to door.

I was in #6. Great for cruising. I listened to commercial radio and drove the speed limit.

I was expecting some rigmarole in finding the place. I had an address and a phone number. I took the first Brookfield exit and stopped at a Caseys, to look for a phone book. The woman at the counter pointed to a pay phone on the wall. I picked up the phone book and asked if she happened to know where Joyce Place was. She did, and gave me laser-accurate directions.

It was close, and, shockingly easy to find. Wow. That was easy. I went up to the apartment and knocked. A woman answered. I asked if she was Wilma, and she said yes, and to come in.

I waited as she collected her things. There was wire rack next to the door, filled with 8-track cassettes. I looked for an 8-track player, but didn't see one. I looked at the titles. All good old country stuff. A lot of Freddy Fender. There was one truckin' songs cassette, and one that said "30 Years of Bluegrass." She said she had got them when her mother had died.

She had an O2 bottle and needed to collect her teeth. She took some dentures out of a glass and slipped them in, her back turned to me. When she went to speak the uppers about fell out of her mouth. I guess she's not used to them.

I loaded her up and headed back to Columbia. It was good and dark now. She rode up front. We had to listen to oldies until we got past Macon, then I switched to BXR and caught the game. I dropped her off. The fare (through the medical contract) was $78.80, plus a $3 co-pay. Not too bad for 3 hours on a Tuesday evening.

Next, I picked up a regular from Target. No drama. $2 tip.

After that, I picked BJ up from work. I noticed he had on a new Carhart-type work coat and work boots. "Yup, new boots, new coat."

"Did you have a birthday?"

"Nope. My birthday's next month."

"Well, you're all set then."

BJ was all wound-up. He was drinking a can of Pepsi. "Uh-oh, looks like I'm about out of Pepsi. I'd really be set if I had a Pepsi from QuickTrip." I offered to stop, and he really got wound up. He gulped greedily at the can he already had, so that he could get another one.

We passed a wreck under the overpass at 63 and Stadium. The ass-end of the car was all piled up, but I didn't see any other vehicles, and I couldn't tell how they could have got up so much speed in the West-bound lane, since it starts at 63 itself. This explained, some. Kudos for not wearing a seat belt, but you really should try harder to kill yourself next time. Please and thank-you. In advance.

The meter on #6 has a bit of a glitch in it. To the side of the main display is a smaller display for 'extras,' which we never use. On #6, it displays "11 11 1." BJ looked at it. "You owe, 11 11 1," and giggled. "You owe...one thousand...one hun'erd...eleven dollars...and one." I had also been picking up all of dispatch's calls to car #2, and #2's responses. They were discussing the Tigers game.

#2 said, "Gardner had 19 points in the first half, and only 2 in the second half."

BJ went off. "Pull him. Gardner owes '11 11 1,'" and giggled maniacally, "dispatch owes '11 11 1." I got that wacky character home, and headed to Brady Commons.

It was a young black guy, with some sort of minor ailment, which cause him to walk and talk a bit peculiar. On the way to his house he asked "so, are you a punk rocker?" We had a conversation about mohawks. He said he had had one, once, in 1988. He complemented me for having the 'gumption' to sport one at age 29. That's one way to put it.

I have had by far more comments from black people than white people about the mohawk, and all of them have been positive.

Next I picked up a regular, the one who works overnight at the nursing home, in the dementia ward. I segued from that into another regular, the Steak 'N' Shake girl.

After that, it was a call to the Super 7. I've mentioned it is a dodgy establishment. As I circled the building, I saw a dog tethered to a water spigot. I found the room. It was a black guy. He had called once earlier, then changed his mind. He said it would be a minute, and went to put his dog in the room. "I can't travel with my, dog, can I?"

I told him I didn't care, and he got in with the pooch. It was a nice-looking dog, and not some damn pit-bull or such shit. I asked him where he was going. "Well, I was going to Be'rridge, but, no--I need to go to...take me over to Austin." Austin's in the hood. It's where I picked up the crackwhore that solicited me. I started heading that way. As we passed North 6th he said "that's where I really need to be." I asked him if I should turn back, but he said, 'no,' that he would have to come back there after going to Austin.

Then he complained about all of the money he had spent on cabs that day, and started to say something about the driver he had earlier, who had been cool. He was setting me up for the hustle.

Like I fucking need this shit.

Of course, he wanted to go round-trip, and not pay wait time, and get a deal, etc., etc. As I hit Providence I started to turn right to go to Austin. He said to turn left. I asked him how he wanted to get there, and he 'remembered' that he needed to go to Switzler, instead, though he didn't know the name of the street.

So, we went to Switzler, in the heart of the projects. I'll take the projects over the hood any day, since the projects are fairly open, well-lit, and right off of Providence and downtown, with a police presence. It really gets dodgy when you get over in the 'hood, with the shitty old houses, close together, with no streetlights or good escape routes.

I pulled into the parking lot. He finally agreed to pay wait time. He gave me $5 then, as the meter was $4.55. I gave him $.50 and started wait time. He left his dog.

Two black girls walked by, going to an apartment door. One of them saw me, and pantomimed to the cigarette she had, needing a light. #6 has the tinted windows, so she must not have seen me shaking my head. She walked up, and I rolled down the window. She poked her head in and saw the dog, sitting, placid, right behind my head.

"Oh, look at you, you cute thing."

"Yup, that's my new buddy." She thought I had found him. I told her that he belonged to a fare I was waiting on. About then the guy came back. He knew the two girls. They started talking, and the chicks got in the cab with him, to go back over to North 6th. One rode up front, the other in the back. $3.50 wait time had clicked off, making it $8.05.

"Who's dog is this?"

"That's my dog."

"Yeah, but what are you going to do with him?"

"It's my dog. What do you mean, 'do?' Damn. I know you're going to put in on this cab ride. Give me $2."

"Ain't got it."

"Woman, don't even play me like that."

"I said I don't have it."

I ran them back over to North 6th. The meter showed $9.05. Plus two passengers, it should have been $11.05, though they had just jumped in and gone a few blocks. I knew it would be pulling teeth to get any more out of him. The two chicks hit the ground running, leaving him and the dog in the car. He bitched about the women stiffing him.

"That's how all of the ladies I've known act." Bullshit, you know.

"Them ain't no ladies, thems bitches. That's how a bitch acts. Man, hook me up here"

"Give me $4." I got three out of him and booted him.

Next, I grabbed the Harpos bartender again. He was less drunk this time.

Then, I grabbed a pretty-regular chick out of Quintons. There was a dude with her. She had got some new boobs, and was going on a vacation to show them off for the first time this weekend. She got a been burrito with no onions from Taco Bell. Lucinda Williams came on the radio. From there, the dude started talking about how much he like Lizzie West. I told them that she would be in Columbia in April.

When we got to her house, I told them it was $1 extra for the second passenger. "Oh, no, you're taking me home. I'm not getting out. I'm through with this bitch for tonight." He tipped me $4.

From there I was dispatched to Columbia Square Townhomes.

Columbia Square is like the projects-West. Calls from there always make me a little tense. I get a lot of them late at night. And, of course, tips are virtually non-existent.

This one was a lone black woman, wearing pajamas, Grumpy bedroom slippers, and smoking a cigarello. I was taking her to her boyfriend's mamma's house. Her boyfriend's cousin had died a couple of weeks ago, and she was going to relieve her boyfriend of bereavement duty.

After that I got a call at the Coliseum Bistro, after 1am. I took the guy over on Bluff Drive, and he tipped me $7 on an $8.05 fare. Ah, yeah. Would you like a card?

Next, I had a call from Bass, on East campus, going to the Best Value Inn. It was an odd combination. The houses were dark and numbers were hard to see, but the guy met me in the street. He had a bag with him and was somewhat quick to volunteer that he was going to see a friend who was in town to visit. Something was fishy somewhere, but it was none of my business.

After that, I had a call from the Boone ER on a social work pass. A black girl with a nasty cough. She was pretty nice, despite how sick she must have felt.

Then I had another call to Columbia Square, 17E. I pulled up and no one came out. I had dispatch call, and the dude was actually at 7D. I drove over there and he came right out.

He was a Kansas City transplant, all thugged out. Pants crotch at his knees. He came out eating some pizza bites. Damn, are those things ever good, especially if you're fucked up. He had two in his lap when he closed the door. He said he had smoked 2 or 3 blunts and that they were a necessity.

He was going all of the way across town to the Regency Trailer Court (where I had my runner). He asked if I could break a $100. I had forgot to thin my wallet from the night before when I woke up, and had come to work with better than $250. Then, I had been collecting money all night, and had received my last $100 from Gene for the van I sold him. I was sitting on $430 or so. Breaking the $100 made me a little nervous, since I would have to pull out my fat wallet and start counting $20s.

The guy seemed plenty cool, though. I started to go the most direct route, but he insisted on directing me, costing him $3 or $ more. The fare was $20.30. I took his hundo and changed him 4 $20s. He had directed me right to the trailer, it matched the number he had given me, and he had phoned someone to unlock the door when we got close. I waited until I saw him go in the trailer, then used my new counterfeit-bill pen to make sure the $100 was good.

You've probably seen these pens in action. All they do is react with the paper. If it is good the mark is either yellow or clear. If it is fake the mark is brown or dark gray. So, when you whip out your next batch of counterfeit bills, take a yellow magic marker and put two or three marks on there. Maybe the next person will believe that someone's already tested it good and save themselves the hassle. Or, if you want to fuck with someone down the line, put some brown marks on your good bills, and deposit them in the bank.

So that was my big Tuesday night. I finished up a little early, about 3am. I did $205 on the meter, which was pretty good, though tips were down a bit, me only managing a little over $20. It was my worst night in quite some time, but it's still loads better than back in December, when I would pull a whopping $108 on the meter for 12 hours' work. I still did handily better than the other drivers, by about $60 in at least one case.

So, there you go. A calm two days that made for a thriftier blog. Which is good, because I feel like crap. I think I'll grab some breakfast and catch me some Z'sers. Hopefully I will feel good enough to go to the show tonight, and I vow not to drink. Much.

Oh, and check out some mohawk pictures, below.

Ciao,
Garner.

Yohawk

My cloning experiments have proved quite successful.

Pumping Water From A Dried Up Well

Hola mi amigos. It is Sunday night. 11:31 in the pm. That's post-meridian, for those of you out of the know.

Since I last rapped at ya:

I got my update up Thursday morning because I expected to be drunk Thursday night, and unable to accomplish anything. Finally, I managed to achieve at least one goal.

I went to Shattered for Never Perfect Intentions, Black$mith, and Witch's Hat. It was a good time.

I told myself I would drink between 5-7 beers. I got there way early, at 8pm, and chatted with Bert from Witch's Hat. He suggested I come back a little later, so I went to Grill-1-5 to wait out the sound check. I had a pint of Bass there.

I cruised back to Shattered around 8:45. I decided to have a drink. I had never been to Shattered, and was trying to see what they had in bottles without having to ask the bartender. Bottles are good for concerts, because they are easier to hold and harder to spill. And I'm not a big fan of draft beer.

Plus, I suffered a bit of an industrial accident in 2000, and severed two nerves in my right index finger. The thumb-side of my index finger is partially numb, and temperature sensitive. Meaning, a cold-ass drink will make it completely numb, and I won't realize I am relaxing my grip. Then I drop a drink. Then people think I'm drunk. People seem unconvinced when you blame it on nerve damage.

Longnecks are easier to hold. Once you get a couple of drinks down, the neck is empty, and not frigid. No droppy the drink. And, I don't slosh if I start gesturing wildly with my arms while punctuating a story I'm telling.

Well, anyway, I didn't see any bottles before the bartender asked me what I wanted. I ordered the old bar stand-by, bourbon and water. What harm would one do?

"Want that a double?"

"Ahh sure, why not. That's some keen salesmanship on your part."

I didn't realize Shattered used 22ounce plastic cups, the fat ones like Shakespeare's uses. So now I had a giant glass full of ice and whiskey. This could end badly.

I took advantage of any available horizontal surfaces, to keep my drink stabilized. Chase Thompson spied me, via my fresh mohawk.

"That's a nice mohawk. Did Dan Gemkow give you that?" We had a nice chat. I complemented him on his good work with Das Karnival, and told him I was anxious to see Black$mith in action. He asked if I had seen the soundcheck. I told him I hadn't. "Good. We've got some surprises in the works."

I was impressed with the caliber of talent onstage. It was a very enjoyable show. Chase Thompson swung by before Black$mith's set, and asked me how I was doing. I complained that my hand was cold. He had something in his mouth, and dropped it. On the dirty bar floor.

"I dropped my reed."

"Oh, that's what that is. I thought it was a corn chip."

"I wish it was. I've got to put it in my mouth."

I also chatted with Bert, who introduced me to Greg, from Witch's Hat. Sometime during Black$mith's set, my old friend Emily magically appeared. I hadn't talked to her in two or three years. She was friends with my old neighbors. We caught up a bit. She was around for much of the BroYo fiasco.

I was waiting at the bar for another drink, between sets. The bartenders were swamped. I was standing next to some Asian chick. In the interest of polite social discourse, I asked her what she knew "that was good." She said 'nothing.' I drilled her with 3 or 4 simple trivia questions, which she answered correctly. "See, you know all kinds of stuff." I asked her what she was drinking (Bud Lite), and offered to buy her next one. I tend to buy lots of people drinks. It really is a basic platonic gesture to me, and would save the bartender a little more hassle. Plus, how much could a Bud Lite cost?

"Uh, that's okay." She was adamant. Geez, it wasn't like I was proposing or was even going to bother talking to her any more once I got my drink. At least it saved me a couple of bucks.

I continued drinking. Bourbon and water, doubles. During the Witch's Hat set (I think), I met Bob (808) from comomusic. He suggested I could use an editor. Damn, that's 2 people in as many days.

Usually when I'm done writing it is 8 or 10 in the morning and I am exhausted. I don't take any breaks when I'm writing, save to urinate or grab a cold one. The average post probably takes me around 8 hours. I'm usually in a hurry to get it published and linked from comomusic.com. I re-read it once and spell-check it. Some stuff is going to slip through the cracks. It is a blog, and I like to keep it fresh, which sometimes means raw. So, I apologize for any little sticking points. You know me--just keeping it real.

Anyhoo, the show ended, and I was still drinking. I ran into Bob again, and he asked me what I was drinking. I told him. He asked if it was well whiskey. I told him it was.

"What do they have for well bourbon here?"

"Ten High." He grimaced.

"Let me buy you some Glen Levitt." I told him I only drank cheap Bourbon. Jim Beam was where I drew the line.

"Let's do some shots."

"That is a terrible idea. I'm drunk." I didn't do any shots. I had a Newcastle draw. I caught Bert at the Witch's hat merch table and bought a T-shirt and CD. Then I called a cab.

Virginia was dispatching. I requested Dan. She said he was going to be tied up for a while, that he was "picking up someone--wait he's picking up some one at Shattered right now." I opened the door and saw two people getting into #6. They were going to Hyde Park, which is about a mile from my house. So, a random drunk guy with a mohawk jumped in their cab.

I passed Dan a $20 and told him to let me know when that ran out. I was just going to ride around with him until he got sick of me. After we cleared with the people at Hyde Park we stopped at the gas station. Someone had requested a pack of cigarettes, and they were only about a mile away. Dan needed gas, anyway. I grabbed 4 sixteen ounce Miller High Life cans.

In all of the confusion, Dan forgot to turn on the meter when we left the gas station. Typically, we start wait time, pay for the cigarettes, return to the cab, turn off wait time, and run the meter to the person's house. I looked up the street while Dan drove. We pulled up and waited. Dan had to call dispatch to get the chick to come out for the cigarettes. We pondered what she might be like.

She was a fat, stupid bitch. She came out to the cab and stuck her head in Dan's window. She complained that it reeked of alcohol. That would be me. The passenger. With an open Miller High Life. Dan told her it was $3.50 for the cigarettes, and looked at the meter, which was blank. Crap.

Supposing it took 2 minutes to get the cigarettes, and it was only one mile away, the fare should have been $6.05. Besides the fact that someone was bringing this dumb bitch cigarettes at 1:30am in the freezing cold.

Dan told her it was $3 for the fare, and $3.50 for the cigarettes. She complained that that was too high. I told her straight up that she was getting a bargain, that $3 was the minimum fare, and wouldn't even get a pack of cigarettes across the street, besides the fact that this guy was getting out in the freezing cold to get them for her. I told her it should be at least $6 or $7 for the fare alone. She bitched some more, and paid him. I don't remember if she tipped, but, if she did, it wasn't much. What a stupid bitch.

From there, we picked up someone at the Hardees drive-through. Dan pulled up to one of the guys, and rolled his window down to see if he was the fare. He said he was, but that we had to wait on his friend, who was ordering food. "Whup, gotta run wait time," I said, hitting the meter. The first guy got in, and Dan turned the wait time off. It was his cab.

I'm trying to remember, but I guess the guy walked through the drive-through or got in a car with someone. We had to wait a few minutes. Dan turned the meter back on. I have learned to always turn it on, because drunk people will abuse you if you don't, and you'll lose money. At least if you turn it on and run it you have something to base your argument off of. Even if they bitch and you cut them a deal, you can say, definitively, that "it should be $12.80 but I'll cut you a deal, and charge you $10." Drunks have no concept of time. And time is money, for a cabdriver, especially between 1-3am.

The guy got in the back, and commented on the smell of booze. I told him it was me, and he asked where I got a Miller High Life.

"The gas station. Would you like one?" He said yes, and I gave him one. His buddy got in, and we headed South. The guy said we were going to Maricopa, and then he said something about being a liquor wholesaler. I turned and looked at him. "Your name isn't Fisher, is it?"

It was the guy from the hell ride about a month ago, with the drunk chick in the Highlands, the wife of the owner of the Heidelberg, and the turbo-asshole. The one where I called him the Amazing Kreskin and told him I wouldn't have got lost if we hadn't found our way in by Braille. The one whose buddies pissed all over his garage door when we cleared. The ride I heard about with the drunk bitch who puked after I dropped her off.

Fisher was the turbo-asshole.

"Yeah, we had an interesting ride home a few weeks ago." I refreshed his memory.

"That was you?" He laughed, and apologized. He didn't remember much about the ride, but said he had heard about it from his buddy afterwards, and had given him another $20. I told him it was no big deal, and that he hadn't caught me on my best night. Small world, isn't it?

Dan's next call was back at Shattered. It was 3/4s of Black$mith. I got out to take a piss. When I opened the front door to #6 (tinted windows), Chase Thompson was in my seat, helping himself to one of my Miller High Lifes. I sat in the back with Mr. Las Vegas and Double-A.

They were headed to a party, on East campus. I decided to get out with them. As soon as I got inside, I realized I had no business being at a party. I was drunk. I only recognized a few people, and didn't want to meet any new people as a stammering jackass. I finished my beer and exited. I called for Dan again, and met him at University and College, since I didn't know what street I was on at the party.

So I made it home safe. I later apologized to Dan for being a jackass. He said I wasn't a problem. I did tip him well, though.

And can you believe that that stupid bitch from the cigarette fiasco called Phyllis and complained? She claimed Dan scammed her, by not running the meter and overcharging her. $3? That's our minimum fare. She also claimed he reeked of alcohol, obviously ignoring the drunk passenger (in a taxi?) holding an open beer. What a fucking cunt-whore. She's in the running for my fucking cunt-whore of the week contest. Don't forget to log-on and vote.

So, that about covers my off day. So, we can get down to cab business.

Cab:

Friday: Of course I was hung-over. Not too terribly, but when you're faced with 12+ hours driving a taxi cab and dealing with 40 or so different people, half of them drunk, it can be a bit trying, especially if you're not operating on 11. At least I got a car early, and it was a good one. #6.

My first call was one of the lesser-functioning peoples from the sheltered workshop. He's the scrawny black guy with the walker and green teeth. It was a short ride.

After that, I had another regular out near Sorrel's Overpass. I got there and honked the horn. I waited a couple of minutes, and honked again. No one came out. I radioed dispatch. They told me that it was a time call, and I was 7 or 8 minutes early. I felt like a dick for honking the horn. When he didn't come out at 4:30, I gave him another 10 minutes. But he never came out. No-show, but we charged him anyway, so at least I got my $2 out of it.

Then I took BJ to work. BJ is the grandma-voiced dentures kid. He asked if I would stop for a soda. I didn't want to, but I had ignored his hinting the last couple of times I took him home. I stopped at a gas station, urging him to hurry. It wasn't the one he preferred, and he hoped that "their Cherry Coke is...is...is up to tasting good today."

BJ brings his CDs to work. He's only there for 4 or 5 hours, but he brings a giant clear tupperware-type food storage container with like 80 CD's in it. I'm not exaggerating. He also packs a large duffel. Once I asked him what he was listening to and got no response. I asked him what his favorite CD was and didn't learn anything more.

He came back out, with his Cherry Coke fountain drink. It's funny to watch mentally handicapped people get in a hurry. Where have they got to be? I dropped him off at work and headed back in.

My next call was out on Primrose, north of I-70 on Stadium. It was a nice-enough chick, heading back down to North 8th or 9th. She had taken the bus to the mall and walked the couple of miles North to her friend's house. She said she didn't really have the money to spare, but that it was far too cold to walk back. I didn't blame her.

She said she only had $10, and that I could let her out when that was up. I told her it would be about $12, but that we would make the $10 work. I gleaned that she had lost her license for something or other, and decided she didn't need it back.

$10 would have dropped her on Worley. It wasn't far from Providence, but it was fucking cold. I told her I'd run her all of the way home for the $10. The fare was $11.55.

I expected her to hand me a $10, but she gave me a $20. This was mildly irritating. I would have taken it much more personally if it wasn't 18 degrees. At least she had expected to walk after $10, and hadn't expected or asked me to take her all of the way. No matter. I wrote the fare down as $11.55, ate the $1.55, and moved on.

It was going a little slow. After dark had fully set in, I was dispatched out off of Scott Boulevard, to a nice college-y neighborhood, around 6:45 or so. I found the house, in a nice, new, brick subdivision, and pulled in the driveway, behind a late-model Nissan Pathfinder.

I beeped my horn, but no one came out. I waited a couple of minutes, and beeped again. No one. I had dispatch call. "They'll be right out." When I hear that, I think of the "I'll be right back" line from Scream.

It was 3 or 4 minutes before the door opened. That's bordering on unreasonable, when it's 7pm, you know the taxi is coming, I've honked twice, called once, and waited 7-8 minutes. The only mitigating factors, for me, was that it was early, I was slow, and that they may be apologetic and tip well.

A skinny blonde bitch came out, never looked at me, and came down the driveway to the Pathfinder parked 18" in front of my bumper. Again, without looking at me, she opened the door of the Pathy. I thought maybe she was not my fare, but just someone leaving the house. She got back out, though, with a pack of Menthol Marlboros cigarettes. She walked to the cab, again, without ever acknowledging me.

This is a major pet peeve. If you are keeping me waiting, at least open the door, acknowledge me, and hold your finger up. I will wait. The difference is about 40 blood pressure points, diastolic.

So, this bitch got in the back seat, and didn't close the door. It was about 12-15 degrees. I asked if she was by herself. She said 'no,' that there was someone else coming. As if it was a stupid question. She left the door open for the entire further unreasonable 4-5 minutes while waiting for her friend. Like I might rape her, and that 2 seconds she would save by having the door open would be the difference that facilitated her escape. She never acknowledged or apologized for the delay. She even complained about how cold it was. With the fucking door open.

Bitch.

Her friend finally came out, and slid into the back seat. She had a broad ass. Apparently broad enough that fashionable pants were hard to find in her size. At least she was polite enough to say "sorry for keeping you waiting."

And, would you believe, the blonde bitch in the back said, "oh, that's okay"?

At least her friend called her out for being such a dumb cunt, telling her she was talking to me. It didn't embarrass her in the least.

Finally, we were rolling. Within 1/2 a mile they were complaining about the fare. "It's already $4?"

"Yeah, it's $1.80 to get in."

The second girl asked if we took credit cards, then remembered she forgot her debit card. I doubled back. She retrieved it (wait time off) and we headed back downtown. To Addisons.

With the turn-around, and the second passenger, the fare was $20.05. Bitch #2 tipped $2, and said they might need a ride later that night. I did not offer them a card, and reminded myself that if I had a call at Addisons during bar rush, that I should go there via Willies, The Field House, The Penguin, El Rancho, Jimmy John's, Tonic, and Quintons.

After that, I grabbed two more from the workshop, then another regular from the hair salon he owns. He is a black man, with an accounting degree, who also does taxes as a side enterprise. He lived in Kansas City for some 30 years, and complained that there wasn't as much call for a good barber in Columbia. "These fools here is happy just to run a razor over their head. They don't take care of their shit like they do in the city. The womens in Kansas City wouldn't let you slide with that shit. You've got to keep your shit tight, in the city."

I made a run to the airport. It was a business man, returning home. We talked about DWIs and the good-old days when drunk driving was considered simply a boorish behavior. He tipped $5 on the $25 fare.

I was dispatched to the Wal-Mart Supercenter. The people were actually at the Nifong Wal-Mart, and I was re-routed. It was a black woman, her teenaged son, and, I guess, a couple of his friends. She continually admonished them for loud-talking all of the way home. She commented that Chris Drive was no place to live, and that she couldn't wait to move. I don't fucking blame her. That's where my lone runner came from.

After that, I snagged two college kids from North Cedar Lake, and ran them downtown. They met me in the street, were drunk, a lot of fun, and tipped $5.95 on $14.05 fare.

From there I ran right back to North Cedar Lake for my regular who goes to work at the nursing home. Then I grabbed another semi-regular from Spring Valley. She normally walks to work, but it was in the neighborhood of 10 degrees. I generally only see her during inclement weather. The fare is like $4.55 and, she usually passes me $7.

Then I had a call at the Red Roof Inn. It was right at 11pm. They had been waiting for an hour, but dispatch called to make sure they still wanted the cab. It was a slender 20something black woman. She wanted to go to McDonald's, make a stop at Pendleton, and clear on North 6th Street. I made sure she knew about wait time.

We stopped at the Break Time on Nebraska before McDonalds. She leaned down to see who was working inside. "I hope it's not that one that always asks me for my ID." She went in and came back out after a minute or two. I watched her conversing with the woman behind the counter.

She asked me if I had a lighter. I didn't. Neither did #6. I have a couple of Zippos, which I treasure, so I don't carry them for fear of losing them. I'm not a smoker, but I am a pyromaniac. There are few sounds so recognizable and satisfying as the opening, striking, and cold snapping-shut of a Zippo lighter. Plus, I don't really feel to bad when smokers can't light up in my car. If you want to smoke, cool. But, if you can't keep track of your lighter, you're a rank amateur. Next, please.

We spent two minutes ($2) in the McDonald's drive-through before she decided it was going to cost too much. I told her I would drop the $2 if she wanted to bolt. She suggested Burger King, across the street. I ordered 3 hamburger kids meals for her, and another adult value meal. The BK dude apologized for only having one 2-drink carrier. I put the remaining two orange sodas in the Crown Vic's cup holders.

We took the food over to Pendleton. A black man came out to meet us, after we had passed the house and she called him on my cell phone. I handed him most of the food through the window, and she got out to carry the rest. She went in, and I ran wait time. I fretted that she might not come out, but logic told me she would. She did, after $4 or $5 ticked off.

She wanted to stop at another gas station before going to North 6th. We did, at the Phillips 66 on Rangeline. Then I took her to North 6th. The fare, on distance alone, would have been about $7 or $8. With all of the wait time, it ran $25.05. She paid cash, handing me a $10 and a $20. I gave her $5 back. No tip. On rides like that I'm ecstatic just to see cash for the fare without a hassle, though.

Next I had a call at 913 Curtis, in Greektown. It was a nice girl, only going so far as Shiloh. The fare was only $3.80, but she paid by debit card ($2 service charge) and tipped $2 without complaint.

After that I was sent to the Wal-Mart Supercenter. A woman with a bunch of groceries. Shit.

It was 7 degrees. I pulled up to see 2 shopping carts, heaped full. I had a fresh shaved head. It was a black woman and two kids. I did not foresee a tip in my future, and I would have gladly tipped her if it meant I could stay in the car.

Motherfucker.

I popped the trunk, pulled on my jacket, and got out. She thanked me but said I could stay in the car. She didn't want to be guilted into a tip. Awesome. The words were barely out of her mouth before I was back in #6's driver's seat.

I ran her over off of East Ash. Along the way, she asked about Phyllis. Apparently, Bill had driven her to Wal-Mart, and she had had a Crown Vic black-and-white Interceptor parked in her driveway, a '96. It needed work. She wanted to sell it. She said it needed a starter to run, and had a power steering fluid leak, an engine oil leak, and a transmission fluid leak. This sounded like a shpiel she had received from a garage. Fuji, all of our Crown Vics leak power steering fluid and motor oil. The tranny did scare me a bit, in case she had ran it low or something. The police stations know when the trannies are about to go and pawn them off, quick, before they start slipping noticeably.

She wanted $300 for it. My interest was piqued. She did mention that it needed to be 'cleaned up,' that water had leaked in the A-pillar where the spot light had been, and that the interior was moldy. Hmm. I took her number so I could check into it today (Sunday). No tip.

Next, I had a call at Cody's. I expected a K-Mart cowboy, but got a fat, white, wannabe player instead.

He was cool enough, though, headed North in the boonies. Luckily Cody's is already half-way to fucking nowhere.

"You a big fan of Cody's there?"

"No." He had been coerced into going there by some friends, and called a cab so he could leave, because it sucked so bad. Can't say as I blame him. I got him home without incident. He tipped me $3 or so on a $14 fare.

I had a call waiting for me at the Reserve (the old Jefferson Commons), on the South Side of Columbia. I was way up North. I started humping the Vic to get back in an orderly fashion. I wasn't thinking too clearly, though, and took a wrong turn. I drove 4 or 5 miles into the middle of nowhere. I had to back-track and find my way back to 63. I was trying to push it, but the roads were uber-shitty and a dry, powdery snow was beginning to blow, low, like smoke, along the asphalt.

I made it back into the Reserve, and the guy was still good to go. I ran him to a party on East campus. He had a half-empty 24 pack of Natural Light with him. He wanted me to wait to make sure his friends hadn't already left the party. He was going to wait to pay in case he need to go back home. "Do you want me to leave my wallet, or something?" I laughed.

"I'm not to worried about you running on me. Besides, I've got your beer." He checked, expeditiously, and returned and paid me, after confirming that the party was still going.

It was almost 1am. I had a call to get to the DeJa Vu, ASAP. I motored over. Clickety Clyde was already parked right in front of the Vu. I pulled in, anyway, right up beside him. Before I even got it into park, Virginia called me off. She sent me to another address which did not sound familiar. Someone wanting to make a casino run.

If you're not familiar with Columbia, there is a casino, the Isle of Capri, a half-an-hour West, in Boonville, MO, along I70. If you're not familiar with Missouri, this is because there is some arcane law which prohibits casinos in Missouri. To get around that here in the Midwest, we have "boats on moats" exclusions. This means that if it floats, it is not 'in Missouri," as in on land. Rather, it is on water. So, there is some giant building for which you have to cross over a tiny canal or something to reach. This is retarded.

Call a spade a spade. Consider this: in Nevada, I can legally have sex with a prostitute. In Missouri, I can not. However, if I want to pay a woman to have sex with me, I can do so, call it 'acting,' in and 'adult film,' and, voila, it is perfectly legal (provided I fill out the proper paperwork). Fucking Puritans and their laws.

Not that I desire to have sex with prostitutes.

Because I don't.

At all.

I swear.

But this is all beside the point, except for the fact that I would be forced to drive a bunch of loud drunks at 70 mph down highway 70 in 5 degree weather, over bridges, with snow blowing, to a casino in the middle of nowhere. Dodging drunks and deer. The fare would be $45 for 3 of them. This was during bar rush. Meaning, if they didn't tip well, I would make a total of maybe $20 for the hour plus (35% of $45 + $5 tip). Under less than optimal conditions.

Furthermore, I had never been to Boonville or the casino, though I assumed it would be pretty well marked. I pulled into the Broadway Diner to look up the address I had been given by dispatch. Then 3 women in their late 30s got in the cab.

I hated to put them out, since it was so frigid. They had had their car towed while they were in the Vu. They had driven in from Jefferson City to celebrate one of their birthdays, and didn't have many options. I told them that I would try to get them to the tow lot, but it kind of depended on how big of a hurry my casino crew was in. To make matters worse, they needed to stop at an ATM, and I had to find the tow lot, and hope someone would be there waiting. Guess what? Tow operators don't give a fuck about you or your car. They only take cash and they work on their own time-frame.

On top of that, I was having no luck finding the street in my guide book. I radioed dispatch, and she gave me a number to call. I guess it was a bar. The bartender told me the casino guys had got a limo and already left. That was no problem.

So, I proceeded with the mild-mannered housewives. We hit an ATM. The woman couldn't remember her PIN. It was written down in her purse, which was in the impounded car. Apparently, she was the only one with an ATM card, and was getting cash for the other woman to pay for the tow. This was the craziest thing that had ever happened to any of them.

I went ahead and drove them to the tow lot. I made the woman call on my cell phone to make sure the tow operator was there. He let her in, and she got the wayward pocketbook. Then we went to a second ATM, and back. It was a $20 fare or so. She paid by credit card. I asked if she wanted to put a tip on the card.

"Yes...but, I don't know...what's standard for a taxi?"

"Well," I said, looking at the fares on my clipboard, "the standard seems to be to not tip at all."

She gave me $3. Happy Birthday, Lisa.

Now it was about bar closing. People were everywhere on the streets, freezing. People who would normally walk were flagging cabs, resulting in short fares. Someone flagged me outside of Harpos. It was two dudes.

They got in, and said they were only going to University and College. I told them it would be $3-4 for the fare and a $1 for the second passenger. They said they would pay it, but wondered aloud why it would be so much to so such a short distance.

I didn't feel like debating fares. "Look dude, it's all about transaction costs. I have to find you, get you in, get you out, wait for you to pay, etc. While I'm doing that I may be passing up a $20 fare. You can buy a 2-liter bottle of soda at the grocery store for $.89 cents, but you don't bitch about paying $1.19 for a 20ounce soda at a gas station. You're paying for convenience. It's like the difference between a 40oz beer and a six pack." He appreciated the beer analogy, and tipped a couple of bucks.

After that, I grabbed Max and Lindsay, the Zombie Front dojo guy and his lady-friend, at Jimmy John's on Broadway. Lindsay was the first to comment on my new mohawk. Max tipped me $4. Thanks, Max.

I made my way back downtown, and had a call at the Wine Cellar, 505 Cherry. I pulled up and waited. And waited. It was an unreasonably long time, during bar rush, but I couldn't pull off. Dispatch called. "They'll be right out."

It wasn't too, too long, but long enough to warrant an acknowledgement or an apology. Which I didn't get. It was a server from the Wine Cellar and her dude friend. Normally I would alter their identities, but not in this case.

The chick was in a bad mood. Fair enough. I don't always like my job, but that doesn't keep me from being nice to people. She was in a bad mood the whole way, which was only a $3.55 fare, but through every flashing red light and 4 way stop in downtown Columbia. This took a while, besides the time I waited for them to get in the cab.

The dude works at Rag Tag. I chatted with him about the True/False Film festival. I pulled to the back of their house for them, over a badly rutted driveway. With the extra passenger, the fare was $4.55. She handed me a $20. "Just give me $15 back." She violated the unspoken server-tipping-server-floating-tip rule.

"Gee, thanks, Elvis. This will go a long way in a toy store."

But, I guess anyone can have a bad night.

Next, I was dispatched to "the corner of Locust and College." As cold as it was, I figured it was someone walking home who had thought better of it. I raced over there. I saw no one at the intersection. I thought it might have been the house on the corner, and pulled in the driveway. Nothing.

I was having trouble getting through to dispatch. They said the guy was on the street. I said he wasn't, but circled back around to check. Locust is one-way there, so I had to circle back down to Paquin. I pulled back up on Locust, where I could see to the end of the street. No one was there. I radioed again.

This time he was supposed to be at Athena. I had seen movement in that direction the first time I passed. I had to circle the block again to get back there. No one. I radioed again.

After a couple of minutes, they called the guy and got me an address halfway up the block, on Locust. I pulled up and he came out. Thank goodness.

I took him down South, on the other end of my street. He kept telling me about the neighborhood. I told him I had lived there since 2001. I told him there had been a home invasion a block from his house, and a dude got shot in the chest. There's some news for ya, fucker.

Actually, he was cool enough. He tipped me $6 or $7. We pulled in his driveway and a young, fat-faced kid with a beard came up to my window. He asked if I could wait around a few minutes, that they might be going somewhere else. I told him I had another call, and gave him a card in case he made up his mind.

I was dispatched to the Martini Bar. It was 3am. I pulled up to the parking lot, and there was a surprising number of people there. I had assumed I had been dispatched for an employee, since it was so late, and Columbia bars are so adamant about getting people out at 1:30 am. The neon 'Open' sign was still on.

As I pulled through the parking lot, I saw a black man of about 40 talking to someone through an SUV window. I pulled up in front of the Martini Bar's doors and waited. The windows are all tinted black. I thought I would wait a second for someone to pop out.

As I put it in gear, the black guy walked past my window, towards the bar. He did a bit of a double-take, and came back to my window. I thought maybe he worked there, and he was going to tell me that my fare had left already, or something. I rolled down the window.

"Garner?" That was odd. I thought maybe he knew my name because someone at the bar had requested me or maybe he knew my friend Zeke, who works there.

"Yeah?"

"Fuck you!" he said, laughing, as if he didn't believe me.

Okay.

"I'm Bluesman." Oh, shit, Bluesman, from comomusic. I forget that there are people on there that aren't 25 year old 5'7" indie white guys or metal-heads. Dispatch radioed, and told me I would have to go in to get the fare. "I'm not talking to them on the phone any more." I thought this must mean that they were pissed at a long wait or something. I hopped out and followed Bluesman in.

I was telling him that I had listened to the No Name Blues Show on BXR for years (though, admittedly, sporadically). As I popped through the door there were two attractive 30something women standing right next to me.

"Are you the cab driver?" They were drunk. I was expecting a tirade and a bitchy ride.

"Yes, I am. Are you excited!" Surprisingly, this comment was met with a positive response. They followed me out to the cab. We got in and I got an address. It was even further South, off of Route K. A straight shot, and I knew there were some nice neighborhoods down there.

Before I got out of the parking lot, the woman behind me was rubbing my shoulders. She said something about a tip and giving me a back rub. I thanked her for her kindness. She also commented on my fresh mohawk, massaging my freshly shorn cranium.

When we hit Route K, the one behind me started talking about how sexy the other one had been dancing, and how everyone was envious of her. They were pretty sharp, fairly funny, very provocative, and a tad obnoxious. The chatter was mostly between the two of them until I got to their street.

The one behind me guided me to the house. I swung in the drive, told them the fare, and started writing on my clipboard. They paid me, and tipped me $3 or $4.

There was some mention of how cute I was. They wanted me to come in. I told them I had to drive, that I had calls waiting on me. It was already 3am, but dispatch already had me stacked three high.

They weren't giving up easily. I'm not going to lie to you. I have a bit of a 35-year-old woman fetish, and these ladies were very sexy. I looked at the clock. I couldn't see any way around having to work for at least another hour. And, then, they would be 25 minutes south of me when I got off of work. I apologized again, and told them I had to drive. I did mention that I could come back.

They seemed game with the idea, but I figured an hour-and-a-half wait at 3am would likely pacify the carnal desires of even the horniest drunk women and would result in two snoozing divorcees and me standing in the cold at a locked door. They said they needed something to tide them over.

"Show us your penis." It kind of came out of nowhere. I laughed. She said she wasn't joking. They were both equally engaged in the endeavor. I politely declined a few times, laughing it off. They were serious, and apparently not willing to take no for an answer. "No, really show us your cock." This went on for a few minutes. "Is it hard?"

I said 'no,' but that they had my attention. I could not seem to change the subject or get them out of the car. I told them that no one wanted to see a flaccid penis.

"Yes we do. Show it to us." I suggested that they couldn't really tell much about a penis in its flaccid state, and I wouldn't want to be underestimated. They insisted that they could, and that they wanted to see it.

"You'd think you would at least offer to buy me a beer, first."

"You want a beer? Come inside. You can have a beer, then you can show it to us."

"I can't--I gotta drive."

"Oh, come on. Just one beer?"

I told them that I thought they were just teasing me, and that they didn't really want to see my penis, and that they just wanted to see if they could make me do it. Then, I said, they would laugh, go inside, and forget about it.

The second one spoke up. "Look, we're not 21. We want to see it. We're not playing games here. I am 30 (something) and I'm horny."

"Well, God bless your heart for that." She said something about me not wanting to show them because I thought they were too old. I promised them that I would like nothing better than to come back.

"Just show us your penis. Come on, show us your cock. Just move that clipboard, and show it to us." There was some mention of fellatio. "Do you need some help?"

"Well, if you're offering to help--that's a different story..."

The chick behind me had long-since shifted to the center of the back seat. She was leaning forward, almost between the front low-back bucket seats. #6 is missing the driver's seat headrest. She reached forward and took the clipboard out of my hands, setting it in the passenger's seat. She paused. I did nothing. Then she unbuckled my belt. Again, I did nothing.

She pulled my belt out of my pants. "Well?"

Again, we were at a stalemate. Dispatch had radioed again. I finally got them out of the car. They acted disappointed. They told me to come back, but I was unconvinced they were serious about staying up. I put my belt back on. There was a scooter and a skateboard in the front yard.

Filthy.

I motored to the Waffle House. It was 3:30 when I got there. This is the brand-new Waffle House, near the Stoney Creek Inn, on the South side, off of Providence. It is the only thing open 24 hours on the South side, so, of course, it is the new drunk-central. I pulled in and the windows were all fogged over, and it was stuffed to capacity.

Surprisingly, my fare came right out. I had just stopped along the sidewalk right by the door. She came right up and got right in. She was a 30something cracker woman, serviceable, but much less attractive that either of the two I just dropped off. She seemed in a huff, and some drunk college student was giving her shit about something. She was still talking to him when she got in behind me, the door open. He joked about going with her. "Well, get in, Honey." He laughed and declined. I asked if it was just her and she bitched about being alone.

I asked where she was headed, She went into a tirade about them not allowing smoking in the new Waffle House. She had been waiting for an hour-and-a-half so she could go to IHOP (a $15 fare) for breakfast because she refused to spend any money at an establishment that prohibited smoking. I checked my mirrors and went to back up. I moved about 18" and felt an impact. God damn.

I pulled forward, put the car in park, and got out in the 5 degree cold. I expected to see an electric green Cadillac Escalade, back fresh from Pimp My Ride, sitting behind me with a smashed grill, pieces littering the ground. Instead, a dull black car had pulled up right behind me, parked, and got out. What the fuck?

I had been distracted with the fare and the commotion. The car's paint had dulled, and spots were spray-painted flat black. It was narrower than the Crown Vic, and didn't show up in my side mirror. The rear window is tinted, and was fogged, and I frankly just never expected anyone to park behind me in 30 seconds while stopped at the Waffle House at 3:30 in the am.

Luckily, there was no damage at all. The obnoxious drunk guy at the door was overjoyed to witness the spectacle, and went screaming into the restaurant to tell everyone that a taxi had just smashed into a parked car. The guy in the car came back out. I hoped he would be drunk, but he wasn't. He looked, and didn't see any damage. It was a $500 car, and all of the paint was already worn off of the bumper cover where one of those classy 80s nose-bras had once covered it. He said it was his friend's car, and took my card just in case their was any friction. I booked.

I headed over to the IHOP. The chick tipped me $5. She wanted me to come back for her, and asked what time I got off. Hmm.

My last call was out on Balboa. It was the nice, attractive girl I had picked up and taken to Shiloh. We talked about the cold and she said she was Canadian. You know how I feel about Canadians.

Well, that was my night. I was exhausted, and shaking a little. I went in and did my paperwork. I asked Virginia about the 30somethings I snagged from the Martini Bar. She said that they had insisted that she was a man and had kept asking for a date.

I had ran about $270 on the meter, with $50 or so in tips. It was a pretty good night. But I was wiped out. I went home and crashed.

I got up just in time to go to work. My drunken shenanigans Thursday had caught up with me, and I felt like a cold was coming one. At least I wasn't hungover, though.

I went to work and waited for a car. I was the last to get issued a ride. Dan got #6. I knew the day driver was still out in #10. I expected to get saddled with her, and was preemptorily pissed, since the heat in #10 doesn't work under 30mph and I didn't want to spend 12+ hours in it in 5 degree weather. Fuck that.

With every car that was handed out, I got madder and madder. Then they told me mine was outside. I went in the office to get a clipboard. Phyllis said Guy was pulling in. Jeff had been in #10. "Which car am I in?"

"You're in #9."

Sweet box nubbins.

I had only driven #9 once before, for a couple of hours. It is a '94 Interceptor. It's the one I had one night that had the headlight problem. Amazingly, they had fixed it properly. Great day in the morning.

#9 had a bad-ass heater. And, not a single noteworthy mechanical problem. It has 179K on the ticker, but doesn't look to have seen much police duty. There's no A-pillar spotlight. The only hint that it was a service vehicle is the aftermarket auxiliary domelight. It has power bucket seats with velour surfaces. Sweet.

My first call was a no-show from a regular at Ryans. From there I jetted for a 5:15 timecall for Miss Jean.

I was about 8 minutes early, but she's usually at least 10 minutes early, seated on a loveseat in the lobby of her retirement home, visible through the door. She wasn't there, yet.

I waited, and 5:15 came and went. I started to wonder if she had died or something. Finally, around 5:23, I saw her shuffling past the door with her cart. I went in and retrieved her. She seemed worn-out and her voice was hoarse. I got her outside and into #9.

Miss Jean smelled like shit. This worried me. I had spoken with a chef at one of the restaurants she frequents, and he said that they had been forced to ban her for a number of years, because she had a bowel/incontinence problem, and "would slam 3 glasses of chardonnay and shit herself" every day at lunch. I had also heard confirmation of this from at least one other source. I had experienced no such problems since I met her.

The smell was offensive, but I fatigued to it along the drive. After I escorted her in, I returned to the car and was hit with a fresh waft of it. Shit. I hope this isn't a sign of things to come. I mean, we're all entitled to the occasional accident. Even I have shit myself at least once since undertaking the blog, though I blame that firmly on rogue shrimp tacos and food poisoning.

After that, I picked up someone at the Mizzou Arena and took her to Paquin Tower. She had been watching her brother wrestle in the state tournament.

Next, I had a call on Park, in the projects. As I was driving up to the address (early--I was right around the corner), I passed a black woman and two girls walking along the street. They flagged me. Great.

I rolled down my window. They were the fare I was sent to pick up, and were walking to the address they had given. It was a mom, her 12 year old daughter, and one of her daughter's friends. I took them the 50' or so to her apartment, and waited while she drug her laundry out and put it in the trunk. Then we dropped the two girls off down the street and headed to the laundromat by the Wal-Mart Supercenter.

As soon as we got headed that way, she said "I like your mohawk." She said she had had one last August, but got tired of people asking her if she was "a black skinhead." She said she was 35. We chatted about the hairstyle on the way over to Trimble Road.

She needed to stop at the gas station to use the ATM. She came out and said that she could only get $10 out of the ATM. She owed me $8.30, and was about $6 away from home. She couldn't afford to do her laundry. I had already got my next call, around the corner, at the Supercenter, going back in her direction. I told her I would take her back for free, and picked up the next fare.

It was a 45-50 year old black woman and her adult gay son. They were going back to the projects. Along the way, everyone talked about how bad crime and the schools were in Kansas City and St. Louis. The mohawk woman had moved to Columbia so her daughter would be safe and go to good schools. She said she worked 48 hours a week as an operating room tech at the hospital. She's the one who holds the heart while someone's being operated on, along with other surgery-related duties.

I dropped off the mom/son and ran the other woman back home. She gave me her $10 and I gave her back $5. I told her I would make it all up by taking too much money from drunk college students who paid with their parents' credit cards. She was very gracious. I even carried one of her ginormous bags of laundry to her door for her.

My next call came out of the projects, too. It was two women headed up off of Paris road. Would get the money when we got there. A dude name Henry came out and asked how much the fare was. I said '$11.55.' The meter read $10.55 ($1 for the extra passenger). He handed me $11 and started to walk away. I was glad to get the $11, and wasn't going to quibble over $.55. He stopped short at the end of the car's hood, turned around, and came back. He apologized, saying he wasn't thinking, that his brain shut off after $11, and the $.55 didn't register until he was walking away. I do the same thing. He counted out $.55 change for me and thanked me again.

And, then, yet another call from the hood. This one was going to the Bear's Breath, which is pretty much a redneck bar. A black woman got in and asked how much it would cost to get there. I said $6-7, guessing high. She freaked out, and said dispatch said between $4-5. I reconsidered, and that sounded close. I got her over there for $4.55. She gave me 2 $1s and the rest in change. How do you go to a bar with no money and no way home? I told her I hoped she made some friends there.

I grabbed two girls out of the Penguin and ran them to Shiloh. I told them it was a $3 minimum and $1 for the extra passenger. The chick laughed and said she could afford it. I told her I liked to lay everything out up front, because having the money didn't always keep people from bitching about how must the ride had cost. They said they would be going to the Martini Bar later, and I gave them a card.

My next call was at the Motel 6. It was some sawed-off runty cop from Kirksville and his wife, who was about 4 inches taller and 40lbs heavier than him, conservatively speaking. They said they wanted to go to Shattered. I headed that direction and they asked me what I knew about Lou's Palace. They had looked it up in the phone book.

I told them all that I knew about it, which was where it was at, and that I had never seen a white person go in or come out. The chick was looking for some place that played 'hip-hop.' They had been to the DeJa Vu and hadn't liked it. I suggested Athena, because they seemed the perfect tacky fit for it. I also pointed out El Rancho and told them that that was about the best place to get a cab during bar rush.

I was driving back downtown without a call when someone flagged me at 10th and Broadway. Turned out to be a well-meaning citizen who wanted to pay me to take a drunk homeless guy to the St. Francis house. The guy had already called and made sure they would take him. I told him it would be about $4 and he gave me $5. The drunk homeless guy got in the back and we took off. The well-meaning guy told him that if he had "a bottle to put it in a bush or something, outside. Don't try to take it in with you. They won't let you stay if you have a bottle with you. It's going to be about 20 degrees below, with the windchill tonight. You don't want to be sleeping on the street."

I asked the homeless guy how he knew the other guy. He said some nice people came outside and gave him some french fries to eat, without him asking. The girl insisted he take them. Then the other guy had ran across him.

When I came up to the next stop sign a phonebook slid down my windshield and hit the cowl. The guy had put it on top of the cab while he was talking to me. I got to the St. Francis House and made sure he got in. I escorted him to the door. He told me that he was from Montana and that he had been born on a record-cold day. Minus 85 F, he said. The guy from the St. Francis House knew him, called him by name, and scolded him to put out his cigarette before he came in.

I drove back down 10th, looking for a coffee house to return the phonebook to. There wasn't one on 10th, but I didn't want to go hunting in the cold on 9th Street, trying to return a free phonebook to an unwitting coffee shop employee. I guess its still under the seat of #9.

My next call was a request at the Campus Bar. I thought it would be a regular, but it was the two girls I had dropped off at Shiloh. I took them to the Martini Bar, and they set up a 12:15 time call with me.

After that, I was called up by the office. I assumed that meant Greyhound, but, instead, it was to go to Darlene's Hideaway, a little cracker bar next to the office. I got some looks when I strolled in with my fresh mohawk. I got a 50some year old good-ol'-boy headed up North. It was a $20.55 fare, the last couple of miles on a narrow paved country road with break-neck corners. He would say it was just up around the corner, then I would slow down a little bit. Then he'd say "you've still got a ways to go."

"Awesome."

"Possum? You better run over that sum'bitch."

He was saying something about how he'd been boning the owner of the bar for some time, but that she had already passed out for the night, so he was going home, instead. He gave me $25 and didn't want any change. Nice.

Then I grabbed a couple of chicks from Shiloh, headed to their car at Stoney Creek Inn. They had been there for a wedding reception.

That took me up to 12:15. I went to the Martini Bar for the timecall. I had pulled in and waited a couple of minutes, and was putting on my jacket to go inside to look for them, when they called to check on me. Dispatch sent them out. They were happy that I was on time. We went through the Taco Bell drive-through. I reminded them of wait time, and the first girl laughed again. She is from Columbia, and was home from college at Indiana University, to go to the Rascal Flats concert. Apparently she is the daughter of someone 'important/wealthy' in Columbia, and I was supposed to know who she was. Still don't. They tipped a total of $10 or so on the three fares. That was fine. They were terribly mild, though.

I had a call from Campus Bar. It was two guys heading to Rolling Rock, but they got a call from a friend, drunk and on foot, on East campus. We were navigating our way to him. The guy on the phone told him we were right around the corner, when we were still a few blocks away. He told him we were sitting, waiting, and that he had better run. He had exhausted himself and was standing on the sidewalk when we came into view, still a block away. "You see headlights? Okay, that's us."

He had on a stupid hat. "You want me to blast past him like we don't see him?" They thought that would be funny. I coasted down to where he was standing, and stood on it, jetting past him. They thought that was really funny. "That's what he gets for wearing that hat." We turned around and picked him up. He was too winded to bitch for a few miles. We hit up a gas station before getting them home. $23 fare, $4 tip.

After that I grabbed the runty cop and his old lady from El Rancho. They had loved Athena, and were very pleased with my recommendation. They had called and requested "Garber." I took them back to the Motel 6.

Next, I was sent to 905 Richmond. That's a short street in Greektown on campus. There are only about 5 or 6 sorority houses on either side. It was just before 2 am. I found the numbers. 901, 907, 915. No 905. I got a phone number from dispatch and dialed it, sitting in between 907 and 915 in the street. It rang several times before a chick answered.

"Are you waiting for a cab?"

"Well we fucking were, but you took too fucking long!" Bite tongue. Fight oh-no-she-didn't reflex. 3-2-1..."We're on our way out."

Motherfucking bitch. Useless fucking spoiled cunt-whore. Son-of-a-bitching cocksucker.

"Where are you at?"

"905 Richmond."

"There is no 905 Richmond. It goes 901, 907, 915."

"Well I don't know, then."

"Which house is it?"

"Richmond is, like, right off of Kentucky..."

"I know where Richmond is. I'm sitting right on Richmond."

"Wait. I see you."

"You see me? Where are you at?"

"You need to back up." The only house behind me was 901, the first one on Richmond. I could see lights on at the top of 915. That was where I figured she was. A Reliable cab minivan had turned onto Richmond, coming towards me.

"You can see me?"

"Yeah. It says 'Taxi' on the top, and on the side. You need to back up." I backed up about a car length. "You're going the wrong way. You're in a van, right?"

"No, I'm in a blue car."

"Okay, you see that van, you need to back up and turn where it just did." The van just turned into 915, in front of me. "You need to back up and turn left." The van had turned right. This stupid fucking bitch was giving the directions backwards, not smart enough to realize that her left was my right.

I was pretty hot when I pulled into 915. She still took two or three minutes getting out. I was ready to leave when she showed up. She was still bitchy. Luckily, her boyfriend was alright. She got in and had forgot her purse. I had to wait for her to back and get it. I asked her boyfriend if she was going to be cool. He apologized for her.

She came back and I started towards her house, out off of Scott Boulevard. It's the same short street I took the last wheelchair to, and I told her I knew right where it was. That didn't stop her from giving me directions the whole way. It was the first time either of them had been in a taxi in Columbia.

After she had paid and tipped me $2, I told her, for future reference, that if she called for a cab at 1am, it would be an hour wait. And, it helped when people gave the right address. She was still bitchy. If you would like to call her from work or from a private number, her cell phone # is 573-819-6161.

My next call was at Hyde Park, just South of Nifong. I found the place and waited. There was a small pile of firewood outside of the door, with a bright red plastic 1 gallon gas can sitting on top of it. I assumed it was used for starting fires. Hack.

A chick came to the door and motioned for me to wait a second. Then a dude came out and got in about a 2000 model Escalade with 22" rims and motored off. After a minute or two the chick came out to the cab. She was about 30, with a bit of a week chin, which made her face look fatter than it really was. Her hairstyle was very Midwestern, and a few years behind, even by mid-Missouri standards. She had on a black leather jacket, a top scooped low showing off her cans, and jeans. She carried a pair of shoes with 3" heels in her hand as she scurried, barefoot, to the cab.

She got in and closed the door, exasperated. She apologized for taking so long. "Does that make me a bad person?" She sounded almost serious. I asked where she was going, and she fished in her pocket and in her purse for the address. She produced a couple of receipts, but no address. "I must have left inside. I'm sorry. Will you wait? Please don't leave." I told her not to worry about it but to be quick, like a bunny. She repeated that, and turned to get out of the car.

As she bent over I got a good view of her red string T-back thong. Where the strings intersected there was a sort of beaded pendant. This was comical to me, because it was visible not because she was wearing some fashionable low-rise jeans, but because her pants were falling off of her ass, like a plumber. She wasn't really fat, but she was one of those women with a stomach and no ass. Lacking in the pear-shaped department.

And, as far as the thong went, it underscored the vain attempt of a 30 year-old trying to dress like a 20 year-old in a college town. Plus, the thong was riding higher than it should have, and the pendant wasn't where it was supposed to be, like when the colors are misregistered on a print. And I got to see it about 10 times before I was done with her.

When she came back out she had an envelope in her hand, and she picked up the gas can from beside the door. I assumed it was empty. She got in the car with it. By the time I smelled the fumes I already had a headache. Geez. Why couldn't she have told me and I would have opened the trunk?

She said she had run out of gas downtown in her car. "So I just parked it in an alley and went to the Penguin, and got drunk." She also said that it was weird that she ran out of gas, because the gauge read a 1/4 tank. Oh boy. I imagine she has car problems and an impound fee by now. Good luck that jug of gas is going to do. I guess the guy in the Escalade had brought her home. Now she was trying to put in a booty call.

The writing on the envelope made no sense. She couldn't read it because she was drunk when she wrote it. "Does that make me a loser?" She gave me the general location, though, so I figured I could find it. I asked if she had a phone number she could call, just in case. I handed her my phone, but she was dialing the wrong digits. She said she had it on her caller ID. I had already started away from the house, but figured it might save me more time in the long run if we turned around and got it.

She went back inside and came back with the number. We headed out again. She tried to put on her shoe. She couldn't pull the strap over her heel. She put her shortish leg up on the dash, and struggled with it. The struggle with the shoe was as epic and futile to her as that boulder must have been to Sisyphus. Then the foot was in front of me, then in my lap. She rested it there for a second. I thought she was either giving up, asking for my assistance, or perhaps making a move. She apologized, and finally managed to get it on when I failed to offer any help. She hadn't had any luck getting anyone to answer the phone.

I would have never guessed it was going to be such a production to get going with her, and I felt kind of sorry for her, so I wasn't running wait time. We were a couple of miles away when she noticed the fare was about $7. "Oh, my. Is that how much it costs right now?"

"Yeah, it's going to be about $20, we're going all of the way across town." She said she was from a small town where you could get anywhere for $2 or $3. "Where are you from?"

"Kirksville." She had moved down here after her divorce. She had at least two kids. While she was in the house the third time, I had deciphered the directions. They had confused me, because, in addition to the scrawled handwriting, they were written from the bottom of the envelope to the top. I had read them backwards.

I got her to where the directions took me. She was looking for 16C. The apartments in that complex were numbered 101, 201, etc., with no letters whatsoever. And there were 6 different buildings. "Will you recognize this guy's car?" She thought so. She got out and went up to a couple of the buildings. Creeping like she was going to get in trouble, carrying her can of gas. I suggested we try the next batch of apartments.

She recognized his car. A crappy 2 door Mitsubishi with some dents. The building in front of it was marked 10. She got out to go look. She went down several steps and crept into the apartment building, with her can of gas. I decided to look at the names on the letter boxes, and walked down the grass bank, avoiding the stairs. I looked in the exterior door and she was standing talking to a very confused and creepy old dude with an Abe Lincoln beard. Great, she had knocked on the wrong door at 2:50am, with a can of gas, followed by a guy with a mohawk.

I was about to spring my mailbox idea on her when she said that that was the right apartment.

What the fuck? The guy lives with his parents? Fucking real classy.

I finally managed to get free of her. The fare had been $17.80, and she gave me a $20. There could have easily been another $15-$20 wait time on it. Oh well, what are you going to do?

So now it was right at 3am. Amazingly, dispatch hadn't radioed once during the whole fiasco. I called clear, but got no answer. I tried two more times before I made it to the QuikTrip gas station at Clark Lane. I stopped to use the bathroom.

I came back out, and still couldn't get anyone on the radio. I tried calling. No one answered. Weird. I pulled to the corner of the parking lot to think about it. I didn't have anywhere to go. No dispatch=no calls. I sat there for a minute, and a black 2-door Ford Explorer pulled in. There was a black guy in his 30s driving, wearing a stocking cap. He pulled right up to the cab and stopped. A 20something college student got out, fat, pink-faced, drunk, with no coat or hat, and walked directly to the cab. The black guy pulled off as soon as the kid got out of the Explorer.

He got into the cab. He smelled like booze, but didn't slur his speech or appear that drunk. Compared with what I deal with every night, he may have been a 3 on a 10 scale..

"Where we headed, buddy?"

"Oh, man. Where am I at?"

"This is the QuikTrip. Clark Lane. Highway 63 and 70." I thought he must have gotten turned around somehow.

"63 and 70?"

"Yeah. Exit 128A. Clark Lane?" It's a pretty well-known intersection in Columbia

"Oh, man. Just head over to 40."

"40?" I think some parts of 70 used to be 40, and I've seen the Business Loop listed as 40 on some old maps. "You mean, like, the Business Loop?"

"Just...well, how far are we from 94?"

"94?" Now I thought he must have broken down somewhere on the highway, and got picked up. "What city is that in? You know we're in Columbia, right?"

"I'm in Columbia? How'd I get in Columbia?"

"I sure as hell don't know, dude. Where did you start out at?"

"I was in St. Louis, player."

"When was that? What's the last thing you remember?"

"That was like, 6 o'clock."

"It's 3am, now. So...you got in a car...?"

"I guess."

"Did you drive?"

"I hope not. I don't know where my car is." He was also missing his coat, his keys, his cell phone, and his credit card. He did have his wallet and debit card. It turned out he was a student in Columbia, and had an apartment down South. He had gone home to St. Louis for the weekend. Since he didn't have his keys, he wanted to go to his brother's frat house, where he could go inside and sleep. I headed that way.

"So how did you hook up with the guy in the Explorer?"

"What guy?"

"The guy who dropped you off at the gas station? A black guy in an Explorer dropped you off?"

"I don't know, player. I was just walking. I was walking down the highway, for like an hour. No one would stop."

By the time I got him to the frat house, he couldn't remember where I picked him up at. I gave him a card, and wrote on it where and how I found him. When I turned on the dome light to write down his card info I noticed he had some tiny scratches all over his face. He leaned forward to look in the mirror, and I saw that they were on the back of his neck, too. "Looks like you went through some bushes, dude."

He tipped $2 on a $10 fare. When he got out I saw some grass stains on the back of his shirt.

Wow.

I was trying to figure that one out when Virginia sent me over to Hickman. It was Bob, 808, from Thursday night. I picked him up with a lady friend and took him to his house. I told him about my two previous fares along the way. I dropped him off and went to take the girl home. Virginia asked if I could grab some people at El Rancho who had been waiting for 2 hours.

They were actually at the apartments upstairs, and had missed their first cab, then kept getting forgotten. I had the chick move to the front seat, since there were supposed to be three of them. A guy came out carrying a wasted blonde chick. Great. Puker. The couple got in and the third guy took off on foot. The chick was laying with her head in dude's lap, so I put the fear of puke on the back burner. She was murmuring insensible stuff. The guy was polite and very lucid. He didn't complain about the wait or dropping off the other chick at all.

I finished the story I was telling the first girl, and dropped her off. Both she and Bob took good care of me on the financial front (thanks, guys). I started the meter for the couple from the girl's house, which saved them a couple of bucks. I ran them out South.

The dude was an Ultimate Fighter. He had fought at the Blue Note Saturday night. He said he was 6-0, with 5 knock-outs. He was disappointed to have won by submission that night. "Man, I tried like hell to knock that guy out. I was so pissed when he subbed out." His nose looked swollen from the fight.

After that I had one round trip on East campus. A guy taking his squeeze home, then returning to his own house. I made $5 or $6 on wait time as they kissed goodnight inside her door.

After that I had to pick up two other day drivers on my way in. I was in the car until after 5am. I worked my ass off, pulling $247 on the meter. That was the best on the night, minus Taxi Terry in the bus, but I was out longer than everyone else. After my $50 or so in tips, I did pretty good.

It's a lot easier to like this job now that I'm making a little money and driving decent cars. For a while there the blog was the only thing that made it even half-way bearable. I'm almost having fun. Now the hours are the only part I don't particularly care for.

I got up today at 3:30, feeling like crap. I went and paid my utilities bill and water bill. I also went and checked out that $300 cop car. It was missing the battery, had some bad body work done on it, appeared to have been sitting for at least a year, and the interior was pretty much ruined by stinky mildew. I decided to pass on it.

I got some lunch at Smokin' Chicks. At least I had a chick waitress this time. I got the fourth episode of Das Karnival and watched it. I also picked up the cheesiest get-well card I could find for Kirk Rundstrom. It has the classic kitten hanging from a branch. And--get this--when you open it up it says "hang in there!" Fucking priceless. If that doesn't make you feel better about your cancer I don't know what will.

Bob asked me when my party was going to be. Let me scare up some funds, first, and maybe we'll have reason to celebrate. Hopefully it will be warmer this week and I can fix Corpsy and finish that Eastside sign.

I'll see all you crackers later.

Ciao,
Garner

Kerry Wood is a Dumb Dick

Yo.

It's 3:25 Wednesday night/Thursday morning. I slept until about 5pm today. That's in the neighborhood of 11 hours. I had wanted to get up 'early' and fix Corpsy's fuel leak, but I've been feeling like I may be on the verge of a cold lately, so I used that as an excuse to sleep in. So Corpsy will have to continue dribbling 87 octane directly on the exhaust pipe.

I showered and went to Smokin' Chicks. Now, Smokin' is a relative term, and I know enough about advertising that I won't quibble if the chicks fall somewhat short of my notions of 'smokin'.' But, tonight, there wasn't a chick in the house. At the least, you should always have at least one 'chick' on duty, if you ask me. I'm not interested in eating at a place called 'Smokin' Dudes.' Tell me if I am being unreasonable here.

After that I went to go downtown. I got a call sometime when I was asleep saying that the Das Karnival DVDs I rented were overdue. But I turned them in last Tuesday evening. I was going to go get to the bottom of it, but went to the library instead.

There I snagged a mandolin song book, Bloodshot's original "For a Life of Sin," and two movies. I grabbed American Movie and Rex the Runt. I had seen American Movie innumerable times, but not in a few years. It's one that I used to make everyone I knew watch. I had also never seen it on DVD. This edition had a director's commentary and a few minor deleted scenes. As for Rex the Runt, I have no fucking clue what it is, but it looked like a UK version of Gumby or something. Claymation is pretty kick-ass, when it doesn't totally freak me out.

And, yes, I stopped by the Ultramart for some Pyramid Apricot Weizen. Bad habit. I also got some Gummisavors, but laid off of the drumsticks. Trust me, I'm in total control.

I cracked open a weizen and spun American Movie for Peat. I think he enjoyed it. I sure did.

A few beers deep I asked Peat if he could hook me up with a mohawk. I used to rely on my friend and neighbor, Jerod, but he has since moved, and keeps more standard hours. I had been waffling on the notion of a fresh 'hawk for a while. I quit blaming hair for making me look stupid, conceding, at long last, that I may do a good job of looking stupid with or without hair's help. I was torn on letting it grow out some, or maybe 'hawking it.

Mohawks are silly. I usually get sick of one in less than a week. People always ask if I'm gonna dye it pink. Where does that come from? And, I don't mind if chicks want to touch it, but it's a bit creepy when 35 year-old men want to cop a feel on my skull.

I probably wouldn't ever 'hawk my head if I could grow some real facial hair. Dudes that can grow convincing beards have a ton of options, and can change it up every few weeks. As for me, it takes a good 6 or 7 weeks to start showing some minor Kerry Wood dirtlip in a mirror under a fluorescent light. And to look like Kerry Wood is to look like a complete dick. Flesh-colored facial hair is no one's friend. On an unrelated note, the Birdos picked up one of the worst moustaches in the MLB this off-season, in the form of Jeff Nelson.

Anyhoo, I had been leaning away from the mohawk, and thought maybe I'd get the notion shot down by Phyllis and save me the trouble of making up my mind. I finally asked her yesterday (Tuesday). She was peeling off the old rate sticker from the dash in #1.

"Phyllis, would it be a big deal if I came to work with a mohawk? I don't really care too much, but I didn't want to come to work with one if it was going to be a problem."

"I don't care. As long as you're cut clean, I don't care." She didn't even have to think about it. It was like someone asked her if it was still raining outside or something else trivial.

So, that pretty much sealed it. It's almost like you have to exercise your right to have a mohawk if your employer doesn't give a shit. And, that created a bit of a buzz around the office, so I couldn't leave them hanging. I hate people who talk about what they're gonna do and don't do it.

So, yeah, I asked Peat if he could hook me up. He didn't feel like it and said he would do it tomorrow (Thursday) night, but I didn't think I would be around. And a mohawk is something you don't set up an appointment for. You just fucking do it. There's no tee time for bad haircuts.

That option shot, I dialed up A*1 Taxi. "Derek? This is Garner. You guys got Dan working tonight? Yeah. I need to rent him out for a 1/2 hour. Cool. Send him over. 2009 Juniper Drive, apartment A."

Dan showed up in about 15 minutes. I went outside and had him park in the driveway. I handed him a $50 and asked for $10 back. The 1/2 hour rental is $30. "Radio those crackers and tell them you're gonna help me move some furniture."

"I'll just call in route."

"Whatever works." He followed me to the door. "You're going to be cutting my hair. You ever cut a grown man's hair?"

"Yeah. I cut my own hair."

"Good. There's nothing gay about it." We were at the door. "You're not allergic to cats, are you?"

I blocked out the width of the mohawk, centering it, carving it out as far as I could. Dan swiftly squared it up down the back of my noggin. That barely took 10 minutes. I had him run me to the store to buy some new razor blades and some extra shave gel. When we were in the car Derek came over the radio. "What are you up to tonight, Garner." Dan handed me the mic.

"Oh, I'm just stepping out with 7 or 8 of my lady friends. I wanted to avoid the $1 extra per passenger, since there are so many of them, so I thought I'd just rent out a block of time."

While I had Dan tied up for the half-hour I drilled him on Das Karnival and got some more of his back-story.

I was weizen-less and tired. I thought I'd nap out for a couple of hours so I could get in blogger mode. I slept from 12am until 2am or so, and gave myself a rigorous field sobriety test. I passed and felt completely sober, so I motored Corpsy over to IHOP and got some food.

It is worth noting that in the director's commentary to American Movie they talked about how Mark Borchardt's car (about an '80 Mercury Zephyr) smelled like gas the entire time they were filming. It was bad enough to make the director vomit after riding with it on Mark's paper route. Mark also talked about liking the paper route because he didn't have to listen to a boss and could listen to the radio. Pleasant coincidences.

Cab.

Monday I had blogged until 8 or 9 in the am. I crashed out at about 10am and slept until I had to go to work. I hit the snooze button a few times, and, apparently, accidentally turned the alarm off. I woke up at 3:19. I was supposed to be at work at 3:45. I called and told them I was going to be late. Kelly joked that they couldn't have me coming in late. "So I'm fired, right? And I shouldn't bother coming in at all? That's good, I'll just stay home then."

I got to work at 4:05. I hadn't eaten. I was tired. My back was stiff from my hunched-over blogging posture. Phyllis told me they were going to train me to do wheelchairs.

Great. Well, this has mixed implications. I had wanted to avoid wheelchairs, simply because I didn't want to have to drive a giant van all night. Someone is usually in #15, the giant Dodge van I used that one night a few weeks ago, every Friday and Saturday night. But, on Monday and Tuesday nights, there are only 2 or 3 wheelchair runs to do, so Phyllis has the driver take out a regular car and then swing in to pick up the van just for the wheelchair run. This takes less gas and is easier on the driver. The big van is noisy, harder to navigate in tight spaces, and not easily recognizable by drunks as their ride.

On a busy Friday or Saturday, it's not practical for the driver to swap cars for a couple of runs, but, Taxi Terry is always out in his 28 passenger bus, and he does the 2-3 wheelchairs on those nights. So, hopefully, I will only have to do wheelchairs on Mondays and Tuesdays. They are usually early enough that the turn-around with the cars isn't that big of a deal, since calls are less frequent. And, though they're usually charges, the minimum for a wheelchair run is $20, so even if it takes me 45 minutes I haven't really lost any money, since I would have to run about 3 calls for the same money, which are usually $6.84 group home charges on Monday and Tuesday evenings.

I think the big impetus was that Kelly the dispatcher was getting stuck doing one regular wheelchair run on Monday evenings. This caused her to have to stay late, which she was tired of doing. So, for my first call Monday, Kelly accompanied me in #15 to train me (remember the whole legless lady fiasco?).

We went to Rusk Rehab to pick up the regular customer. He's in his early 20s, and was paralyzed sometime in the past year or so (I'm guessing) in a car wreck. He had been driving a moving van for the company he worked for when a front tire blew out and he crossed the median, getting struck by an oncoming 18 wheeler. He is paralyzed from the waist-down, apparently, with what appears to be limited use of his fingers. He can hold a pen and scrawl lines for his signature, but that seems to be the current extent of his dexterity.

He can get around good on his own in the chair, though. He has a bitchin' titanium unit. He wheeled himself up on the ramp and from the ramp into the van. I strapped him in, under Kelly's watchful gaze and instruction. It seemed about as awkward for him as it did me. I was pretty sure he was still getting used to being paralyzed.

On the way over, Kelly had told me about him and his accident. As I was on my knees, securing the straps to the front of the chair, Kelly asked him "so, is your girlfriend going to move down here from Kansas City to stay with you?"

"It's awkward being with someone in a wheelchair. At least that's what she told me. We're not together anymore." He didn't try to disguise his true feelings. It was February 13. Nice work, Kelly.

After that run, I got put into a car. It was #6, the Rachel Hunter aging-supermodel car. Nice. My first call was to pick up a prescription at Walgreens and take it to Columbia Health Care. I picked up the meds and jumped in the Crown Vic. I was motoring over to Keene Street, and thought I would try to catch my buddy Brandon (in Fayetteville) on the phone. I didn't expect to get him, since it was 6:10 and I usually try to catch him before he leaves work.

I told him that Split Lip was down, that Kirk Rundstrom had esophogeal cancer. That was bad news. The good news, though, was that he and his wife had their first child on Saturday. I'm not good with dates and hadn't realized that we were two weeks into February. Damn.

We had a bad connection, and dispatch came over the radio, so I had to let him go before I got any details, like the little girl's name. That's when I realized I was headed to Towne Drive, not Keene Street. Double damn.

I straightened it out, and found Columbia Health Care. It's a nursing home. I went in, but didn't see anyone who looked like staff, just assorted old people. I asked the least invalid looking person I saw where I could find some staff. Of course he was half-deaf, and started yelling at me. He didn't have any teeth and his mouth puckered like you-know-what. An asshole, in case you didn't know.

Anyhoo, he was helpful enough to lead me to a nurse's station. He yelled at all of the old people we passed in the hallway. "Beep, beep! Move over! Get out of the way." I left the prescription with the nurse, who was very gracious. I was walking away when she thanked the old guy for showing me to her. I heard clearly, though, because she had to yell it at him. I turned and tried to thank him, too, but I doubt he heard me enough to understand.

Wow. Nursing homes. There's a good time. There were a number of old people, waiting to die, pulling themselves slowly down the hall with their feet, in wheelchairs. There was one old woman in a chair made out of PVC piping. That was weird. "Gramma, Gramma! Look what I made you in shop class!" As I was on my way out I passed what looked like the dining room. It didn't register until I had passed the door, but there was music playing. I was at the foyer when I realized it was the Black Eyed Peas. The old people are listening to the junk-in-the-trunk song? I couldn't believe my ears, and turned to go back to confirm it, for blogging purposes.

I stopped midstride, though, and looked at the hallway full of invalids I'd have to negotiate through. It was like one of those zombie movies or video games, and I was returning to try to save someone. I couldn't risk my own life to try to save theirs. I was lucky to have made it that far unscathed. Fuck it, they were probably already dead anyway. I'll tip my next weizen to them.

My next call was a group home charge. It was only the second time I'd hauled the guy. His name is Robert. His signature, printed, read: 'r o o r E t.'

After that I had a call at Aldis. Yup, it was Congestive Heart Failure Lady, from earlier posts. From Aldis to her house is only $3.05 on the meter, but she tipped me $5 for loading and unloading her groceries. We didn't have long to chat.

From there I headed out to the Columbia Mall. I pick up a number of international students there, returning to campus. Usually Indians or Asian girls, shopping for the must-have accessories for this season. As I pulled up I spied an Asian girl, standing near a weird-looking non-collegiate dude. He had a nasty rock-n-roll goatee. The girl got in front, and the dude got in back. They didn't appear like they were together, and the girl didn't appear to know much English.

I asked if they were together, and didn't get a very firm answer. I told them I'd run it as one fare, plus $1 for the second passenger. I told them they could split it up any way they cared to.

The chick said she was going to the "University of Missouri--campus?" I asked which hall, Stafford. The dude said he wanted out at the McDonald's on campus. I told him I'd drop him off first, at Lowry Mall, and then take her to her dorm (just in case he was weird stalker of some sort). He said that was fine, but then decided to get out at Office Depot, instead. I took $6 off of him, guestimating the fare to run about $12 by the time I got the lady home. Apparently they had both been waiting for the city bus, and realized they had missed the last one, and decided to split a cab.

I dropped her off, and collected the remaining $7.

After that I was sent to pick up Miss Jean. She was at the Olive Garden. She had that exasperated look on her face, the one she has when she's drunk. I knew what was coming. "Good evening, Miss Jean!"

"Well, I don't see what's so good about it."

"Have you been waiting long?"

"Only about an hour and a half." It hadn't been an hour and a half since she was picked up from her retirement home.

"My, that is a long wait. I don't know what they're doing there at dispatch. I just got the call."

"Oh, well it's not your fault. But I'm going to have to call Phyllis tomorrow." She was really tipsy. I took extra precaution to keep her from falling. I got her home and radioed dispatch. I told Derek that she claimed to have been waiting 1.5 hours.

"Was that the case?"

"No. Not at all."

"Yeah, she was pretty drunk tonight."

Then I had to go back and get the wheelchair van. I left my mandolin and street guide book in #6. I was picking up the legless lady--the one who had fallen out of her chair with another driver--from dialysis. I was reminded to be extra careful, and that she was pretty gun-shy about riding with us. Well, no shit, she is.

I guess I was early, and couldn't get in the building. The doors were locked. I radioed dispatch to see if he could call for me, but he didn't know the number. After several minutes, I saw them wheeling her out from the back. The nurse or whatever was wearing one of those giant plastic face shields. Have we got a spitter here?

She wheeled the woman out to me. I already had the ramp down on the van. "Hello, Clara. I know you've had a couple of rough rides with us, but I'm going to take good care to make sure that doesn't happen again." I got her in the van and strapped down without incident.

For those of you who have never messed with people in wheelchairs, you tend to forget that when you let go of them (on relatively flat ground), they'll try to roll away from you. It's hard to appear professional in that situation. Gotta remember to set those brakes.

I got her home and asked her to sign my charge slip. "My daughter will have to do it for me--I've got a stroke in my right arm."

legs--MIA
kidneys--non-functioning
diabetes? yes
stroke--at least 1

Damn, this woman is hard to kill.

I grabbed Roberta at the workshop. I was a few minutes late, and she was waiting outside when I pulled in. She came to the car, carrying a good-sized red Valentine's bear and a heart-shaped box of chocolates.

"It looks like you're someone's Valentine."

"Yeah. A girl I work with give me this bear. I guess she likes me and all that. As a friend, you know." Of course. I wouldn't think anything untoward of you, Roberta.

From there dispatch sent me to Booches. He said someone requested me.

I was sure it was a comoer. My groveling in my last post had worked. People were commenting on the blog, and someone was kind enough to start a thread urging people to "show our beloved taxi blogger some love you assholes." Thank you, Redneck, for this mostly unsolicited sentiment. I was already embarrassed that I had stooped so low for feedback, and now someone apparently felt compelled to take the cab to salve my feelings. "Awe, shucks, guys, you shouldn't have."

I pulled up to Booches, and Bert from Witch's Hat came out, with his roommate, Derek or Dereck. How do people spell that, anyway?

This is going to read like sappy romance novel fodder, but I recognized Bert from the web site and the Vox article on them a while ago. I had done my research because Bert, as CapnCharisma, had commented on the blog a number of times at comomusic. I had also just seen the Das Karnival episode featuring Witch's Hat.

Bert told me they were headed to Melbourne, and asked me if I knew where it was. "It's off of Walnut, east of College?"

Bert was impressed that I knew my streets so well. I told him that it was because I had just looked it up in my street guide when I got the call, ruining a bit of the mystique. We talked about the band, upcoming shows, the Das Karnival stuff. He was a little disappointed that I was in such a nice car, #6, since he had read so many of my previous complaints about #10 and others. He also showed me the very porch he elbow-dropped the pumpkin off of for the video. It was a good time, and I look forward to having my face rock-melted off tomorrow night at Shattered.

After that I picked up a couple at Stadium Apartments and took them to Quintons. The chick sat in front so she could do her makeup in the visor mirror. But, police cruisers are not so-equipped. I told her she could use my rear view mirror, and turned it in her direction. "Really?"

"Sure, I don't need to see what's behind me." But, the lighting was poor, and she decided to wait until she got to the bar. She asked how the mascara she had applied looked, but I couldn't tell because of the shadows. I got the standard "Columbia Cab Confessions" line out of them. He-he.

Next I picked up the cracker lady from Paris Road and took her to work at Wal-Mart.

From there I had a business traveler from the Residence Inn going to Stephanies Cabaret. He already smelled of gin or something, and stopped for what must have been a half-pint, since it disappeared into a pocket somewhere. I'm supposed to get $2 from Stephanies and $5 from Club Vogue for bringing people in, but I've never collected on it. $2 isn't really worth it for me to get out of my cab and go inside. I'm not really into taking money from cheesedick strip clubs.

I had a call at the Phillips 66 at the corner of Rangeline and the Business Loop. The guy didn't smell overly offensive, but did smell like he had lived in his van for five months. Which is what he told me. He was driving on a revoked license when a cop addled up to him at the stoplight. He had already been busted for driving on a revoked license twice, and the third time is a felony in Missouri.

He pulled into the gas station, and the cop went across the Loop and parked at the pawn shop, where it still sat, with all of the lights off. The guy was taking the cab down to the VA hospital, where he was in a 'treatment program.' He was pretty freaked out, worried that his van would get towed or broken into. "Everything I've got is in that van." He had also left all of his medication in it, including his anti-anxiety meds, which he could have used.

He said he only had $5, and would get out when that ran up. I knew it was $7.05 to the VA hospital, because I have a regular that lives right by the gas station who works there. The fare was $5.05 at Hitt and University, but I went ahead and dropped him off at the VA.

From there I was dispatched to the Rack and Roll, on the South side of town. It is in the same building as Sophia's, where the girl works. She said she would go to the pool hall to have a few beers after work and wait for her cab, because Sophias didn't want employees at the bar in their work clothes. She smelled like garlic and olive oil. She was the same girl whose roommate owns my old Isuzu Trooper.

Then I had a call on Troyer, off of Green Meadows. I pulled up and waited. The door opened, and a drunk guy appeared, talking to a chick who was stacked. She was bigger than him. Apparently, they had just broken up. She stood firm in the doorway while he groveled on the porch, a step lower, further exaggerating his disproportion to her. She was unmoved. He took her hand and was pleading for something. She kissed his hand, pushed it back, and closed the door. He came to the cab.

He was in a bit of a huff, but drunk and mad enough to not talk about it. He was going out past the Midway Exit off of I70, a $30 cab ride. Sweet.

He promised to tip well. I didn't understand much of what he said. He was slid down in the seat, almost talking to himself. He said "I won't fuck with you, and you won't fuck with me."

"Whatever, man, I'm just taking you home." Then he said something about fuck that chick and fuck his other ex, too, or something, and that this wasn't the first cab ride he had taken home. He said something about $26.80."

"Yeah, that sounds about right." I think he wanted me to turn off the meter or something. I told him I was going to take Providence, if he didn't care. "It might cost, like, $.50 more, but it'll be a lot faster." He said something about not caring about the money.

He didn't have much to say on the way out there. When I hit the off ramp I asked which way we were going. "You don't know where Wehmeier is?"

"Dude, I never get out this way." He told me where to turn at the appropriate times.

I took a right, as his command, on the only road in sight. After I turned he said something about "you just killed" something. I slowed up.

"Did I take a wrong turn?"

"No, just go. Keep going." Then I heard him say 'killed' again.

"What--I killed you, or I killed myself?" I didn't really understand his response. I think he was talking about the road being dangerous, with bad corners. We were in the middle of nowhere. The fare was closing in on $30. The ride on the highway was quick. I told him I would charge him for a half-hour rental if the meter went over $30, because we had to be close.

We were driving and he said something prickish. Again, unphased, I said I'd get him there. "Well good. Just shut up, then." I laughed and he said something or other. "I'm kind of ruthless, I'm kind of mean."

We turned on a fresh chat driveway that climbed a hill up into a field. There was a big, brand new house and a huge shop building off to the side. There were two or three newer cars in on the concrete driveway. I pulled up and stopped.

The meter read $31.80. He said something about it $26.80. I told him the fare was $30. He handed me a $20, some money still in his hands. "I owe you $40, right?" I think he had promised $40 up front, saying that the fare would be $26.80, but I could write down whatever and keep the rest in tip.

"The fare was $30. You owe me $10."

"No, I owe you $40." He handed me two more $20s.

"Okay, that's $60. The fare was $30. You want some change back?"

"No. You keep it. You know, I don't even care about the money. Here. I've got some $1s. You want those?"

I laughed. "Dude, money's money. I'll certainly take it if you're giving it away."

"Here. Here's some more. You take it." He handed me two $1s. He got out, and checked for his phone. Before he closed the door he said "You stay on this gravel. If you get off the gravel, and leave a mark, I'll kick your ass." The yard was bare dirt, turned to mud. It's not like I wanted to get my car stuck way the fuck out in the boonies. No problem, dude.

I laughed most of the way back to town, with my $32 tip.

I was still shaking my head when I got back and had a call on Red Oak. I was looking for the number when I saw a guy walking in the street, close to the address. I guess he was waiting outside.

It's a decent neighborhood. He was wearing khakis and a black leather jacket. Young guy, white, mid twenties. He got in, and was drunk. He was complaining that he had just broken his hand. He had just found out that his wife had been nailing his best friend, and was leaving him for the other guy. It further insulted him that this friend was a black man. He said he had punched and broken three of the globes on his ceiling fan, and thrown a bucket of KFC and mashed potatoes and gravy all over the place. Chik-kin'.

He was going to Club Vogue. He had $20 on him. The fare would be $14.80 or so. He called his friend, the owner of the club, and asked him if he could borrow some cash. To give to the girls. At the strip club. I dropped him off at the Thirsty Turtle and skeedaddled.

My last call was going to Huntridge. I picked him up at Harpos after 3am, so I figured it was a manager or the owner. He had me stop to get some papers at the Hitt Street Market. He said he wanted to see what they had to say about "us." I thought he was using the editorial 'we' in reference to the MU Tigers basketball program, as the big story was still Quin Snyder's resignation.

I didn't realize until the next day, though, that this was the owner of Harpos, and he had wanted to get the papers to read what they were saying about him kicking out the Tiger Talk and Mike Alden shows.

So that was Monday night.

Tuesday night: Valentine's Day.

And what could be more fitting for me on Valentine's Day? I got to spend it with my sweetie, my good gal #10. Yup, that worn out bitch I'm saddled to and can't get rid of. Once I loved her, but I've since seen greener pastures and want to move on, but can't. Such is life.

But at least one person still loves #10, and that's Miss Jean. The big Town Car has a longer wheelbase, allowing for a wider rear door opening than the Crown Vics. This makes it easier for her to get out of it. She has to turn sideways in the seat, pulling herself with her upper body, then 'will' her feet out. This is work enough in #10, even worse in the Crown Vics. She always lights up when she sees it. "Oh, you've got car 10. It's my fav-or-ite car," in her warbly old lady voice.

So, I ran Miss Jean to the Pasta Factory, and escorted her in. Standard fair.

Then I had to do a wheelchair. I picked up #15 and drove it to the Med Center.

The legless woman from dialysis had been a shocker. Well, this woman from the Med Center had one-upped Clara, she didn't have so much as a pelvis.

Yeah, this woman was a torso with arms and a head. That sounds horrible to write, but thems the facts. The weirdest part of it was how absolutely normal she was save for that fact. She was a very average looking 40 year old woman, with no other impairment. She had no tubes, bags, or devices attached to her. She was wearing a blue long-sleeved button-down chamois shirt.

I had to take her home, trade her chairs (she was in a hospital chair) and bring back the loaner. First off, the wheel chair was equipped with a giant sissy bar, from which IVs and such could be hung. There was no way it would fit in the van, and they had no other chairs handy. I suggested I could take the sissy bar off. The nurse looked at it and said we'd need an allen wrench. I looked at it myself, and it was only held on with two Phillips-head screws.

Have no fear, ladies. Out came the Wenger Swiss Army Handyman knife. Note that in place of the traditional corkscrew resides a Phillips screwdriver. You bet your sweet ass it does.

So, I removed the sissy bar, threaded the screws back in it (so I wouldn't lose them) and took it with me. I loaded up the woman in her chair. When I got her in the van she said I could just park her behind the driver's seat, since we weren't going very far. I assured her that we needed to strap her in, which I did.

I dropped her off, and returned with the chair, reassembling the sissy bar.

From the hospital I was dispatched to Quintons. It was a blue collar guy, heading to Hoot-N-Anny's with a stopover at his apartment. He worked at a florist's downtown and had been putting in some mean overtime for the Valentine's Day buildup. He had grabbed a couple of beers before calling the cab. I got there early, and he had to leave half a tall girl.

He had just been divorced, and was complaining about how hard he got hit with child support payments. He had been in the process of moving, and hadn't been able to move his clothes. He had bought new clothes to work in since he had ran out of clean stuff. We stopped by his apartment and he picked up his brother's girlfriend (his new roommate). He hadn't intended to, but said she looked pretty pathetic sitting alone on the couch, watching TV on valentines day. He warned me that she was 'pretty goofy' before she made it to the van. The guy had been a cab driver in Columbia for several years, and tipped me $3 on a $9.05 fare.

Then I had another wheelchair. This woman was just a regular old paraplegic, with all of her limbs intact. She was anxious to get away from the hospital. When I got her home I had to wait for her roommate's boyfriend to move a love seat out of the living room and assemble a queen sized bed in its place, as well as kennel some barking dogs. The manual wheelchair didn't want to make the turn around the stairs. To avoid moving a fishtank I rolled the chair up and over the corner of the bottom step, being careful not to jostle or dump her. She tipped me $2 cash on top of the fare, which was a charge.

After that, I headed back in and picked up #10 again. I grabbed the regular from the VA hospital. He was talking about a date he had coming up with a young lady from the hospital. He complained that she showed too much of her gums when she smiled. Ah, Mrs. Ed syndrome.

My next call was to an address where I had picked up the Club Vogue chick that tipped me $9. I was eager to haul her ass again, but got her boyfriend instead. Damn the luck. I took him round-trip to the IGA liquor store (for a bottle of Valentine's Day champagne) and Shakey's Frozen Custard. He tipped me $10 on a $23 fare. Nice.

Next I had the regular who goes to work nights at the nursing home. We talked about break-ups and not getting your shit back. Okay, I talked about break-ups and not getting my shit back.

Then I had my deaf-mute regular.

Next I had my Jerry's-Kids-crutches-girl-who-bitches-about-her-college-classes-nonstop regular.

From there, it was around the corner to my Casey's regular.

All that regularity was broken up with a call from Mirtle Grove. I pulled up to the college duplex, and could see a silhouette moving in front of the Venetian blinds. I beeped the horn but no one came out. I couldn't make out the movements of the silhouette. They were at times jerky and erratic. Almost like someone playing ping-pong.

I wasn't getting anyone, so I went up and rang the door bell. The door opened almost instantly. There was a ping-pong table in the living room. Good work.

A pleasingly plump coed with a Paris Hilton skirt on toddled down the driveway. She was on some slip-on heels, and I watched to see if she was going to fall. She had been drinking, some.

It was a text-message ride. You get those with single girls all of the time. As soon as they leave they start texting different people. She tipped $4 when I got her back to her dorm.

At midnight I picked up at the DeJa Vu. I usually only get drunk fat chicks out of there, but this time I got a dude. I pulled up to some people loading sound equipment into the back of an Envoy. A rental. I saw a guitar case. One guy was checking out, and it looked like the other two were going to scope the bar scene.

I took the one guy, with a boom staff in a case, to the Stoney Creek Inn. He was this guy. He does a lot of stuff for Comedy Central's web site, and was filming some behind-the-scenes stuff, following the comedians on tour. He was plenty modest when I asked him what he did. "I work for a cable television network. It's called Comedy Central..." I told him I was very well aware of it.

I wrote him a receipt for the fare. He told me it was nice meeting me. I told him I might be writing for him some day. "Oh, you do some writing? Comedy stuff?" I told him not really, and mentioned the blog, writing down the address for him. He said he was into blogs, and would check it out.

Then I was dispatched to the Travelodge. It was an OTR truck driver, going to Yellow Freight, out off of the Centralia exit. $22+ fare. He was a black man, from St. Louis. He said he normally did turns and was home every night, but his truck had a flat and he lost 5 hours waiting to get it fixed. Those 5 hours still count toward the maximum you can drive in one day, so he ran out of hours and couldn't drive back home yesterday. He commented on the Lincoln, saying that he had just recently sold an '85 that he had purchased new. He had a daughter who went to MU. He was carrying his CB rig. His handle was 'Disco' and he had it in red vinyl letters on his set-up.

Sometime after 1am I finally got my first Valentine's Day couple. They were coming out of the Forge and Vine, a good place for tips. The guy owns a local bar, one which Taxi Terry has a death grip on. T2 gets all of the calls out of there Thursday through Saturday. I impressed the dude well enough, and he said they would give me the hook-up on Mondays and Tuesdays. We'll see if it pans out, but that could give me a significant boost on those days, which are typically slower than Friday and Saturday. A lot of money comes out of that bar, too, and it wouldn't hurt to set up a little clientele of my own. T2 has that shit on lock down, and almost always beats the shit out of everyone on fares when he works.

Next I had a call at Willies. I pulled up, and stopped in the street. I turned on my flashers. The people were slow in coming, especially since it was 1:30 and the bar was chasing everyone out. I started getting pissed. Dispatch called and said they were supposed to be right out. I had waited long enough for my blood to boil when the chick finally came up to the cab. She had her hand on the door handle, still talking to her friends who were getting into a parked car right beside me. They had been standing there for 2 or 3 minutes while I was waiting, but I didn't realize it was them, for sure, until she went to get into the cab.

Then the bitch just stood there, her hand on the door handle, while she continued to chat with her friends, never acknowledging me. The girl she was talking two glanced from her face down to mine at least 3 times, with a "gee-your-cab-driver-is-getting-homicidally-angry-maybe-you should-get-in-already" face, carefully avoiding eye contact. Likewise, the driver of the other car was looking at me. Then CPD pulled up and stopped behind me.

That fucking bitch still kept talking. I was Superfly TNT. Now I've waited 6-8 minutes, during mealtime, there's a cop riding my ass, and this bitch has never even fucking acknowledged me. Then she went to get in the other car with her friends. That fucking bitch. I could have killed her. CPD lit me up, and I drove off. I was so fucking pissed.

I was still broiling when I pulled around to Quintons. Someone gestured to me, and I pulled to the side. A couple got in. My second Valentines couple.

They were drunk, and had just hooked up "five seconds" before I came, after an evening of near misses. I guess they kind of knew each other from before, through friends, or something. They were in good spirits. Those "I'm about to get laid" spirits. God bless them.

I asked if it was just the two of them, and they realized for the first time that their friends weren't in tow. It was a pleasant realization, though, since they could make out and not feel guilty for hooking up. They asked what my name was.

"Garner." They both cheered.

"No way! We requested you! Look, I've got your card right here." He was holding my business card. "They told us you were tied up." The cancellation.

I didn't recognize him, since he had a fairly generic college guy look to him (they all wear the same stuff and there are like 3 haircuts), and I rarely look at anyone that closely, since they are in the back and I am driving, especially with groups. I asked how he got the card. He said I drove him a few nights before.

"Chas?" I was right. That scored big points. I remembered him because he tipped me $13 cash after paying the $12.05 fare with his mother's credit card, which she had given him for the sole purpose of taking cabs home and not driving drunk. I hadn't recognized him because he had had several days' scruff the last time, and he was clean shaven this time.

I asked where we were headed and the chick said Southampton. Now, I go to Southampton 5 or 6 times a week, and know exactly where it is. For some reason, though, I confused it with Northampton. I asked them a question to clarify, but the answer got garbled somehow. Northampton isn't that far away from Southampton, time-wise. They got busy making out in the back and didn't notice me veering off course.

It was a minor mishap, and, save for my embarrassment, I corrected for it quickly enough, and adjusted the fare appropriately. I apologized, and Chas said not to worry, that I was "giving them more time to fall in love." I got them to her house. She said she had to be teaching elementary school children how to read at 9:30am. Chas tipped me $10. Good guy, that Chas.

That made me very grateful that that fucking bitch at Willies didn't get in the cab. I built a good repeat customer (the kind with unlimited cab funds and propensity to tip with mom's money, who goes out a lot) and got a nice $10 tip. Some days its good to be cab driver.

From there I had to get gas. One of the many shitty things about #10 is the gas gauge. It reads full all the way up until about an 1/8th of a tank, at which point the needle swan-dives. The low fuel light comes on and I don't trust it. Running out of gas would be very bad. I would normally fill it up around 10 or 11pm, and be good through bar rush. But, I got spoiled on cars with working gas gauges, and forgot #10s tricks. Head games.

It caught me during bar rush a couple of weeks ago, and I have been filling it up earlier since then. But, I hadn't driven it for 2 or 3 hours when I was in the van, so I figured it would get me through bar rush. Well, I guess full didn't mean full, as in the day driver hadn't topped off.

It was already nearing 2am, though, so I figured downtown was pretty-well cleaned out, considering how slow it had been. Thus, most incoming calls would be from houses, where fares wouldn't get sniped from rival cabs, the way they do from bars. So, they could wait while I fueled up.

When I got out of the cab at the gas station, I spied an errant valentine on the ground. It had been ran over and had many tiny dimples in it from being pressed into the concrete, though it was clean and intact. I picked it up and read it. It was one of those prepackaged elementary school types, and had been made out to a Laurie from a Cindhersomething-or-other-Indian-sounding. The name was so long it didn't fit neatly in the Anglo space and wrapped around the edge of the valentine, in a child's handwriting. I put it with my clipboard and drove away.

My next call was in a decent, older neighborhood off of Sunset. I had been fighting #10s radio all night, and was having trouble getting the house number from dispatch. The street was a dead-end, though, and only one house had a light on, and there were no cars in the driveway. I pulled up and the door promptly opened. I chick stepped out and was receiving a bland farewell from the dude in the house. I saw him take out his wallet and hand her some cash.

Whenever a dude sends a chick away in a cab, and pays for it, the chick's usually pissed off and tip me better, trying to spend all of the dude's money. And the guy usually gives at least a $20, since he doesn't want her coming back and the yuppie-food-stamp is about all that anyone carries these days (thanks, ATM). It's not a scenario I see every night, but it is one with a clear precedent.

She was nice looking, though perhaps a bit on the Amazon side. Maybe 5'10 or better. Sturdy, fit. Neatly dressed. She got in the front seat. She was a bit exasperated by this whole VD thing. Valentine's Day, that is.

After asking me my name, the first thing she said was, "Garner, do you have a girlfriend." I told her I didn't she said she didn't have a boyfriend. Then she started mildly complaining about how trite Valentine's Day was--stock stuff, really.

"Well, can I give you this, then?" I handed her the wayward valentine I picked up at the gas station. She laughed out loud. She read it, and looked at the name. She laughed outrageously.

"My name is Laura." Close enough, I guess, given the situation.

"Well, Laura, you can rest assured that some little Indian boy out there thinks you are special."

"Oh, I'm going to keep this," she said, filing it away in her purse.

She tried to talk about being single, and being depressed about it. I told her the story about the kid in the wheelchair, and his girlfriend breaking up with him. And the two women in wheelchairs I had hauled earlier in the evening. And at least my prospective dating pool was larger than some. It was spiraling pretty quickly. I meant it to be a 'look on the bright side' kind of thing, but I almost made her cry, she thought it was so sad.

On the way to the East Campus address she gave me, she phone to make sure the guy was home. I guess he was already asleep or something, but didn't mind if she came over. After that conversation, she dialed up someone else, who had definitely been asleep. She looked at her phone, and spoke, without looking at me.

"Yeah, I'm talking to two guys at the same time." I cut her off.

"There's nothing wrong with that. You need to set you up a stable. Have one guy buying you dinner tonight, another guy paying your car insurance tomorrow. It's a skill. Use it. Pull their strings. Make 'em act like jackasses--oh,oh--you know what's awesome, make 'em fight over you."

I pulled up in front of the apartment building. The fare was $9.55. She said 'thanks' and handed me a $20.

"You need any change back?"

"No. I don't. Have a good night. Unless things don't go well here, then I may be calling you back for that $10. " I gave her a card and told her we ran 24 hours. As she got out I noticed a small blue tattoo, smaller than a quarter, on her right flank.

If you're keeping score at home, that's back-to-back $10 tips. Biotch.

It was after 2am. I drove past El Rancho, and it was closed. I decided to check out the strip club. It was closed, too. Dispatch radioed with a call. From El Rancho. I ran back and picked up a white guy with long hair and glasses like mine. He gave me the address, and said it was close, but he was too lazy to walk. It was a couple of miles. I told him about some of the 4-7 mile walks I used to routinely make home, drunk. He was impressed.

My last call was two college girls, shuttling from a friend's house home. They were pretty cool. I joked that they should get the survivor award for being the last ones up after a night of drinking. They tipped $4.

All in all, I had a couple more good nights. The $32 tip was a big help Monday night. I think I did $205 Monday and $215 Tuesday, with $50+ in tips. That's a take-home of about $130.

Here it is, 9:18 Thursday morning. So, it looks like you're getting your update early, for a change. And it covers the standard two days; I'm not pulling up short this time. This is your reward for treating me so kindly with positive comments. And it's not even my birthday.

I'll Fuck Your Couch, Hot Sauce.

Yo.

Today/tonight is Sunday. I slept until 6:30pm. I took a shower, and went to Smokin' Chicks. I grabbed an issue of Inside Columbia and looked for an article by John Littel. I ate a turkey sandwich and fries. My waitress was the girl I talked to about ducks when I had pink eye. I stared at her breasts (when she wasn't looking). I tried to imagine what they might be like. I imagined they were nice.

Then I went downtown. I was jamming out to a new 9 Pound Hammer CD I bought Saturday. I didn't realize Blaine Cartwright had been in that band. He was the frontman for Nashville Pussy, and had a cameo in Run, Ronnie, Run! There's some Georgia link with all those cats, as 9 Pound Hammer also does the theme song for 12 Oz. Mouse on Adult Swim. Need I point out that the mouse is a cab driver?

I rented three episodes of Das Karnival at 9Th Street Video. Sure, I'm a bit behind the times. I grabbed the episode with Witch's Hat, the one with Someone Still Loves You, Boris Yeltsin, and the one with Bald Eagle. I watched all three, accompanied by a sixer of Pyramid Apricot Weizen, to smooth over any technical glitches.

Well, what do you know? New Guy Dan, the fresh-faced cab driver, just happens to be Dan Gemkow, as in the Dan Gemkow behind Das Karnival.

How's that for coincidence?

I found this odd, and finished all six of the Weizens contemplating the significance. This made me nappy, and I crashed out for a couple of hours. It is now 3:05 as I come at you fresh. I also think I just set a record for most links in my opening paragraphs.

Although I am a couple of days behind on the blog, I'm going to hit you with this past weekend first. Otherwise, I'm afraid I'll be perpetually a week behind, and details will just get fuzzier and fuzzier. I will at least try to bring you the high points (read: trannies) from the days that I have missed, as I get caught up. So deal with it.

Friday: I drug my ass out of bed and couldn't get going. I checked up on como and the blog (comments and feed back have been slow in coming) and got dressed. I had about 15 minutes to eat at Wendy's and get to work. As I got out of Corpsy at Wendy's, I felt for my wallet, out of habit. I didn't have it. Motherfucker.

That's about two times in my adult life I have forgotten my wallet. I also never lose my car keys. Either way, I didn't have it, and had to drive back home to retrieve it. The round trip cost me my lunch, and I still got to work 5 minutes late.

I wasn't too worried, since it had taken 2.5 hours to get in a cab the last Friday. I was surprised to see so many other drivers there, sitting, waiting. That's when I remembered seeing a note on the dry-erase board that there was a driver's meeting scheduled for 3:45 Friday. This would be the first such meeting in my 3 months' tenure.

Everyone got there and Phyllis passed out some freshly minted pamphlets. They were 8.5 x 11" paper with light blue stock for a cover, folded once and stapled. On the cover in 10 point type it said "Welcome to A*1 Taxi. Driver's Handbook." There may have been 3 sheets in it, for a total of 12 pages or so. It had a number of typos, misspellings, and usage errors. And, there was little news in it.

It outlined all of the basic policies, such as uniforms and radio usage. I didn't learn much. I guess it was still progress. I had to restrain myself from giggling at times during the meeting. One thing I did learn was that A*1 scored a contract with Midwest Transplant. Yup, how do you think those precious organs are going to find their ways to your operating table? Greyhound? Well think again, motherfucker, and think right this time.

So, yeah, our motley crew will be responsible for transporting surgeons and organs from the airport to the hospital. I guess we're supposed to drive right up to the planes on the runways and wait as long as it takes for them to land. Puts #10 in a whole new light: lifesaver.

And, speaking of #10, I was spared driving the sad bitch Friday, in favor of #7. If you'll remember, #7 is about our nicest car. There is something wrong with the steering pump, though, so there's not much power assist. And, the switch is messed up for the windshield wipers, which makes them a pain in the ass to operate. All considered, though, it is still light-years ahead of #10.

My first call was on Oak Cliff Drive. I looked it up in the book and confused it with Oak Cliff Place, which was right around the corner. You'll have to remember that Friday afternoon is like my Monday morning, so I was a little out of it. I got straightened out and found the guy.

I had just heard at about 4pm that Quin Snyder had stepped down as the MU men's basketball head coach. This little news item became my conversation starter for the evening. I chatted with this guy, a mid-to-late 30something, about Snyder and the program's shortcomings on the way to Boone Tavern. He had already had a few cold ones. I apologized for arriving a little late (mostly due to getting the call late), but he was soothed by my conversation. He tipped me $3.95 on a $14.05 fare.

It was still daylight when dispatch sent me to LaSalle. I recognized the address. It was Eugene, from the last post, whose debit card let him down on a $6.05 fare. I only dimly hoped he would have money for me, and figured it was more likely that he was going to try to bum a free ride.

I pulled up outside his pad and he immediately hobbled out. I told him it looked like he was getting around better on his busted foot. He was sober and clean shaven. He said he didn't need to go anywhere, that he just called so he could pay me. Awesome.

He asked how much it was and I said $6.05. He gave me the cash, and thanked me for being cool about it. I thanked him, and told him that not everyone had such a good memory. "Yeah, but, you c...c...c...c...c...c...c...c...c...c...c... you coulda taken me to th...th...the jail."

"Yeah, but we didn't need to that, did we?'

After that, things were pretty slow-going, for a Friday. I had time to grab a BBQ chicken sandwich from Hardees. I didn't have another call until almost 7pm. It was one of my regulars, whom I hadn't seen in a while.

I can't remember what I changed his name to in an earlier post, but he has a non-traditional spelling of his first name and also includes his middle initial whenever he signs the charge slip. He is the huge fat guy who my have Down's Syndrome that I have referred to as having flipper hands and a moustache, the USA flag guy.

He came to the car with his Playmate cooler and his shades on. I had the charge slip filled out, waiting for his signature. I had spelled his first name right and included the middle initial. He looked at it and smiled, a smile of intense pride in my efforts. He looked at me and gestured his approval.

I asked him my standard group home question, "Did you work hard tonight?" The answer is always 'yes.' I told him I hadn't seen him in a while and chatted him up. About the time we made it out to Vandiver he asked what my name was. I told him and he extended his flipper hand, and I shook it. He said we were friends. I thanked him. He looked at me, again, with pride, and reached over, patting me on the back. It made me feel as accomplished as about anything I've ever done in life.

He asked me about my soda and what I had had for dinner. I told him a chicken sandwich. He asked if it was from Sonic. I told him no, that it was from Hardees. I can understand him pretty well now, though it does take some concentration.

I went without another call for an hour. Then, I was dispatched back to the same workshop. There I picked up 3 more regulars, at the same time. Though they were charges ($6.84 each), there were three of them, so I could run the fares concurrently. It was like having one $20 fare, which was pretty good considering how slow I was.

My next call was an Indian or Pakistani fellow going from the Wal-Mart Supercenter to Tara Apartments. I was a little surprised that he didn't have any bags with him. These guys usually load up the trunk with groceries. He was slight, with an accent, and sat up front. He didn't have much to say. He paid by credit card and I didn't bother asking if he wanted to put a tip on it.

From there I was dispatched to Crescent Meadows trailer park, up on Prathersville road. Not a nice place, and not one you can expect much of a tip out of. But, it is a $16-20 fare from there to most places in Columbia, which would have been welcomed at that time.

That place sprawls on forever, and there's no pattern to where the numbers are on the trailers, if there are any at all. There are gaps where people have moved their trailers out, and where trailers from other parks have moved in, with their old numbers still intact. I tried imaging the Trailer Park Boys in that setting.

I found the place I was looking for, when a dude standing outside smoking flagged me. He didn't seem in any hurry to get in the car. I assumed this was because he wanted to finish his cigarette. After a minute he got in. He was only going as far as the Upper Deck. Shit. That was only $4.55 away. But, there was a second passenger coming (his sister, $5.55) and he said he'd tip me, giving me a $10 up front. That works.

He said he knew Tim, another cab driver, and that they had gone to high school at the same time in Columbia. He also requested a card, so he could call back for me when he was ready to come home. Prathersville is far enough away to want to avoid it for a $5 fare when you're busy, but he did promise another, better tip. I dropped them off and headed back in.

An interesting sidenote, for all you comoers, the Upper Deck, one of Columbia's premier shitty redneck bars, is no longer the Upper Deck. What's it called now, you ask? Why, Scuba Steve's, of course. Yes, Scuba Steve's. Complete with a picture of a scuba diver on the sign on the side. Classic. Whoa, there's a useful new web site for me.

My next call was from Hoot-N-Anny's. Man, I hate calls there. You can't see in or out of the front door from the alley, so I always have to go in looking for people. And they're never easy to find. It's incredibly smoky, and, being under 30 (barely, but looking even younger) and having all of my appendages, I stand out a bit there. Enough that all of the 20-30something ladies at the bar, most still wearing their work attire, check me out. The people who called for the cab are either off doing something (boot-scooting to a live country-and-western band) or are comatose drunk on a barstool, having forgot they even called for a cab.

There was a band Friday, and it was very loud. I had a couple of ladies check-checking me. I walked all around, looking for someone who may be waiting for a cab. Short of screaming the question at everyone in the bar, over the loud noise, there's no way to tell. And the bar puts me off. Weird crowd. Old people. People in power chairs. Misplaced hoodrats. I walked all around, muttering and cussing to myself. I'm wearing an ID badge and not holding a beer, so I stand out plenty. My lips never quit moving. I kept saying aloud, "I hate this fucking place."

I went back out and asked dispatch if they had a number. No such luck. They gave me the brilliant advice of going inside to check. Duh. They did tell me that it was the guy that always went to Sugar Tree. That sounded familiar, though I could not picture the dude. So, I went back in to try to find someone familiar looking.

I spied him at the same instant he saw me. He had been at a table with his back to me, on the other side of a wall, in the darkened dancin' floor portion, where the band was playing. I had tried to avert my eyes the first time. It was the same old dude I always pick up at TP's at the Lake of the Woods between 5-7pm. His wife died 14 months ago. He drinks a lot, but always cabs.

And, he was with a lady. Her name was Goldie, and they had met at the Tiger Club some time ago, when that sonofabitch grandson that was sucking off of her had taken her there. The same grandson had insulted Dude earlier that evening. Grandson had got drunk, sideswiped a car downtown, and ran. He was still apparently freaked out about it, and apparently an asshole.

Anyhoo, I took them home. It was a $10.05 fare and he tipped $5. I hope he got some 60+ ass.

Next, I had a call up at Avatar. It was the same young black girl I picked up from the Boone County Jail earlier in the week. I figured she had money, since I could trace her back to the same place twice now. I took her to an address in the hood. She never said anything, and paid cash. No tip. It was one of your typical "you don't have to pull in the driveway" I'm-trying-not-to-be-seen rides. As is typical with these rides, I am quick to get the fuck away and always relieved to be doing so. I pulled up to a stop sign on Worley. A black 'chick' with headphones on was be-bopping her way down the sidewalk.

She was wearing something like a fashion track suit. I thought it funny that she was so self-assured strutting down Worley at like 9pm. Not caring enough to look tense or to refrain from singing out loud. As soon as she was clear of the cab I pulled out, turning down Worley to head back downtown.

As I passed her she noticed me for the first time and flagged me. Crap. What are the odds this will be a solicitation?

She ran across the street and jumped in the back. I was leery of sitting parked on Worley, due to the traffic, but didn't want to take off unless I thought she had some money on her.

Well, she was a he. Or at least I believe so. At least enough I wouldn't check for fear of being right and scarred for life. The last afterimage I ever want burned on my retinas is a tranny's wang.

So, yeah, she said her name was Stephanie. Let's just go ahead and assume I am a racist, but I don't know of too many black girls named "Stephanie" in the hood. She said she was going to the Athena Night Club. I overestimated that the fare would be about $6-8.

I overestimate in case I'm wrong, 1) and, 2) because people will try to hustle you on the fare. If you say "probably $10" they'll say "all I've got is, like $8," regardless of how much cash they actually have. She said that was cool.

We started rolling to Athena. 'She' said she was from Kansas City, but liked Columbia well enough. "It has it's ghetto spots." She complained that her cousin had left without her and that she was pissed at her. As we rolled down Providence I heard her counting money.

"$6 is all a bitch like me's got."

"That'll probably do it." I was giving her directions as we went, so she would be able to find it the next time (had never been there) and so she would no how to get herself back home. When I said "this is Locust, it's about 4 or 5 blocks down this way" she freaked a bit.

"You're going to take me there, right." She thought I was putting her out. She asked me to turn on the interior light, saying she had something in her eye. She was rubbing it, looking into a compact. "It's just make up--you know, girl stuff." Boy, do I.

As we rolled down locust, nearing the club, she asked if I was married. For some stupid reason I said 'no.' "For real? Come on now, you're married." Again, I said I wasn't. "Do you date?" I told her I didn't have much time for dating with my current work schedule.

Whoa, look at the time. "That's Athena right there." The fare was $4.80. She had already given me the $6. "Do you want your $1 back.

"No, that's yours. You keep that." She asked for my card, for a ride home. I gave her one, but told dispatch that if anyone requested me out of Athena that night to give it to someone else. I just didn't want to end up with a tranny in the hood with no cash at 1:30am, when I could be making money elsewhere, no matter what kind of story it might turn into. Sorry, faithful readers.

After that I got a call back up to Scuba Steve's to pick up the guy I dropped off there. He was by himself, at the convenience store across the street. He apologized, and said "all I got is $5, will that do it?" Yeah, the fare was only $4.55 before.

He had had a poor night out. He said his sister was acting a fool. She had drank two bottles of wine before going to the bar, and people were buying her drinks. Someone offered to buy him a drink, too, calling him 'boy.' He decided to cash out before he got into a fight. And, I imagine, he had spent all of his money. I dropped him back off at his trailer and headed in. It was about 10:45pm.

After that, I took a group of 4 from Willies to Cody's. They were some small town types, and one of them had his yokelometer on 11. He was acting drunker than he probably was, and kept calling me 'son,' though he was likely 8 years my junior. They had been classing it up at Willies. The fare was $11.80 and the guy waited for his $.20 back, repeating again and again that his friends would all owe him. They took a card and said they wanted me back. Good luck with that.

After that I grabbed what I thought was a flag from in front of Billiards. Turned out that they had called A*1 and someone else was dispatched for them. It was an alternacouple, not hipsters, though. Kind of honest blue-collar-punk. The guy was pissed off about something, but quiet. I asked him if he had had a good time and he said I didn't want to know. He rode up front and his lady rode in the back. I think he must have been asked to leave.

Two guys grabbed me while I was waiting on someone outside of Campus bar. It had been slow for a Friday night and I was pissed off that someone was taking so long to come out, besides the fact that I was sitting in traffic with my hazards flashing. These two were only going as far as the Field House, but that's a $3 minimum plus $1 for the second passenger for about a minute's work, and I could likely get back in time to pick up the original fare. On top of that, they guy tipped a buck.

I guess the people from Campus Bar cancelled. My next call was from the Regency Hotel, going up North. It was an undergrad, with one prior DWI, going home after a failed attempt at drinking. He said his head hurt and he couldn't find his groove. And, his girl was acting up. He tipped $3, I think.

My next call was from Mirtle Grove, heading north to Alpine Ridge. That's a $20+ fare for one person, and it might be a group. Mirtle Grove is in a college neighborhood, so I figured it was some people party-hopping

And, it was. It was the guys who I picked up at Country kitchen the week before, who had fled a random party via a bathroom window. They're the ones who are going to random parties selected from the MU facebook every weekend and writing about it for the Maneater. They had selected one that was for a girl's 21st birthday, which they found very lame. They couldn't believe anyone would celebrate such a milestone occasion anywhere but a bar. And, she had balloons tied to herself.

They had bailed, and were hell-bent on a kegger up on Alpine Ridge. In an earlier post many weeks ago I wrote about getting dispatched to Apline Street and not Alpine Ridge, which are several miles apart. The same thing had happened with Mark earlier in the evening, with these guys. They had driven around in vain and had been forced to settle for this party instead. I assured them that I knew where it was, and would get them there. I did warn them, though, that it would likely be $22 or more, and there would be $2 for the extra 2 passengers.

They didn't care. They were very gung-ho. Between Mirtle Grove and downtown the fare had climbed to $10.80. They were doing math in their heads and trying to figure out how much money they had. It was about $27. I asked them if they wanted to bail on East Campus or go back to their dorms, but they said the kegger would be worth it, and renewed their enthusiasm. We pressed on, Northward.

We found Alpine Ridge with only minor incident. I turned one street too soon, and had to consult my guide book. No problem. As we got to the Alpine Ridge neighborhood, a brand-damn new subdivision north of Brown School Road, the fare was right at $25. With the extra passengers this was all their money. I wasn't worried about a tip, since these guys were rapidly becoming regulars, and I dug what they were doing.

When we were about a block or two away from the party, we saw flashing lights and heard a siren from the next street over. Hmm. Cops. Kegger. Well-advertised party.

One of the dudes was convinced it was an ambulance, trying to explain the difference in their sirens. About that time we rolled up on the party, and about 5 or 6 cop cars. Dejected undergrads and a couple of beer kegs were on the lawn, and a couple of groups of kids were on their cell phones, on the street, in the cold, miles from anywhere, trying to get rides before getting busted. Lurking around the corner were two more cruisers with their lights off, daring kids to drive.

So, the party was a bust. And these guys were out of money, a good $15 or so from home. I knew they would repay me if I let them slide, and one had the option of overdrawing his bank account with his debit card. I told them maybe they could convince another group to go back downtown in the cab, and get them to split the fare. That sounded like a good idea.

We rolled up on a group and Ed pitched the idea out of the passenger's window. Three more piled in the back seat. That's 5 in the back, and a couple of them were pretty good-sized. There was one girl, a cute thing, hovering crouched over a couple of laps, her head bent against the ceiling. One of the first guys had been complaining that he needed to piss since the second we left Mirtle Grove. He couldn't go at Alpine Ridge because of the police presence. Now he was even more cramped and uncomfortable, and obsessed with the need to urinate.

This was a sentiment echoed by two or three other males in the back. Luckily, the new 3 were pretty cool, and everyone got along just find. The cute girl called herself a sponge, and said she would soak it all up. One of the guys in back saw the mandolin bag when he got in. I had set it on the dash in case someone else piled in the front. "Is that a mandolin you've got there?"

"Why, yes, it is." He asked me if I played it. I told him I just bought it, but was trying my best. I also mentioned my banjo habit.

"So, do you want to play bluegrass, then."

"Yeah, kind of. 100-proof, black-and-bluegrass stuff. Ultimately, not too traditional." He said that was what he wanted to do. He asked my name, and I told him. He said we needed to from a band.

I took them all to some apartments on Ross. I charged the people from the party full price, $15.05. They tipped $5. Any other time I would have charged the originals $15, too, but I hooked them up since they were cool and in need. I imagine I'll get it back from them soon enough, anyway.

The one Maneater dude (sorry, don't remember your name) took the opportunity to finally piss, all over some trash can or something on someone's patio. A random dude was climbing over the privacy fence at the opposite end of the parking lot. It was getting close to 1am. The guys had lost all of their enthusiasm, and decided not to look for any East campus parties. Since they just lived on campus, I dropped them off for free. Before I was clear with them I got a call to pick up at Snappers.

"Great," I told them. "I've only ever got one call out of Snappers, and it was an ambiguous guy named Angel with no teeth that lived in the hood and didn't tip."

I pulled up in front of Snappers. It was an ambiguous man with no teeth. He got in.

"How's it going, Angel. You've got a bat with you. Have you been at softball practice?" Angel was carrying a blue aluminum softball bat, inexplicably. I thought my question might provoke further comment, but it didn't. I took him and his bat home on Garth. He tipped me this time, $1.45 on a $4.55 fare.

Next I had a call out of McNally's. It was a couple, and the guy came up and bent down to look at me before getting in the cab. I didn't recognize him. He stood back up and said, to his girl behind him "we got the same guy again." They looked vaguely familiar, and I remembered taking them home a couple of times when they told me their addresses. I don't get good looks at a lot of people, especially when I grab them out of a bar and I'm in a hurry to get moving, out of the street.

These guys were cool, though. I had been complaining about Columbia's poor snow removal efforts when I took them home one night, when the girl remembered to tell me to turn left at the last second. I hit the brakes and spun the wheel, but #10 lost her grip and we bumped up and over a minor curb. It didn't warrant any excitement.

The odd thing is, I had mistaken another couple for them the week before. "Snowy Owl, or Arctic Fox, right, up in Vanderveen." The chick was just climbing in the cab, and had no idea what I was talking about. Wrong couple.

But this was the right couple, and I was taking them home. They were relieved to have drew me, since their last cab driver pointed out the locations of two of his DWIs to them on their way home. They found this distressing. The guy had drank plenty, and was rambling kind of excitedly, but coherently, and on topic. When I was running his credit card, the chick asked me what my craziest cab story was. Since I can't tell a short story, and since they were cool, I started to refer them to my blog.

The dude perked up, mentioning blogspot. We exchanged URLs. This is one of his. He said it was the humorous outcropping of an extended period of time spent watching kung fu and zombie movies.

Next, I was dispatched back to Cody's. Dispatch told me that there were a couple of calls there, but to make sure I at least got the ones going to the Holiday Inn Select. This sounded good, since they would likely tip, compared to the group I dropped off the first time.

At this point I took advantage of a CD break to go downstairs to enjoy a drumstick ice cream cone from my refrigerator. I have recently developed a mournful taste for these delectable treats, and pick up at least one a night during my numerous gas station visits. Until recently, I had never brought my addiction into my home. But, the other night, I purchased two "for the road." I had one left and just went to retrieve it. Something about my freezer had caused the ice cream to shrink, and much of the nut-covered chocolate dome broke off and fell to the floor when I tore off the wrapper. I stood there like a small child, whose nut-covered chocolate dome had just broken off and fell to the floor. I picked up some of it and ate it, before my retarded kitty eagerly pounced to investigate. I let her have the rest of it. There was hair on it, anyway. Cat hair. But, back to blogging.

As I have mentioned before, it is difficult to keep people out of your cab while trying to find who actually called. Normally I just roll with it, and take whoever gets in first, since it is so hard to dislodge them once rooted in the cab's confines. In this case, though, the Holiday Inn Select people must have complained about being late or something, since dispatch made sure I knew they were the priority.

I saw two or three clusters of people when I swung in to Cody's lot. I took advantage of #7's working power locks and locked the doors. One guy broke loose from a group and led a charge on the cab. I rolled down the passenger's window as he approached, and he tried the door before I could speak. I asked him if they were going to the Holiday Inn and he said 'yes' and told me to unlock the damn door. He was boisterous, but not rude. I unlocked the door and he got in. Three more filled in the back. I saw the group I dropped off earlier, standing forlorn in the corner of the lot. The first guy had made sure they knew it was his cab.

The guy in front immediately began saying "I can't believe Matt took off with them. He's getting AIDS right now." I asked again, to make sure they were the Holiday Inn people. "What--we don't look like the kind of people who would stay at the Holiday Inn Sel-ect?"

This guy was 30, hardy, big, brash. He was wearing a T-shirt, tucked in, and a cap. Not the sports-team variety, but not a billboard or 'trucker' cap. Jeans and lace-up Western-style boots. The guys in back were bedecked in full western regalia. 'Brush poppers,' woven belts with half a foot hanging down, and two had on cowboy hats. They were much older. Turned out to be the guy's dad and maybe and uncle, and a family friend/coworker/drinking buddy.

They were preoccupied with the fate of their fifth man, who was MIA. Apparently, he had left with some Cody's skeezers. Dude in front wasn't concerned. The dad thought we should check for him. I circled the building, but he was gone.

I tried to tell them about the $3 extra for the extra passengers. "Whup--look at this dad, he's gonna try to pull that on us, just like the last guy." The guy was loud, boisterous, and brash, but, ultimately, nothing short of likeable. He said to just go, to treat them right, to forget the meter, that they would take care of me, etc., etc. Normal shpeil but much less offensive that when I get it from business types. I ran the meter as usual.

The dude in front called the older runty guy in the back "Hot Sauce," interchangeably with his name. He'd cut off Hot Sauce at every opportunity, and say "I'll fuck your couch, Hot Sauce." Most of the ride was spent talking about betting each other to dance with fatties and wagering on how far they could get with them, but it was less crude than it sounds as I type it. "I'd of fucked that bitch. I'll fuck your couch."

They wanted to hit a Taco Bell. I told them about wait time. The guy looked at me again, in a dude-what-the-fuck-I-thought-we-were-on-the-same-page-what-the-fuck-are-you-doing-to-me sort of way. Again, not as harsh as it sounds. He gave me shit again about the meter and my tip. We hit the drive-through. I asked if he wanted me to order for them. He said yes, that once they all started talking they would piss them off and they wouldn't get any food. This sounded plausible.

"What you want, Hot Sauce?"

"I want one of those burri--"

"Fuck you, you're getting a fucking taco, Hot Sauce."

"Naw, I want one of them burrito sup--"

"Fuck you, Hot Sauce, you're getting a God damned taco."

"No, now, I want a burrito supreme--"

"God damn it, Hot Sauce. You're getting a fucking taco. I'll fuck your couch."

He finally conceded that Hot Sauce could have a burrito. Someone else wanted 5 tacos. Dude told me to order 5 burrito supremes and 5 tacos. "You want anything?"

"No, thanks."

"God damn it. I know you want something. Ain't you hungry? We'll buy you some tacos."

"Yeah, I am hungry, but I don't have time to eat--"

"You can't eat while you drive? You're getting a fucking taco. We'll take care of you man."

I made it to the order screen. "Get 5 burrito supremes and 5 tacos, and whatever you want."

I ordered the 5 burritos and 5 tacos. Dude voiced his displeasure in me. "Order yourself something."

"Make that 6 crunchy tacos." The number on the screen blipped to 6.

"Make that 9 crunchy ta-cos," dude yelled over me. The number blipped to 9.

"Would you like any sauce with that? medium, hot, or fire--"

"Fire! Fire" Hell yeah, give us fire sauce!" The chorus rang out from the entire car. Now the chick was laughing through the speaker. "You sound cute? What do you look like?"

She repeated the total, laughing, and told us to pull around.

"She had a cute voice, didn't she?"

"Yeah, she did. But I don't trust that." I told him there was an inverse proportion to how cute a girl sounded and how fat she really was. He intimated that he had experienced such phenomenon.

We made it around to the window, and she was a big ol' gal. Dude leaned down so he could see her through my window. "What time you get off work, baby?"

"Uh, about 3?"

"You want to come party at the Holiday Inn Sel-ect?" She said she was going to go home and go to bed when she got off. At least he didn't tell her he'd fuck her couch.

I didn't run the wait time on the meter but I watched the clock. I would add $5 for the 5 minutes in the drive-through, and avoid the argument. They had broke a $100 at Taco Bell.

I handed dude the two bags of food, which he withheld from Hot Sauce, repeating that he'd fuck his couch. He culled out one taco and set it on my clipboard. "There. There's your one taco that you ordered, you sonofabitch."

I got to the Holiday Inn Select. The meter had ran $15.05, plus $3 for the extra passengers. He gave me $28. I added the $5 in wait time and still got a $5 tip. And a taco. It was delicious.

Turns out the couch-fucking line was in reference to the Rick James sketch on the Dave Chepelle Show, where Rick James is disrespecting Eddie Murphy's leather sofa. Dude was a big fan.

Sometime before the Cody's call, dispatch had tried to send me to Henley Place. It didn't exist, at least not in my guide book. They tried to call the guy back, but his phone wasn't working. They decided to wait until he got mad enough to call back, to get directions. He had, sometime during my Cody's run. It was actually Handley Place, or something like that. I found it in my book and zipped over there.

The guy wasn't that put out. He was in his 30s. He wasn't going very far, to Bourn, but we had to wind around a little and it was $6.80. He asked me about weirdos in cabs. I mentioned something about taking the Girls Gone Wild guys to Lynn's. He said he knew of the place, and that he had "tried that after the divorce," but that he couldn't go through with it. He was even more thankful he didn't after I told him the story. He still tipped $3.20.

I went back downtown, and got a flag out of El Rancho. It was a group of four, dropping off one girl on East campus and taking the other three South of town. The girl said she was going to Ross and I said I knew right where it was. She said something about never having ridden in a Columbia cab before, to one of her friends.

She still proceeded to give me directions the whole way, telling me where to turn when I already had my turn signal on and was slowing down. That can get pretty irritating, but I knew she didn't mean anything by it. When we got on Ross she said "it's an apartment building down here--"

"You mean 1410 Ross, on the right hand side of the street?"

"Yes--how did you know?"

"It's not my first cab ride." Her friends laughed pretty hard at that, and told her she just got served. That was the address where I dropped off the kids from the Alpine Ridge party.

They gave me a chicken burrito they had ordered by mistake at El Rancho. I ate it as soon as I got home. Besides the cash they gave me, that's like another $6 tip.

I had another call, on the Northwest side of town, after 3am. It was two Moberly K-Mart cowboys who had gone home with some chicks they had met at Cody's. Apparently that was a bust, and they were bored and sobering up. I drove them back to their rooms at the Arrowhead Motel. The guy paid with a $100 and didn't tip after I broke it for him.

My last call was a couple from the Diner. The guy was trying to pitch the chick on a spring break trip. It's funny to hear spoiled college students complain about coming up with money for spring break the way I do about things like rent. It's such a necessity.

So that was Friday. Despite the slow start, I still ran 22 or 23 calls, to some others' 16 or 17. But, I did have 4 charges, 3 of them at once, and a couple of flags. I ended up pulling about $230 on the meter. Not too bad, but I guess I've been spoiled by the $280 nights I was having a couple of weeks ago. Turns out the tranny from Athena did call and request me, but Virginia sent a new guy, instead. Thanks, Virginia.

Well, I fucked around and drank all of that beer, and I haven't got as much written as I had hoped. It's 6:45 am now, and I still have to proof this thing. Nothing too exciting happened Saturday. It was even slower than Friday. It sucked pretty hard, and I was starving until about 2:30am. I actually got pretty busy after that and ran solid until 4:30am. People finally started tipping and I pulled the night out of my ass, doing $229 on the meter (in 13 hours).

So, I think I may leave this post at that. There was better stuff on the Monday/Tuesday I haven't written about yet, but I may save that for bar chit-chat. I can't totally expose myself here.

And, you know, Valentine's Day is tomorrow...would it kill you people to throw your dutiful taxi blogger a bone here, and post a comment, just to let me know that I still mean something to you, and you haven't forgotten me? Is that too much to ask? A little preventive maintenance will go a long way towards keeping these updates coming. I have needs, you know.

In This House That I Call Home

Hey gang. It's taking me a while to sort out where I'm at, here. I missed my update Sunday, since I decided to drink way too much beer. I was watching the Super Bowl, barely, with no real interest. Sorry for abandoning you.

And, before that, I had broke off in the middle of a post when Blogger.com ate some of my stuff. So, even before missing Sunday's update, I was a day-and-a-half behind. Balls.

Most nights I jot down one or two key words about each fare of note on the back of a business card. An average night fills the back of one card, a crazy night may fill two. I come home, empty my pockets, and slip the cards under either my alarm clock or mouse pad. That's so the cats won't steal them, and I won't confuse them with the 100 or so old cards scattered around my desk and floor where the cats left them, the ink on many runny and smeared like a bad watercolor painting by the remnants of beer from bottles the cats knocked over.

The cards are most helpful in me keeping my sequences in order, and the rest comes from memory. The sequence is especially important when one fare affects my attitude towards the next, when I get multiple rides from the same party, and for keeping my times approximate. I try to take you inside the mind of the cab driver, and sometimes my attention is split five ways.

So, now, staring at my desk, dimly lit by the glow of the monitor, I have 4 stacks of two cards, and one single. Meaning I have my work cut out for me. It is 6:48 pm Thursday night. I had planned on writing all last night, but didn't. My buddy and former neighbor Brandon called me up to see about drinking some beer. We went to Shakespeare's for a pie, and called up our other buddy and Brandon's former roommate, Jerod. Jerod came over with his buddy Stephen, and I managed to snag all three discs of the Trailer Park Boys. So, I drank a bunch of Apricot Weizens.

I crashed out at one or two and woke up at 9am today, hung over. Not terrible, but bad enough to be essentially useless. Corpsy's fuel injector is still leaking, even after replacing the o-rings on it. My suspicion was that one of the o-rings got nicked reinstalling the injector, or, maybe the injector itself is leaking to the outside. Man, I hate working on the same shit twice.

I checked Wednesday, and a new injector was $69, and the seal kit was $5. I thought I might try the last-ditch effort of using some gas tank repair epoxy, smushing it all over the injector, to see if that stopped the leak. Hillbilly, yes, but no one would be laughing at me if it worked.

But it didn't, so feel free to laugh. In the process of trying to mold the useless shit on the injector, I saw the gas bleeding off (from the pressure of the fuelrail) around the injector, not really through it. So, I guess I'll have to pull it out. Again. I picked up a new injector and an extra set of seals.

Wednesday I went over to Gene's (the LA/Alaskan/Taiwan transplant I sold my minivan to). Gene said he had my last $100 for the van, and finally wanted the ignition switch fixed. He wasn't home when I got there, but his old van was unlocked. I swiftly dismantled the plastic trim under the dash and around the steering column, removing the ignition switch and lock cylinder. Gene and his wife pulled up in the blue van as I was all but finished.

They took some groceries in the house. His son was toddling on the grass, dumbfounded by the snow left in the shade. I figured Gene would come back out when he got everything settled in the house. I finished removing the switch, and went to the door of their apartment. They hadn't seen me when they pulled in.

I got the keys that matched the old van's ignition switch, and ripped the broken one out of the blue van. Luckily, the wiring harness and everything was the same. I installed the good switch, and crawled under the van to hook the starter back up. It worked perfectly. I pulled out the old yellow jumper wire from under the hood. Mission accomplished, in swift fashion.

But, today, hungover, and it about 36 degrees outside, I had no ambition to work on Corpsy. I finally managed to fall asleep around 12 or 1 and slept until about 6pm this evening. Which brings us more or less up to date.

So, back to the cab.

In the last update, I broke off with me returning from the airport and my customer (the Thing) losing patience at the Foxy Sauna while waiting for me.

So, yeah, he got tired of waiting, and dispatch sent another cab. I dropped off the woman from Austin at the Fairfield. Then I had a call to pick up at the St. Francis House, a men's shelter on Rangeline.

I pulled up and stopped in the street in front of the house. There were 3 or 4 scattered people, milling about aimlessly, smoking. I imagine it's pretty boring at the shelter and staring blankly at a cab driver was apparently somewhat stimulating for them. I saw someone inside, grabbing up a coat and various bags. A black man about my age emerged, carrying a backpack, a duffel, a coat, and a Styrofoam takeout box in a plastic bag, smelling strongly of warm food.

He got in the back. He reminded me of Crazy Legs from Don't Be A Menace. I asked him where he was going.

"I can't think of the name--it's over here...Stephen...Stephens..."

"Stevens College?"

"No, Stephen's, Stephan's...the club..."

"Stephanie's Cabaret? The gentleman's club?"

"Yeah, that's it." Great, I'm taking a homeless black man with all of his belongings and his dinner to a strip club at 9pm on a Monday. This can only end badly.

I zipped over to the cabaret. The guy was very friendly, if not too smart. I dropped him off in the parking lot. He unloaded all of his shit, and walked up to the door, his arms full. I figured the odds were high he wouldn't get in, but I wasn't sure if he'd have the money to get back home. Either way, I didn't want to wait to find out. I peeled out of the parking lot as soon as he was clear of the car.

I picked up once from the Workshop. Then I had a short run from Broadway to William, taking a guy to pick up his car at a friend's house. Around 11pm I took a guy from downtown south to the Gold's Gym off of Nifong. I thought it an odd time to be going to work out, in street clothes. Turns out someone had stolen his keys there earlier, and he had paid a locksmith to jimmy his car so he could get his housekeys out of it. The locksmith gave him a ride home, where he got his spare car keys. I was cabbing him back to get his car.

About midnight I grabbed my buddy Alex from north of town and brought him downtown. Then I had a call at University Place Apartments.

It was the homeless guy I had dropped at Stephanies. "How was the club, man?"

"Awe, man, I didn't even get in."

"Really?"

"No, man, The wouldn't let me in because I didn't have an ID on me."

"Well that sucks." I was heading to the address he gave me, which I figured was about $5 away. At $4.05 he stopped me.

"Let me out here. I've only got $4 left." I ran him the last few blocks anyway.

I had one fare south to Rolling Rock. It is a new street with a bunch of duplexes, which was swathed out of the woods off of Rock Quarry Road. A Rolling Rock streetsign lasts about one week in a college town, in case you're curious.

I figured I was pretty much done at this point. It was a Monday night and the bar scene had been pretty dead. I decided to park in front of El Rancho to see if I could catch some stragglers. Both El Rancho and the Jimmy John's across the street are open until 2 am weeknights. As I pulled in I spied a drunk guy across the street. He struck upon the cab and walked over. I ran him to Stadium Apartments.

He sat in front and saw the mandolin gig bag. He said he played a little bit of anything with strings, but nothing too well. He had once played a little hack mandolin to fill in for someone at a Renaissance Festival. He had been in the Marines. He tipped $2 or $3 on a credit card.

I got in a car early Tuesday. It was #9. #9 is a pretty nice Crown Vic. It is an Interceptor, like the other new cars, but doesn't really look like it saw much police duty. It is a '95 or so, with the older style window buttons, and power bucket seats. They told me they would have to change me out later in the evening, because the 'lights flickered' on it.

My first call was 15 minutes late when I got it, and they had apparently found another ride. My second call was a CMAAA charge(something to do with old people) . CMAAAs are $2 a mile without the $1.80 flag charge (the $1.80 for the first 1/10th mile). To compare, a 2.5 mile ride on the regular meter would be $1.80 + $.25x24 ($.25 per 1/10th mile x 24 1/10th miles) which equals $7.80. On CMAAA, a 2.5 mile ride is $5, and you'll never see a tip. And most of them are only about 1.7 miles, so let's just say they're not very desirable calls, especially considering you're dealing with really old people who take a long time getting in and out.

And, since they're not going anywhere, dispatch often hangs them out to dry, sending you on cash calls first. So, you get there late and they're all grumpified. In this case, I showed up at the Parkside Doctors' Building #2, as instructed by dispatch. I had been there once before on a CMAAA, and remembered which office it had been. I assumed it must have been the same old lady, and went looking for her. I checked all 4 offices in the building, all of which had separate external entrances spread out over the face of the building. No one was waiting for a cab.

I figured the woman was gone. I got caught up in an article I spied on a bulletin board in one office. After about 10 minutes of said bullshit, I decided to leave. It occurred to me that there may have been offices on the backside of the building. I pulled around to see that there, was, indeed, a complete lower level with separate offices. There was my cranky old lady.

She's actually pretty nice, but deaf as a post, and slow moving, with a walker. And, I'm always about an hour late picking her up, which doesn't make for a good impression. She mentioned something about how long she had been waiting. I apologized, and told her that I had been looking in the offices upstairs. She looked at her watch and told me she had been waiting 50 minutes. On a time call. I took her to the grocery store, which made for a $4 call.

I had a fare waiting on me from the grocery store, going back to Switzler, project housing. Probably more than half of my calls at the Gerbes on Ash are no-shows, since they're usually only going a few blocks and we're usually slow in getting there. It's rare to get anything more than a $5 call out of there, and no tips. This time, though, I got my fare right away, even before I could get the old lady into the store and stash her walker under her cart for her.

She was at least personable, and going farther than usual. It was a $6.80 fare. No tip. She had a CDL and was interested in driving a cab. I gave her the lowdown, and helped carry her groceries to her apartment.

I had another CMAAA from Oak Towers, this one going all of the way to the Wal-Mart Supercenter, a $7 call. She had greasy stringy black gray-streaked hair and some particularly off-putting body odor. It wasn't the straight-up pungent mansweat punch you get from a van load of Amish people in wintertime, but some lower, lingering idle-unwashed-folds-of-flesh smell. I found myself holding my breath and trying to breathe through my mouth.

Then I fell in love. With a wonderful French-Canadian optometrist I picked up at HyVee.

Well, she's actually just almost an optometrist, but that doesn't dampen my feelings for her. She's down from Montreal, doing an internship at the Veteran's Hospital on campus.

I was pleased to see an attractive young woman when I pulled up outside of the grocery store, instead of your typical fat Midwesterner. It was cold, and I jumped out and started loading her groceries in the trunk. She got in and told me her address. As we pulled away she said "so I guess everyone in America owns a car?"

I told her that that was a mostly accurate statement, especially here in the Midwest, in out-state Missouri. She told me she was from Montreal.

"French-Canadian? I love French-Canadians." We chatted a bit about the automobile and it's role in American culture. I apologized for giving her such a long answer to a short question.

"No, that's good. I want to learn about America. Is it also true that everyone here owns a gun?" I told her that that statement was less accurate than the one about cars. I did tell her that gun ownership was much more common in this part of the country, but that handgun ownership accounted for only a slight minority. It didn't hurt that I had just read that book on the NRA and Missouri's fight over conceal-and-carry.

She told me about being in optometrist school and I told her I had just recovered from pink eye. It occurred to me that she must not know that there were closer grocery stores to where she lived. I told her that there was a Schnuck's that was about a $7-8 cab ride vs. a $12-13 cab ride to HyVee. This pleased her. I also told her about the Hitt Street Market, which was within walking distance. She was overjoyed and asked if I knew where she could get an I-Pod. She also asked if I could annotate her map with the locations I spoke of, which I did, upon our arrival at her apartment building.

I gave her my card and told her she could request me any time she needed a cab and that I would be happy to provide her with way-too much information on nearly any subject. I popped the trunk and grabbed a couple of bags of groceries, while she was putting her map and the card away. "Did you say you were in "E," I asked, looking to see which apartment was hers.

"Yes, but you can just put them right there. I don't want to exploit you." 'E' was upstairs, but she could exploit me, all night long. I got the trunk unloaded and she thanked me graciously. "You have been so nice."

"Well, I try to be nice to everyone, but I'm especially nice to French-Canadians."

So that happened.

From there I had a call at the ER. It was an elderly woman, going back to her apartment at her retirement home. She was in some pain, and a little annoyed that the people at the home had called the ambulance for her before she was ready. She told me that I would have to wait for her to go upstairs in her apartment to get money to pay me. I got her home and escorted her upstairs. She told me to have a seat while she found her credit card. She lit up a cigarette, and produced the card. I had brought my clipboard upstairs, copied down the information, and went back down to the car to call it back in. There was a poster in the elevator advertising movie day at the home. They were showing Navy Seals, with Chuck Norris.

Chuck fucking Norris.

From there, dispatch called for me to bring number 9 in. A lot of those Ford cars have auto-dimming headlights, and the sensors fuck up in them. They are supposed to sense the light of oncoming cars and dim the headlights when on bright. In #9's case, the sensor was confused, and it would blink the headlights from dim to off at random intervals. I took it in and was issued #10.

Old Dies used to be my old faithful. But times are changing. I had heard a couple of other drivers complain to Phyllis about it, saying that it was unsafe. JW had lost control of it on highway 63 and ended up in the median with a customer from the airport. He said he almost flipped it. Mark, too, had complained that it wasn't safe to be on the road. Both drivers claimed that the front end was fucked up. Phyllis got mad and told them they were full of shit, and that everything on the suspension under the front of #10 had been replaced. Apparently Phyllis's son, Rob, the co-owner and mechanic, said that, 'no, we just put new brakes on 10.'

Either way, Phyllis had been making people drive it. I had been fortunate enough to have been cruising #s 5 and 7 since the first of the year. This was the first time back in old Dies in about 4 weeks.

Before I could get out of the office with it, I had two other drivers and Jerri that I had to take home. Rather, I had to take 2 other drivers home and take Jerri by her trailer, to get her cell phone charger, and bring her back to the office. Her electricity was shut off.

I got nostalgic as I swung behind the wheel of old #10. It felt better than I had remembered. This wasn't going to be so bad. Never mind the two broken door handles, 3 non-working windows, numerous oil leaks, squeaks and groans, and the old girl's quirky tendency to lock her steering when pulling out of parking lots. I pulled her in reverse and went to back out of the bull pen behind the cab shack. I tapped the brakes and they went nearly to the floor.

Motherfucker.

All bullshit aside, brakes are important. Especially in a fucking cab, when you are in traffic and on the road 24 hours a day. It's a near-certain fact that if you drive long enough you will have to make a panic stop. Even if you can get used to sub-par brakes and handle them for 'safe,' 'normal' driving, you're going to be fucked when some assjack cuts you off or pulls out in front of you. Which only happens 2 or 3 times a day, not to mention all of the times when someone forgets to tell you to turn at the last possible second.

And this is a giant fucking car. You don't have to have gone to law school to recognize the potential liability when you own a cab company and put a car with bad brakes on the road, especially after multiple drivers refuse to drive it on the grounds that it is unsafe. And, I don't really want to get in a wreck and get points on my license, and I'll be damned if I pay one fucking cent to fix the cab. Besides the fact that, with my somewhat dubious designation of independent contractor, I could also be liable should someone get hurt, since I am operating an unsafe car. Sure, I don't have to drive it, but that's like saying I don't have to pay my rent or income taxes. Don't do it and see what happens. I need the fucking job.

And did I mention that #10 only has one seatbelt in the back, the center lap belt that is impossible to dig out from behind the seat cushion in the dark?

So, here I am, with 3 cab people crammed in this shitbox, backing out of the lot. I remarked that the something was seriously fucked up in the brakes.

"They're full of air. They need to be bled, in the least. There's probably a leak at a wheel cylinder or something."

"They've bled them two or three times. There's not any air in them." This was Kyle. He's apparently the only driver that doesn't mind driving #10, which would make him a colossal jackass.

"Well, it must be the master cylinder, then. Either way, it's not smart. The master cylinder's like a $35 part. There's no excuse not to fix it."

"Just don't rear-end anybody in it, like I did." Motherfucker. The only driver willing to drive this pile has already had a wreck in it, due to the brakes, and it's still not fixed?

I shuttled the gimps home, and was taking Jerri to her trailer when dispatch radioed with a late time call. They wanted me to pick up South of town and take two people to the Blue Note. I'd have to do it with Jerri in the car, and I still had to get gas, since Kyle had brought the motherfucker in completely empty. And I had already spent $20+ on gas in #9.

And, on top of the brakes, #10 was a much scarier drive than I remembered. I had grown used to the Crown Vics, which were stable and actually went where you pointed them. #10 was seriously squirrelly. It pitched and yawed like a pig rolling in shit, all over the road. Handling was vague, spooky. The springs are wasted, and the car sags well below normal ride height. Thus, the front tires scrub the fenders badly when pulling out of parking lots, and the suspension bottoms hard on large expansion cracks and rough street crossings.

I picked up the couple going to the Blue Note. I apologized for the shitty car. Jerri was eating something she had bought at the gas station. I was having some severely mutinous feelings for the cab company.

Of course we were about 20 minutes late. I apologized, again. They did tip me $4 on an $11 fare, though.

Things were fairly calm. It was a Tuesday. I grabbed some people from ACT.

Then I had a call to the University ER. It was that squirrelly bitch who fell on the stairs at the shelter and racked up a $37.80 fare on wait time at Walgreens. Remember me saying she struck me as a hypochondriac?

Well, this time she had had an asthma attack. She bitched the entire time about the incompetence of the shelter in handling her medicine and calling the ambulance, like it was some government conspiracy to off her. She kept running her fucking mouth about how she could sue them for everything, blah, blah, blah. I just wanted her to shut the fuck up. I daydreamed about the French-Canadian chick.

The fare finally stopped bitching for a second, about a block before her house. She apologized for going off on me. I told her that I had just been distracted.

I ran a round-trip call from Albany to the IGA, for a guy to get some beer. He's a regular. I grabbed another regular from the Holiday Inn.

I had a call on Garth. It was the same couple I have ferried to the Forum 8 Theaters a couple of times. That's where they were going this time. "I don't want to tell you to speed, but we are running a little late." I gunned the Lincoln down the a vacant Ash, to avoid traffic on West Broadway. #10 is nothing you would want to get in a hurry in.

I pulled up to the theater in good time, and told them that "that is as fast as anybody would want to go in this pile of shit." $10.05. No tip.

Next I grabbed a habitual lush from the Prime Time Lounge, in the Days Inn. "I'm Laurie, the infamous #47 Blackfoot Trailer Park." She was going to Spanky's Sports Zone, in the Holiday Inn, just across the way. It barely made the $3 minimum, after I circled the lot to click off the last $.25, but she did give me $4. She said that she had lost her license on points a couple of years ago, and didn't have any intentions of getting it back. She said she spent about $400 a month on cabs.

I had a call at the brand new Ruby Tuesdays by the new Bass Pro Shops out on 63. It was two sloshed businessmen, heading back to the Hampton Inn. One of the interior lights had decided to stick on in the back of the Lincoln. It was right at the passenger's head, and very glaring. It had always stuck on at random intervals, and the cab company put red lens tape over it to mute it. One night when I was vacuuming I found an old piece of red tape stuck on the armrest, and couldn't figure out where it came from. So, I tossed it.

I tried to get it to go off before the fare came out, but with no luck. They laughed at the Lincoln. "Look how big this car is." And, "I don't think I've ever been in a taxi with leather seats." I had never been up there before, and its all new construction. I got a bit turned around leaving the lot, then I missed the 63 South exit. I made a quick u-turn, and headed south. Then, I missed the Clark Lane exit. It's a screwy bypass so travelers on 63 can skip the 63/70 interchange and all of the traffic there. Very unintuitive. So, I had to go all of the way down to Broadway to turn around. Most embarrassing. I mentioned how poor the car handled. "It does seem to wave a bit."

I apologized, but they didn't care. They were in no hurry. I was trying to guesstimate what the fare should have been, when I thought to ask if they remembered what it was out there. They did, so I just charged them that amount. I was still apologizing as I wrote out a receipt for them. "That's alright. At least you don't have BO. I asked the first driver for a receipt and I had to sit there smelling his nasty BO while he wrote out the Declaration of Independence. So, you're fine." I tried to figure out who the driver was, but they seemed to think it may have been another cab company. I told them I had had a fare with bad BO a bit earlier.

After they got out, one of the guys stood staring at the Lincoln, basking in the fluorescent glow of the Hampton's canopy. "Just look at it."

I grabbed the deaf BO lady from the Supercenter and took her back home. My next call was on Garth.

Garth borders the hood and it is usually a toss-up as to what you get. This time it was a law office. I waited, and no one came out. I took the opportunity to pry the lens off of the interior light that still refused to go off. I tried to twist the bulb out, shielding my fingers with a tissue. It still burned, so I hit it with my pocketknife until the filament blew, and reapplied the lens. I went and found my fare, in his office.

I recognized the name. I thought he may have been a guy who brought in an old '91 Bronco to Mr. Transmission. It came in with a bad transfer case. We lifted it up to find that it had a newly installed remanufactured unit in it. Turned out the had paid something like $1000 to have it installed and they forgot to fill it with oil. It burned up within 5 miles.

We put another transfer case in it. The back window was stuck down, and there was a large plastic political campaign sign with the guy's name on it poorly affixed in its place. I remembered it took an unreasonably long period of time--several weeks--for him to pick it up once it was done. It came back again, a couple of months later, with a bad tranny. We overhauled that, too.

The guy got in the cab, and was going out past the Lake of the Woods. Awesome. $20+ fare, with the opportunity for a good tip.

His car hadn't started. He was taking a cab home, instead. "Do you have a second vehicle?"

"Yeah, actually, I have a truck."

"Do you own an old Ford Bronco?"

"Yes, I do. It's for sale, actually." I explained that I remembered it from working at Mr. Transmission.

I asked him where he went to law school. He said MU. I told him I went there. Turns out I had a number of classes with his wife. He was amazed when I told him I had been #6 in my class after my first year, and that I was now driving a cab. He tipped me $4. I told him to tell his wife I said 'hello,' if she happened to remember me. "Yeah, I'll tell her tomorrow. She's asleep now, since she wouldn't answer her damned phone."

I was doing alright for a Tuesday, but was still annoyed to get a call in the hood around bar closing. I crept over there and found the right street. I was looking for #4 Austin. I turned on Austin but was having difficulty seeing housenumbers. There was a fat black woman pushing a bicycle who stopped and watched me pass, making no effort not to stare.

I saw #10, and turned around to look for #4. As I passed the woman with the bicycle again, she pointed behind me and said something. I opened my door (no working window) and asked her what she said. "There she comes--back there." I turned and saw a woman coming up to the cab.

I leaned over and opened the front door from the inside (broken exterior handle). As I sat back upright the woman looked at me and startled a bit. "You're not--" She got in.

"Where we headed?"

"I'm just goin'...I need to go...we're goin'...just take me over..."

"I need to know an address before I can take you anywhere." We were just a couple of car lengths off of Garth.

"Turn right here," she said, motioning to the right. "No, wait, just go that way," she said, pointing left."

"Where exactly is it you want to go?" She looked at me, full in the face.

"Are you like a manager or something?"

"No, I'm just a driver. Where am I taking you?"

"Oh, I just want to say...you sexy." Great. I laughed, ignoring the comment.

"Where we going?" We had only gone about 50', turning onto Garth.

"No, really. You look sexy." It was some pretty horrid acting.

"That's awfully nice of you to say, but where are we going."

"Just turn here--I'm just going right here." I turned left and we were one lot over from where I had picked her up. She panicked, and likely thought I would take her to jail if we went far enough to rack up some money on the meter, since it did not appear that I wanted a blowjob from a crackwhore.

The meter had barely clicked over $.25, to $2.05. Our minimum fare is $3, but I was going to call this in as a cancellation, anyway. "I tell you what, you just get out, and we'll see you next time," I said. She already had the door open before I came to a complete stop.

"I'm just out here--I'm trying to get--can you give me, like, $2?"

"I'm out here trying to make some money. I don't have any to give away." Bitch. She got out, I called it in as a cancellation, and rolled on.

I got a call to the Wal-Mart Supercenter. As I was jetting over there, I was cranking a Bloodshot sampler CD on #10's lone perk, the CD player. I thought I heard some weird feedback. I turned down the CD player and listened. There was a steady, audible, droning tone. I thought it may have been the CD player amplifying some feedback caused by the CB, but I'd never had any problems like that before. Odd. I ignored it, and went to pick up my fare.

It was two foreign guys heading back to campus. I apologized for the noise and told them I couldn't figure out what it was. They agreed it was annoying. I drove them back to campus and dropped them off. The noise never ceased. I drove over and parked in front of Campus Bar and sought its source.

The only thing I could think that it might have been was a door chime or maybe the fuel pump whining, though it didn't really sound like either. Door chimes are usually in the driver's kick panel, and the fuel pump is in the fuel tank in the rear of the car. This sounded like it was coming from directly under the passenger's seat. I looked inside, outside, and under the car. I thought maybe a cell phone or beeper had fallen under the seat, but found nothing. It was most perplexing. I had largely given up, and moved my mandolin's gig bag. The sound amplified.

Then I remembered the digital tuner I had zipped in the front pocket of the gig bag. It had been pressed on when I pushed it against the CB, and it was emitting an 'A.' I had moved it into the passenger's seat at Wal-Mart, and it was on the underside of the bag, muffled, disguising its origin. Damn. I had hoped it was a precursor to something exploding and taking #10 up in a ball of flames. Maybe next time.

My last call was from the ER to Oak Towers, some old black man with a cane.

At about 1:45, I was sitting in front of El Rancho when an MUPD cop car raced up, lights blazing, and parked in the middle of Broadway, behind me. I looked behind me and saw the cop get out and approach a guy, maybe 20, carrying a skateboard. Within two minutes 6 CPD cars rolled up. Five were parked in a row, bunched up, along the center of Broadway. 2 or 3 cops were talking with skateboard guy. The rest of them were off bullshitting in a circle, some 50' away. After about 5 minutes, the kid walked away with his skateboard, and all of the cops rolled out. I kept wondering how many crimes were being committed all around the city while all of their resources were tied up for a kid and a skateboard.

So that was my Tuesday. I had Wednesday and Thursday off, as per usual. Wednesday I slept until 6pm. Then I drank four beers and took a nap, from 10:30 until 12:30. Then I geared up my Redline Conquest, equipped it with my vintage CygoLite, and went out for a ride.

Lest you think I have a green bicycle, that is the 2006 model. Mine is pretty much identical, but a 2005, which is black and red, rather than green. It is the finder of lost souls.

It was about 36 degrees. My only concern was in not getting hit by any drunks. I took Grindstone Parkway to Bearfield, Bearfield to Old 63, Old 63 to Grindstone Park, and the trail over behind the Mizzou Arena, off of Providence. I thought the climb up to the stadium was going to kill me. Yeeouch. I started breathing again about the time I made it over to Hospital Drive, off of Mick Deaver. I worked my way across campus, and downtown. I was looking for cabs, but didn't see any. I took Rangeline over by the strip club, then crossed the Business Loop. I spied Mark vacuuming out #10 at the Phillips 66.

I thought it would be fun to surprise him. He had all of the doors open, and, though he was facing my direction, he had his head down, preoccupied by vacuuming. The sound of the vacuum further masked my stealthy approach. He glanced up about the time I was pretending to careen out of control, 'slamming' into the side of #10.

I would have hit it harder, but didn't want to jeopardize the health of my trusty Redline. I think the effect worked. It must have taken a couple of seconds to recognize me, bedecked in black spandex and neoprene, with a Northface bataclava disguising my mug.

We talked about how pathetic and decrepit #10 was. I told him that I had peeked under it on Tuesday night, and that the stabilizer bar end link was broken and missing it's bushings. This explains the cymbal-like ringing when cruising side streets, and the vague, unbalanced handling. This is also what causes the steering to bind, as the stabilizer bar isn't pushed up enough when you turn, and the tie-rod rides up on top of it, binding it into position. Then, upon completing your turn, the tie-rod pops free, causing the front corner of the car to buck wildly and making it even squirrellier.

He was taking it in early (about 2:30), because the serpentine belt was loose, glazed, and squeaking like a 1000-mouse orgy, only louder. It also stunk from leaking and burning oil.

I made my way back home, mostly retracing my earlier route. I flew down the paved jogging path behind the arena. Anything over 20mph induced a pretty good ice-cream headache, as the wind whipped under my face mask and chilled my forehead. I took Providence up to the new Green Meadows, pleasing myself with a steady pace up the long Providence hill. As I churned along Green Meadows, coming up to the Nifong connector, I saw an ambulance and several cop cars.

Sometime while I was out, a dipshit in a Crown Victoria wrapped himself around the concrete base of the light pole, snuffing his dim light. Fuck him. Cocksucker could have killed me. Almost killed his passenger. At least he had the courtesy to do the world a favor and not wear his seat belt. They had cleared the bodies when I got there, but the car was untouched. After going home and showering, I went to the gas station. The wreck was still there. I asked the woman at the counter if any of the cops working the wreck had come in, since it looked pretty bad. She said that the driver was dead, and added that he had had a wreck in front of the cops, and that they had been chasing him. If this was true there was no mention of it in the Columbia Tribune article.

Damn, it took me almost 4 hours to write that, which is to replace all of the shit I lost when Blogger crashed last week. No wonder I was so pissed.

Let's just get right to Friday, then.

I showed up at about 3:40. I'm supposed to be there by 3:45. Some days I have a car waiting for me when I get there, but it's usually at least a 15-20 minute wait. Friday night I waited until 6:15.

That's over two and a half hours, which is a long time to spend thinking about all of the things you could have been doing for two and a half hours. I was pissed. In addition to the time wasted, not making any money, I was by myself, left to stalk back and forth in the cab shack. I paced for about 2 of those two and a half hours. My feet were cold. My eyes were irritated by all of the cigarette smoke. Man, was I pissed.

And, to add insult to injury, I had waited two and a half hours to be put into that pile of shit #10. What the fuck? There was some serious douchebaggery afoot. I don't begrudge New Guy Dan any, but he's been driving #7 this whole time, and got right in it when he showed up for work. Motherfucker.

So, here I am madder than hell, and stuck in ten. I was considering Dr. Carvorkianing it, maybe finishing off the steering or serpentine belt. Luckily for everyone involved, I was busy right out of the gate and stayed that way until 4:30am.

My first call was to pick up two black girls from a dorm on campus. I took them to the Red Lobster. No tip.

My next call was out on Oakland Gravel Road. It was an apartment. Round-trip to the Gerbes, with wait time. It was a $22+ fare, no tip.

Friday was the third of the month. That's when most people get their Social Security checks, so we get a lot more poor people and indigents on those nights. Friday was certainly no exception.

I picked up three at the workshop. Those are only $6.84, but I ran three together, so it was about $21 for about the time it would take to run one normal fare. It was two of my regulars and one woman with a walker I had never had before. One of them told me about another resident of Paquin Tower who jumped out of her window in a suicide attempt the night before. She only fell two stories. No tips, of course.

My next call was two good-looking coeds going from one dorm across campus to another. It was only about $4, but I think they tipped $4. Good girls.

I grabbed a regular of mine, a drummer for a local band, who works at a downtown bar. It was his night off. The fare's like $4.55 and he always drops $7 or $8. And it's a short run.

Then I had to run out and pick up BJ, the group home regular with dentures and the high grandma voice. After that, it was a call to the Super 7.

The Super 7 is a crackwhore dive, but it was only 9 or so in the pm, so I wasn't too concerned. I pulled up outside of the room number I had been given, the door promptly opened, and a man in drag spilled out. Even from 30' away in the glare of headlights it was obvious he was a dude. He wove his way to me, in part due to some booze he had drank and in part due to his unsteadiness on high heels, like a colt trying out new legs for the first time.

He was wearing a Tina Turner dress, fishnets, and high heels. He had on a ridiculous wig that piled about a foot high on his head and was the texture of course, sturdy twine. His legs were those of a well-muscled late thirty-something blue collar laborer. Maybe a siding contractor.

He got in the cab. "Where are we headed tonight?"

"Uh, the SoCo Club." Go figure. I told him Aieta Buffet was an old college buddy of mine. He said he was new to the drag scene. He lives in Fulton and comes to Columbia for shows. He wanted to know if there was a hotel closer to the club. I suggested that Campus Inn was closer and probably a lot safer. He also referred to transvestites and drag queens as he/she, so maybe it's not as derogatory as I had feared.

He tipped a $1 or so, and I said "enjoy your evening sir." Is that a faux pas?

After that I picked up a Jamaican girl at the Hollywood Theaters. She had seen Something New. No tip.

Then I grabbed a regular and took her to work the overnight shift at the nursing home. No tip.

At about 10:30 I got a call to pick up at Jack's Gourmet Coronado Restaurant. I assumed it was closed, and that I was picking up an employee from there, as I had done a week or two earlier. No one came out, so I tried the door.

I had never been inside Jack's. It looks like a well-kept secret. The bartender there also works for the Blue Note/Mojos, and I'm guessing is active on comomusic.com, though I don't know his user name. I recognized him and said 'hello.' Some girl at the bar gave me a 'hey, Taxi Man' as I walked in. The fare was an older woman, in her late 50s, maybe, with several dishes of food. It had been mostly packed neatly into a couple of boxes. Bartender dude (sorry I don't know your name, buddy) carried the stuff out. The Lincoln's belt was chirping like crazy and it smelled of burning oil.

The woman had been drinking some, though she didn't want to freely admit it. She was talking about how great Jack's was and how accommodating they were to her. "They'll fix you anything you want, at about any hour of night. What time is it, anyway? Is it 2am?"

"No, not quite, it's only about 10:40." She lived on Garth. She talked about how she tried to fight to keep the neighborhood from turning completely to shit. I helped her in with her stuff and she tipped me a couple of bucks.

From there I was dispatched to the Baymont Inn. Awesome. People from hotels are spending money, and usually not just running down the block. I was pulling up under the canopy and saw who must have been my fare through the glass doors. It was a dude dressed in neat western clothes--not gaudy K-Mart cowboy stuff--holding a longneck. Before I could get stopped some dude ran from out of the parking lot and jumped in the back seat.

This coincided with the guy and his lady friend walking out of the hotel and to the cab. "Did you call, buddy?"

"Yeah, I called." He was panting, out of breath. The dude opened the back door of the cab, on the other side, puzzled.

"Did you call?" They had. "Where are you headed?" They were going to the Black and Gold. I asked if they minded sharing with the weirdo who had just jumped in. They were polite and said the didn't, though the chick got in the front. I asked the weirdo where he was going.

"Campus. The coed dorm." He was in his early-to-mid 20s, with short cropped hair, a goatee, and a hooded sweatshirt. He was still panting, talking fast, overly excited.

"Which one, dude, there are a whole bunch of dorms on campus?" He said he knew how to find it. His breathing was rampant. "Are you alright, man?"

"Yeah. I'm drunk."

"Are you gonna calm down some?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. It's cool."

I drove the couple to the redneck bar. They were from out of town, and had been there once. I mentioned they had a good juke box. The girl lit up. "Yeah, they actually have Cross-Canadian Ragweed on it." Okay, so maybe not that good.

I mentioned that they had played for free in the street in Columbia this past summer. "Did you go?" I did, but walked off when they started playing. I went to Mojo's to see The Reverend Glasseye, but their van broke down and they missed the show.

I dropped them off and took the weirdo to campus. He borrowed my cell phone to call his girlfriend, who lived in the dorm. He had driven in to see her from Kansas City. Apparently, in addition to being drunk, he was asthmatic and had trouble catching his breath after running to the cab. This made some sense. He also acted like my friend Galen, who has ADD, when he was off his meds. I dropped him off without incident. He paid me with a $20. A wet $20.

Man, I hate that.

My next call was in the projects. Great. It was a black man, drunk, in his 40s, hobbling on a busted foot, awkwardly carrying some crutches. I didn't think he was going to make it to the car. I took him over to the hood. He sprung a debit card on me. A shiny new one.

Crap. Credit/debit cards in the hood are nothing to bank on. So to speak.

I was writing down the info, and asked him if he wanted to put a tip on the card. The fare was $6.05. He surprised me by saying 'yes, $2.' Now I was really nervous about the card.

But, it went through. Awesome. While we were waiting I asked if he went by Eugene, the name on his card. It's my middle name, as is my dad's. My dad has always gone by 'Gene.' He said, yes, but that he mostly went by E.G. in Columbia. "You see, Eugene kept getting into too much trouble." Loud and clear, my brother.

From there I was sent to Providence Walkway, in the projects. I've run into some squirrelly characters there. To make matters worse, dispatch told me "good luck, she's pretty drunk." Fantastic.

She came out, quickly enough. It was a black girl, maybe 20 or so, going to Lou's Palace. She was tall, wearing slimming blue jeans with flared legs and an large white T-shirt. She may have been drunk, but also sometimes talked with a weird lisp, like she had bit her tongue, or had it pierced, or something. It was if she could turn it off if she wanted.

Like a lot of my clients in the hood, she sunk low in the seat and covered her face. I joked with her about the cops when we passed a cruiser. She remains the only person I have ever taken to Lou's Palace.

I asked her how she liked it there. She said it was pretty uptight there, that you "can't dance, can't laugh, can't do nothing without someone getting on to you." For some reason, she seemed to like me. She asked what my name was. "Garner. That's cool." I asked what hers was.

"I am not at liberty to divulge that."

"Fair enough. I'll call you 'Mary.'" She liked that. And, she tipped.

"You were a good driver."

I had another call on Albany. I was having difficulty finding the number, and a dude came running up to me. I was across the street from his house. He was an accountant, about 27, who had had some DWIs. He was just going round-trip to the gas station for smokes. He tipped $3.

After that I had a call to pick up at the Black and Gold. I expected the couple I dropped off there, since they had requested my card and I have only ever picked up there one other time in three months (the prick I almost kicked out at Lake of the Woods). Instead, I got a very drunk 51 year old.

His name is Don. I recognized him from when I went there a few years ago. He's a Nam vet and drinks himself retarded. He has faded blue 5-point stars on either hand.

After that I snagged a couple from the Forum 8 Theaters and took them to some apartments on Hitt Street. The must have been fighting. It was an awkward, silent ride. I got a couple dollars' tip out of it, though.

From there I went to Flat Branch, and picked up their head chef. He was pretty cool, and told me, when I asked, that he was most proud of some mushroom appetizers there, a recipe of his own invention. He also knew a shitload about beer.

Next I grabbed a nice young couple out of the Field House and headed South. They tipped $3 or $4. Then I got called back to Spencer, in the hood. It was Eugene again. This relaxed me. He said it had been a booty call.

"Everything work out the way you wanted it to?"

"Oh yeah, I hit that shit." Eugene told me about some of his sexcapades, including some chick in the projects that claims her baby is his. He said he was 41 and never had any kids. He also said he wouldn't be able to tip me this time. I told him that was cool, and ran his card again.

Declined.

Motherfucker. He only had $1 on him. I told him dispatch would want me to take him to jail, and that whole shpeil. I decided to write it off, and told dispatch that he paid in cash. It was $6.05.

I grabbed another drunk college couple, and took them to the Reserve. The chick was pretty funny. Her roommates kept calling her and she would answer the phone and tell them to fuck off, in so many words. The dude with her was a friend named Justin. She told some girl on the phone that her and "J-Boo caught a cab."

From there I went to Country Kitchen. A couple of fun-loving college drunks. They were headed to another party at a fraternity house. They eagerly told me that they had gone to a random party they found in the facebook. The cops had shown up and they bailed out of a bathroom window, breaking it in the process. "How did you guys end up at country kitchen?"

"We have no idea." Fair enough. I dropped them off on Stewart and rolled out.

My next call was on King Street. It is off of Sexton, and is one of those hit-and-miss hood neighborhoods. This one was a nice house, with three young professional white guys. They were going south, with a stopover on East Campus. A good fare.

We talked about the law and politics. Thankfully, they weren't republicans. It was a good shpeil. They thanked me for the conversation and tipped me $5.

Dispatch radioed with a late time call in a bad neighborhood. Shit. I was trucking down Broadway and got flagged by El Rancho. I radioed it in and got out of the bad call. It was three young guys, maybe post-military, going to the Marriott Courtyard. They asked me questions about the cab and how I got paid. They tipped $5 on a $15.05 fare.

After that I was sent to a call on East Campus, home to many an after-bar party. It was the dishwasher guy from the 'Berg, the one who doubled up with the tool and the emotional girl who puked. He was with another kid with a beard. We had a fun ride.

I complained about the car, and told him I would have likely killed it had I not have been so busy. I told them the story about #3 and they laughed pretty hard. They asked something about cab confessions and I told them about the legless lady riding a wheelchair wheelie in the van. I told him about my blog and gave him the addy. He asked if his prior ride had made it in and I said it had.

I went right back to East Campus and picked up a chick from the same street, heading South. She spoke freely like I was her oldest girlfriend. She had been leaving the party because her ex-boyfriend was there, and she is currently seeing another ex-boyfriend. She was describing her ex and called him a hippie. I made a face.

"Does he wear petuli?"

"Oh, hell no."

"Does he have dreads?"

"Oh, no, nothing like that."

"Well, what exactly makes him a hippie?"

"Well, okay, he gardens. He's into stuff, like, gardening. And he painted the outside of his house. A rental house."

"I see now." When we got to her apartment I was running her credit card. She stood up on her knees in the front seat.

"There's a cell phone back here." She picked it up and started scrolling through it. She was excited to send text messages to a stranger from another stranger's phone. I cleared with her and the phone rang. I told the girl on the other end that I was a cab driver and asked where the girl who owned the phone lived. She wasn't sure of the address.

"Does Bethel sound familiar?"

"Yes! That's it. Bethel. Could you tell her to call Ashley tomorrow?"

Sometime around 3am I got a "get cash up front" call in a shitty neighborhood. I pulled up and two fat black girls scuttled to the cab. They were from New Orleans, I think,and really hated the cold. I was taking them to the Extended Stay. I won't tell you what they smelled like, but it was rotten punani. Overwhelming. Like someone ran out of lube and burned up a condom. Or something. It was fucking disgusting. I breathed through my mouth the whole way there, which, thankfully, was a very short distance. As they scuttled to the hotel one girl's coat had ridden up, revealing some weird printed cotton thong hiked halfway up her back, where she had tried to pull her much-tighter-fitting pants over them, forcing them to migrate Northward. Gross.

I had a 3:15 time call going to MoEx, the airport shuttle. I got it 10 minutes late, but got her there on time.

For my last call, I was supposed to go to Schnuck's on Forum. Dispatch said there was supposed to be five of them, to get money up front, lock the doors, etc. There's no reason to be at Schnucks at 3:45am. The only thing open within two miles of that place at that time is the Break Time gas station across the parking lot. Why wouldn't they be waiting there? There are two bar-and-grills there that close at 1:30am.

Fuck all that. I drove over there, glancing at the grocery store parking lot as I drove down Forum. It was huge, open, and perfectly well-lit. Predictably, no one was in sight. I decided to go all of the way past the shopping center, and work my way back, to give me the broadest field of vision. I saw Tim in #5 gassing up at the Break Time. I pulled up in #10 and rolled down my only working window.

"What did you do to get stuck in that piece of shit?"

"Just lucky, I guess. Say, have you seen a group of five kids running around over here?"

Tim immediately began shaking his head. "Just roll on. Don't even bother stopping." I opened the front door for him and he climbed in, taking my mic. "10 to base. That call you sent Garner over here for--they's five black kids about 14 or 15, trying to be little gangsters. They've all got hoods on and scarves all up on their faces. I came over her and they weren't at the Schnucks. They were on a fence over by Stadium, and they came up chasing the car when I passed them. You don't want nothin' to do with them. They's trouble."

Thanks, Tim. They called back again and dispatch said she wouldn't send them a cab. They called back yet again and she sent the cops. I still didn't see anyone when I passed back by.

After waiting two and a half hours to get in a car, I was kept out an hour late. I ran 30 calls in 10 hours. A lot of them were small, though. I did right around $280 on the meter.

I called it a night and went home.

Ex Posto Cookie-Popping

Here we go. Thursday night. 7:40 pm.

After my last update I crashed out to get some sleep before working Monday. I left you hanging as to what might have transpired Saturday night in the cab.

Well, you didn't miss anything too exciting. The rundown:

I started off hauling Miss Jean to Chris McDs. Pretty standard. The hostess was wearing something that didn't seem to fit the season. Sort of a Olivia Newton John Let's Get Physical kind of thing.

My next call was over on Sanford, again. This was the same house with the bucket-o-chicken deal on Friday. I didn't get the gramma this time, just the teenage girl and maybe her sister? Someone in her early thirties? They were going to Bingo. We stopped for cigarettes along the way. The woman had all of the Bingo gear. Some weird bucket with special pockets all around it for the different colored mega paint markers.

When we got to the Bingo hall, it was apparently closed. It was a bust. I took them back. The fare was about $20. They weren't too put out, though. The woman said she was going to take a bath and go to bed.

My next call was to a president street, over in the hood. I didn't know what to expect, and pulled up to a house with an El Camino in the driveway. The tailgate was down, and there was a cardboard sign taped to it that read "TV for sale. Cable ready. $25." A white guy came and got in the cab. He had a red plastic Solo cup with him. He looked semi-professional, though he was casually attired in sweats and slip-on shoes.

I asked him if the El Camino was his, and he said it was his buddy's. I asked him how he was doing. He exhaled an exhausted sigh. "Not good. Do you really want to know?"

"It's none of my business, I don't mean to pry. But I do like to hear people talk."

He said he had been sober for a year and a half and had fallen off the wagon. He smelled like alcohol but was very lucid and didn't appear intoxicated. I asked if he was in AA, and my knowledge of the program was apparent. This made him think I was in AA, but I told him I wasn't, just that I was familiar with it and knew some people actively involved. I asked him if he had a sponsor, and he did, but he hadn't called him or anything when he fell off the wagon.

I talked a little about my alcoholic antics and he seemed to think I was in control, and was perhaps a little covetous. I mentioned that my father had been an alcoholic. This caught his interest. His father had been a tee-totaler, and he thought that may have somehow affected him. He mentioned that the biggest worry he had about his drinking was the effect it could have on his two little kids. As we neared his destination he mentioned that it was his friend's house, and that his friend had $400 that he owed him, and that he hoped he was home, because he had no money on him.

Shit.

Like that's a scenario that couldn't possibly go wrong. He quickly assured me that his friend told him that if he wasn't at home he would be at work with the money. We would go there to collect. I was mildly concerned. I knew it was a real possibility that this would be a wild goose chase. It was slow and I had nothing else to do, but this puts me in an awkward position with dispatch. They'll want to get the police involved. This guy wasn't a criminal, and I'd sooner eat the fare myself and try to collect from him later, if need be.

We went to where his friend worked, at the Columbia Tribune. We pulled up behind the building and the guy got out and went to a backdoor, where he spoke to some people on a smoke break. Then he bummed a cigarette and came back to the car. He said someone had gone inside to send his buddy out. I wasn't running wait time. The fare was $15.80.

The guy's friend came out, and looked a little annoyed that his friend showed up, drunk, asking for money. He didn't have it on him, and said he'd have to wait until he got off at 8 to go get it. It was a little after 7. Luckily, though, the guy had $15 on him, and gave that to me for cab fare. I was happy to eat the $.80 and get rid of the guy. I asked him if he thought he was on track and gave him a card. I actually did provide some quality therapy, honestly. He thanked me again and said he could tell I had a big heart.

It was pretty slow. I parked and tried to eat some Fazoli's. I got an 8pm time call. Some dude from New York who requested a 'nice car' and hinted that he might rent me out to go bar-hopping. He had requested someone with some knowledge of the bar scene. He talked big money. He was at Campus Lodge Apartments, which is one of the newer, nicer apartment buildings off of Old 63.

I got there early. He came out and got in the cab. He was Hispanic, with a mild accent. More urban than ethnic. He said he was born in Madrid, and had grown up in a small town in Texas. He worked for Kay Jewelers, in management, and had just been transferred to Columbia. He had lived and worked in Europe and Manhattan, as well as a few other urban areas. Welcome to Columbia, Chief.

He was one of the typical East coast-Midwest transplants. Of course he thought the taxi game was one big racket, and that we were all crooked. He wanted to find a personal taxi driver to take care of him. He promised big tips and steady business. He was 28, and looking for some tail.

We stopped off at a convenience store for cigarettes, then went downtown. I noticed a jacket in the back seat. It must have been from the AA cat. Dude wanted the low-down on the local club scene. Sheesh. That takes about 10 seconds. It's not like I'm trying to hide anything. He ended up settling on the Field House. I ran him by an ATM. He kept watching the meter, and kept telling me that "I only flip $20s, Bro." Meaning, cut the meter down to $10 so I can get a $10 tip. This annoyed me, though, because I'd rather run the meter straight-up, and have a $5 tip for doing my job right and not stealing. As it was, the fare came in around $14.55 or so. He took a card and swore he'd call back for me.

Of course he didn't. But that's fine. I'd rather not deal with him, if I don't have to. I just don't want anyone telling me how to do my job, or acting like driving a cab is some crooked Jimmy Hoffa Teamsters Mafia racket. It's just a shitty job in a college town.

I picked up 4 dudes from the Holiday Inn Express and took them downtown. They were from Sedalia, some dudes in their mid-to-late 20s. They had had a few, and there was a faint smell of reefer. They were familiar with Columbia, and came in for a night out on the town, since there's not much night life in Sedalia. The were blue-collar types, but young and rowdy. Some of them worked for a beverage distribution place, or something. They were pretty good dudes, and asked for a card, saying they'd request me back. I dropped them at the Penguin.

From there I picked up a Mom from Dallas at the CC's City Broiler. I took her back to the Holiday Inn Express. She was an accountant, and was in town shopping her third daughter at MU. She had been in Lawrence, KS, earlier that day, looking at KU. She left her daughter with her sister, who attends MU, who were up for a night out. She was tired and headed back to the hotel. We talked about my career situation. She thought it was cool that I was learning something before becoming an attorney. She tipped about $5.

I picked up a cracker bitch from her house and took her to work at the Supercenter. She usually walked, but it was raining like crazy. I had been fighting the defrost all night. It was 48 degrees, and I couldn't keep the right balance with the heater. Every time someone else got in it fogged all to shit. She still had the poof-ball bangs and frizzy permed hair. She complained about the management at Wal-Mart and wished she was going out with her girlfriends to Cody's or Midway.

I got a call to pick up at Harpos. It was sometime before 11. I was right on top of it, and parked and waited. No one came out for a while. Then, a lone chick came out, in a rush. She jumped in. I asked if she had called.

She said she hadn't, that she had called another cab, but that she had to go home right away, because her girlfriend had spilled beer all over her and she was embarrassed. It wasn't far, about a $4.55 fare. I decided to run her and come back for the people who called, since they were taking their sweet time.

On the way the chick said she had $1. She said she had a debit card. I mentioned the $2 service charge. She repeated that she only had $1. Basically, she didn't want to pay me, since she didn't want to spend the $2 on the service charge. It caught me a bit off guard. She asked if I could give her a card and she would pay me another time. I didn't really want to call in a credit card. I wrote $4.55 and the date on the back of a card and gave it to her, telling her to call when she needed a ride and was willing to spend some money. She thanked me for helping her out, but she also acted like it was always a guarantee that I would have. No real gratitude. I was thinking she was a real cunt, but I calmed down a bit, watching her dumb ass waddle to the porch of her house, her pants completely soaked in stale draft beer, making her look like she'd pissed herself. Fuck her.

I radioed dispatch that I was clear, and headed back to Harpos for the fare that had called. He told me that that had been the chick. Double fuck her.

After that I picked up three drunk kids from a dorm on campus, who wanted to go to a party. I think they half-expected me to know of one and instinctively drive them to it. Instead, they produced a flyer and decided to go to the party it advertised. I smelled Jack Daniel's on them. I don't think any of them were as old as 19. I dropped them off at a party on East Campus.

Sometime before bar closing I got another call out of Harpos. Dispatch was very adamant about me getting the right person. I found him, an older man whom I had picked up and taken to Harpos for the Sugar Bowl. He remembered me. We talked about MU's woeful basketball team en route to his house. He didn't tip. It took me a bit by surprise.

A little after 1 am I had a request at Quinton's. It was the foursome from the Holiday Inn. They hadn't had any luck with the ladies, but had managed to avoid any fights, despite getting kicked in the shins at Tonic. They wanted beer en route to the hotel. It was already about 1:08. Gas stations quit selling at 1:30. The closest beer joint (besides Hitt Street Market, which I forgot about) was the Petro-Mart at College and Paris. I hoped there wouldn't be the Lou's Palace Rap Video bling-fest going on, since these guys were rowdy and lady-less.

I got them there by 1:13. We beat the rush. The parking lot filled up. The guys in the back seat had something to say about everyone they saw, but luckily no one heard. They got a 20 pack of Bud Lite without incident, and I got them back to their hotel.

I grabbed a call out of the Heidelberg at about 1:50am. Dispatch said there were 2 different calls there, one going to the Courtyard Apartments and the other to Firefox, and I could take them both if they were agreeable. As I sat waiting, on the end of a vacant 9th Street, a chick on a nice road bike rolled past.

The rain had stopped and it had actually warmed to 50 degrees. She was wearing tight, short bike shorts and a fitted jersey, scoop neck. She wasn't wearing a helmet, and had tight, curly hair pulled back in two Anglo Afro-puffs. The bike may have been too big for her, and she was out of the saddle, leaned well forward of her center of balance. She wasn't very long, but was very well toned, without being cut or losing feminen curves. Her posture, astraddle the velocipede, was absolutely felonious. I clenched my teeth.

I had actually caught her in my rear view, and watched in my mirror as she turned around at 9Th and University, before heading back onto campus. Then some drunk tool came out of the bar and up to my window. He asked if I was there for him, and I said I was good to go. He went back in to fetch his girlfriend. After that, another dude came out, carrying a plastic 22 ounce cup of beer, with a lid and a straw. He asked if I was there for him or the other dude. I told him I could take him, too, if he didn't mind doubling up. He said he didn't care, but he wasn't paying the extra buck or whatever for the other passengers. I assured him I'd cut him a deal. He said it was normally about $9 to his house. He was cool, so I told him I'd do it for $7.

I asked what was taking the tool so long. He said something about his girlfriend was drunk and crying or something. Great. Drama. The cool guy was a dishwasher, and hadn't been there very long. The tool's girlfriend was apparently a waitress. As we were waiting for the tool, talking, I caught a flash of movement in my rearview. I broke off from our conversation.

"What is this girl trying to do to me?" It was the bike girl, again, in my rear view. She had turned and gone down University. I told the guy that there was some chick on a bike, darting around at 2am for no apparent reason.

"Was she hot?"

"Maybe--but I've got a real fetish for girls on bikes. She's built low to the ground, but sturdy. Very fit, and the way she's riding--see for yourself, here she comes." She was coming up behind us, passing the cab. Both of our heads swiveled and followed her. One could almost hear the Doplar effect as she passed.

"Damn, she's fit. That's the way I like 'em." She buzzed by again at least once before the tool and his lady came out. She was crying and blowing kisses to the Heidelberg sign. Apparently, she had worked there for a long time and it was her last night. She was moving. She was emotional. She was drunk.

And she was annoying. They finally got in the cab, and she was stammering and slurring great stuff about the Heidelberg. I said something about it being a nice place, just to placate her, and she acted insulted. One could not only casually like something so fucking great as the Heidelberg. I wanted to say something snippy about it burning down last year, but I bit my tongue.

As we rode along I was asking the dishwasher about people I picked up there, remembering the crazy ride out to the Highlands with the owner's drunk wife and the turbo-asshole, the night I cut the poor saps a deal for getting them home.

The bitch in the back perked up. "Yeah, he told us about that. He was mad because you overcharged him and it was like a $50 cab ride."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, wait. I cut them a deal. I charged them $45 when it should have easily been $60 ($56 meter plus unran wait-time), because I felt sorry for them because heir friend was such an asshole. That asshole Fisher. Those dudes were thanking me."

"Well I heard that you charged them too much, and that you got lost."

"Well, you know what? I was fucking there. And I drove out of the way because that drunk asshole didn't give me the right directions, and I made it up for them by taking$10 off of the fare." Bitch.

As we neared the Courtyard Apartments the bitch magically shut the fuck up. She didn't make a peep, except for asking her boyfriend for updates on how close we were. "We're turning on Clinkscales. We're on Ash." I knew this meant one thing: impending puke.

We were close, though, so I didn't worry much. I pulled up and they got out. The dude paid me through the window. The parking lot was tight, and I was trying to make a multi-point turn around. The chick was standing outside of the apartment, under the stairs, staring at the ground. "Oh, yeah, she's gonna puke." The dishwasher concurred. As we were trying to turn around, their was some urping and a little vomit.

"There she goes." We laughed, and I kept turning around. Then the waterworks came. Voluminous vomiting. I cringed, and, abandoning the multipoint turn, backed out instead.

I got the guy home. He asked me about the mandolin. He said he played some guitar.

At about 2:30am I had a call at Juniper Circle, just up the road from mi casa. As I headed south on Providence and went to turn on Nifong, I saw a fresh accident in front of me, on Nifong. People were still getting out of the cars. It looked like a pretty good impact, the cars were immobile, sprawled across 3 lanes, debris everywhere. Some chick was standing up out of the smashed tuner import, looking very nonchalant. A college-looking white guy was holding his face and sprinting down around the Commerce Bank, fleeing, I suspect. There were two or three others, either chasing him, urging him to stop, because he was hurt, or fleeing themselves.

Another car was pulled up, to ask if everyone was okay, apparently. Everyone's got cell phones these days. Fuck 'em. I drove around and jetted down Nifong. "These crazy drunk motherfuckers are gonna get me killed one day," I thought. At that instant a '93 or '94 teal Ford Thunderbird stuffed full of people careened right in front of me. I had to get all over the brakes to avoid hitting them. They had been coming in the opposite lane, and swerved in front of me, to turn in to the Taco Bell. Cocksuckers. The car rocked heavily under the weight of all of the people, and the unsafe turning speed on a flat surface.

I was still pissed when I hit Juniper Circle. I found the address and parked out front. It was a duplex, and, apparently, the fallout from a college party. The shades were half-drawn and fucked up in the front two windows. I could see people on the couch under the windows. No one came out.

I switched on my hazard lights. I could see the yellow light blinking dimly on their walls. No one came out.

I switched on my spotlight, and aimed it through their front windows. An arm came up from the couch, and, though I couldn't see the hand for the fucked-up blinds, I'm positive it was flipping me off. I radioed dispatch. They called and told me that "the guy's on his way out."

I waited and no one came out. I radioed again. They assured me he was on his way. I was annoyed. It had been 3-5 minutes since we called, and I could see people moving around inside. Finally, the door opened and a chick walked out, on her cell phone. She continued talking on the phone all of the way up to and inside the car. Then she handed it to me. I looked at the display. I think it said 'Jason.'

It was a dude, and he was giving me directions to his house. He had called the cab for her. That makes sense. I see that from time to time. Guy's girlfriend gets drunk somewhere, he sends a cab to get her safely home. Or puts in a booty call.

I asked if he wanted to talk to his 'Lady Friend' again and handed the phone back to her. She hung up and said something about this being crazy. She had never been in a cab before.

"Yup, I still find it pretty outrageous, myself."

Then she told me that she had only met this dude the night before, at a bar. He had called to ask her to dinner that night. "I just thought that was so cute, 'cause guys my age--they don't really do stuff like that." Yup, real class move. Apparently she had declined the dinner invitation and gone to a neighborhood party instead. She had walked back home, drunk, when he called again. He told her there was a taxi waiting outside for her.

So, of course, she got in.

She told me she was from a small town. "I guess I'm just too trusting sometimes." Um...yeah. "Like last night, I was at this party, and this guy I didn't know offered to drive me home. Then he took me to an abandoned house."

"Uh...and how did that work out for you?"

"I just started crying and he took me home."

"You'd kinda think that would hold you over for a week or two."

"I mean, what if this guy's like a serial killer, or something?"

"Yeah..." I gave her a card, and told her we ran 24 hours. She said if she called right back it meant something was wrong and to hurry.

I thought maybe she was 18 or 19, but she said she had just graduated and was 23. Hmm...what was you number again? I just live right around the corner...

When I was getting close to the guy's house, dispatch radioed. "Hey, did you say you would be clearing on Hamilton Way?"

"Yeah," I said, and told him the address.

"That's weird. I've got a girl on the phone here, calling from that address, and she wants to go to the St. Louis airport." The chick could hear everything on the radio. I was just turning onto the street.

"Does he have a girl there, trying to leave? Oh my God."

"That's what dispatch is saying." I pulled up in front of the house. The guy came out to pay. I rolled my window down. He asked if I could break a $100.

"Do you have a girl in there? Trying to leave?"

"What? Oh, no. That's my roommate's ex-girlfriend--I was telling you about--no, no." I changed his $100. He tipped $5. She got out and went in. I sat there, trying to sort out if there was a girl going to the airport or not.

Dispatch said that he had her on the phone when he asked me if I was clearing at that address, with the chick. He said she hung up when I said 'yes' and repeated the address. He tried calling the chick back and got no answer. Then, the dude popped back out of the house. "It's cool, cabbie. We don't need a cab. You can go."

I went from there to the Super 7. It was a drunk black woman. Dispatch warned me to get money up front and to radio back with a firm destination. The chick was drunk, and changed her mind as to where she was going. I asked if she was doing good. "No. I been trying to party."

"That's not been working out for you?"

"Nah." I took her as far as $3.30 and booted her.

My last call was to go over by Walgreens. When I radioed back, dispatch told me to run in, get a pack of Parliament Ultralights, and take them to an address on Conley Avenue. I ran in and asked the young clerk for the cigarettes. Then I remembered that I had forgot to turn on wait time. I told the clerk to hang on. "Pretend this didn't just happen." I ran back out, turned on the meter, and went back in, purchasing the cigarettes. $3.48.

I buzzed on over to the address. The fare was only $4.05. I waited, and a wasted white guy, maybe 22 or 23, staggered out. I rolled down my window, and held up the cigarettes with the receipt. I told him it was $7.50, combined. He gave me a $10. "You got some cigarettes for me?"

They were in my outstretched hand. I folded back the receipt. "Oh. You can keep that," he said, handing back the receipt.

I had another call down south. The address was confused. They said Juniper, but the address didn't exist on Juniper proper. But, there is a Juniper Circle and Juniper Place, and one other odd variant. I found a corresponding number on Juniper Place, but it was very dark. I radioed dispatch. They called back and said they were on Bearfield, a couple of miles away. I gunned it that direction, and, in passing some townhouses on RockQuarry, a group of three flagged me down.

I got on the brakes and stopped. They got in. They were the ones that were calling. I told them where they were actually at, for future reference. They had been at a party. It was two hoosiers done-good and gone to college, and a Japanese chick, from Columbia College. The guy was a very mild mannered dude, lanky, scrawny, drunk. Apparently someone talked shit to him and threatened him, and some of his friends came to his defense. This seemed to be the most interesting thing that had ever happened to him, as he repeated it innumerable times.

I took them to the Japanese girl's dorm at Columbia College. She picked up the fare, and the cracker couple were going to walk to the dude's apartment. Dispatch radioed that I had another request. I recognized the address. It was the AA dude.

I radioed back and said I had his coat, which is probably what he wanted. Dispatch said he still wanted to go somewhere. I thought he had scored his $400 and was ready to make good with a real tip.

I pulled up and grabbed him for a second time. The tailgate was closed on the 'Camino, and the sign was gone. I told him I had his coat and popped the trunk. He got it out and came back to the window. "I need to go where you took me the first time."

"Cool."

"Only I don't have any money? Is that going to be a problem."

Dude what the fuck. You don't go into a restaurant, order food, then go, 'I don't have any money, is that going to be a problem.' I was a little disgusted. This guy thinks he's the victim of a disease. Even if alcoholism is a disease, you don't curl up and admit defeat; you take the actions you can take to control the symptoms of your 'disease' and take proactive steps to better yourself. Like not fucking drinking, you ass-clown.

Well fist-fuck me. It was 3:40. I was sitting in the hood. I told him to get in. I'd run him last, for free, on my dime. I reported it as usual, it's just that I paid the cab company's portion of the $8.55 fare. "You've got my card. You call me when you're back on top. You need to straighten your shit out for those kids of yours."

I cleaned up and took it in.

I had another good night Saturday. I ran $250 on the meter, coming off of a $280 night. I stayed busy, and people tipped. It was nice to have good nights back-to-back, especially with rent coming up.

And I believe I brought you up to snuff on my Sunday night in my last post. Let's segue right into Monday, then, shall we?

I slept from about 10am until 2:40. I showered and headed in, grabbing a Wendy's spicy chicken sandwich along the way. I was in #5.

My first call was to pick up at the check cashing place at the corner of Providence and Broadway. The guy had a gaunt face with random scabs. He was a user of some sort, I'm sure. I asked him how it was going. "Man, we're not even going to go there." I took him to the Biscayne Wal-Mart. He tipped a couple of bucks.

My next call was at Mark Twain dorm, on campus. A pale white girl was standing, waiting, with a big backpack. She was wearing Condy Rice boots which came near her knees, a knee-length skirt with a modest slit, and had a scarf tied on her head. She was very fair-skinned, and her cheeks blushed pink. All I saw of her hair were some very fine whispy curls in front of her ears and at the nape of her neck, escaping from beneath her scarf. I suspected she may have been a cancer survivor, or she may have only been a near-albino. Hard to tell, and not something you can comfortably ask in the span of a 4 minute cab ride.

She said she was going to the public library. "The Daniel Boone Regional Library?"

"I don't know--it's the one at Garth and Broadway."

"That's it. That's a good place. They have a really good multimedia selection." As we drove there I asked if she had ever been there before. She said 'no.' I told her she might find that it wasn't too bad of a walk. She said that was good to know, because she would be going there every Monday for some time. I gave her detailed directions and alternate routes. I dropped her off, and she wanted to schedule a 7:30 pickup. I think the fare was $3.55 and she told me to keep the change out of $4.

After that, I had a call at the Break Time at Vandiver and Paris. It was just after 6pm. The fare was a black girl who worked there. She had cool hair, not a weave or anything synthetic. Kind of the black girl version of the biker chick's hair, only a little shorter, perhaps. She was slender with very pronounced front teeth, though they were very straight and white.

She got in and told me we were heading to the Family Resource Center. I knew it well, as I have two group home regulars who work there. I headed that direction. I asked her how long she had been working there. She said it was her first week. I asked because that gas station used to get robbed about once a week a few years ago.

She started talking on her cell phone. She was crying. She was complaining of someone who had failed to pick her up from work. "She fucked me again. That's the last time." She was really crying, not from frustration, more like having her heart broke. It was her mother who had let her down. "That woman can't never say she's my mama. She ain't never done one thing for me but drag me down. Nothing those kids've got ever come from her. And now I'm going to be late for my parenting class. I hope they let me in, 'cause if they don't I won't get my kids back, 'cause I won't be able to finish my classes before I have to go back to court."

She planned on buying a car with her income tax money when she got it back. She had done the Rapid Refund loan. "They take a big chunk of it. But it's worth it. It's worth it not to have to rely on anybody." She spent most of the ride on her phone. She also talked about her boss at the gas station giving her all of the hours she would want to work.

I drove as quickly as I could to the Resource Center. It was 6:13. I was going to go inside and tell them it was my fault that she was late. For someone so paitstakingly honest, I can be a very convincing liar.

Turns out she had to be there by 6:15, not 6pm. She was very gracious that I had got her there on time. The fare was $6.55. She handed me a $20. I gave her back a $10 and 3 $1s, and asked if I needed to dig out the $.45, not ever expecting a tip. She said that wasn't necessary, and, as I was writing on my clipboard, she handed me five $1s. "Holy crap." I said it out loud. "Are you sure?"

"You work for your money, same as I do," she said, still wiping tears from her eyes. What a good girl.

My next call was at the Holiday Inn. It was a group of two, some huge, old, fat, vigorous que-bald man; a traveling salesman from Lake Charles, Louisiana, and his 19 year old protege. He wanted to go to a nice Asian restaurant. Nothing buffet. Some decent, sit-down place.

I eat dead cows, pigs, and chickens. Asian food is all Greek to my colon. I knew of Formosa. I had been there once, during finals week, with my friend Galen, in law school. I also knew that my Russian Jew friend Dima had worked there in undergrad. I suggested it. Along the way the old dude made a crack about Asian ladies and massage parlors. I mentioned we had some of those, too.

I dropped off the Thing and his fresh-faced counterpart. The fare was $11.55. He gave me a $20, swiftly exiting the cab. He had taken a card, and wanted me back in an hour. Can do.

My next call was to pick up my new group home regular, Tim. Tim is the kid who was into bullriding and body art, who noted that a Kewpie was a naked baby. Tim got in and signed the charge slip I had waiting for him. As we drove off, his first words were "my mom doesn't want me dating a user."

"That may be best for you, Tim."

He went on to tell me about some girl he like, who smoked the reefer. He said that he wasn't really into dope, because it made you stupid. He mentioned that he was most interested in pussy. And, naturally, it's procurement. I warned him that that made you stupid, too.

He admitted, with no shame, that he's never had any 'twat,' though he had seen it in magazines. I was glad for him that he didn't have internet access. He then turned on users, considerably. They were of no use to him. I told him about my ex-stripper-ex-girlfriend, who was a chronic. I said she was high-strung and mean.

"She was a bitch," said Tim. He has a real way with words.

After that, I snagged my Boone County Library girl. I wheeled in at 7:30. She wasn't there. I still had my "You See Me Laughin'" DVD in my pocket, so I went in to return it and look for her. I didn't see her. I was going to check my e-mail, but the computers were full. Then I looked for a Petty Booka CD. I couldn't find one, and grabbed one of someone else. I have no idea what it was. I was walking over to check it out when I saw the albino/chemo girl strutting out the door. She had a pretty self-assured switch for an albino white girl of 19 or so.

I dropped the CD off in the return box and followed her out. She had just reached the waiting cab when I emerged at the top of the steps. I apologized, and circled the cab as she was getting in. It was 7:39. I asked her if she had got the things done she had planned on. She said she was tutoring there.

"That's cool. Do you get paid by the students, or is it part of some larger program that pays you?"

"It's volunteer. I don't get paid."

"Oh. Well. That is admirable." She was majoring in English and Spanish. I told her I had an English degree, and that I wished that I had started studying Spanish earlier. I waited until my Senior year of college, and would have likely double-majored in it had I started earlier. I mentioned that I really liked the way the language sounded, and likened it to Italian. "Have you ever seen Roberto Benigni's 'Life is Beautiful.'"

"Oh, I love that movie." I worked it a little bit, talking about how beautiful and lyrical the language was, and how much it sucked trying to watch the movie dubbed-over in English.

After that it was back to Formosa. I grabbed the Thing and his sidekick. We headed back to the hotel. Along the way the Thing complained of the early onset of a cold. As we neared the hotel he asked if we did casino runs. I told him we did, and gave him an idea of the rates. The Thing said he thought he'd run to the casino and the young guy got out of the cab.

"So we're headed to the casino?"

"No, actually, I want to go to one of these massage parlors you guys have got. I just didn't want to mention it in front of the kid. He's 19, and I don't want his family thinking I'm corrupting him."

Admirable.

I gave him the rundown on what I knew about Columbia whorehouses. He knew of Lynn's, saying he'd been there several times. "How often do you come through Columbia?"

"Once a year."

"I guess you've been in this business a long time, then?"

"Oh, yeah." He was pretty fixed on some Asian ladies. "They are really big on being servants, subservient to men. They'll do anything. It's part of their culture." Lick your asshole? Most dishonorable!

He wanted to check out the Foxy Sauna. I had gleaned from New Guy Dan that they offered at least a $20 kickback. I ran him over. He paid me, and tipped me $7 something. I was to pick him up when he was done.

Next I had a call at Everett's. I was some wasted-drunk 38ish woman and a drunk 50ish dude. She was wearing a short, short dress, and, apparently worked out. That didn't stop her face from looking like a male drag queen, sans Adam's apple. It was sort of like what Marylin Manson's mom might look like. She had dark, straight hair, and dark makeup/features, They were both trashed.

The guy was shitty. Half-assed business man, round in the middle, sloppy. It was 8pm.

They were going to her condo, south of town. Dude was looking to score. She was worried about getting back to her car. He assured her it would be okay. Going with the flowing.

She asked me lots of questions. "How old are you? Are you married? Have you ever been married? Why not? Are you gay?" She wanted to get me as personal cab driver, and set up some sort of flat rate. She took my card. She was a mess. She was saying something about wanting a cab driver that wasn't creepy, that wouldn't try to molest her. She started to say something about me being good looking. I encouraged her a bit, to make the guy jealous. That way, he might respond by flashing money to impress her, tipping me handsomely.

I got them home. Dude sprung a $100. I cashed him out, $5 tip. She said she was going to call me from now on. I told her I worked Mondays, Tuesdays, Fridays, and Saturdays. She needed a Wednesday night guy. I gave her New Guy Dan's name. Tee-hee.

My next call took me to the mall, to the Barnes and Nobles. It was Korean girl, neatly dressed, with nice hair. She spoke good English, though through an accent. She told me she had been waiting an hour and a half.

Dispatch must have forgotten about her. We hadn't been that busy. I apologized, and tried to chat her up a bit. She had been at the mall buying a birthday gift for her roommate. I asked some questions. She gave some answers. I was charming. Her birthday is the 3rd of February. She had never taken a cab in Columbia before. We talked about being an international student at MU. I told her about the Finnish chick I had dated, and the effort it had been to plan a road trip with her Chinese and Korean friends.

She tipped me $6.20 on an $11.80 fare. After being an hour and half late. Good girl!

After that I jetted to the aeroport. It was a woman of about 31 in town from Austin, Texas. She had lived there a year. She traveled on business, pharmaceuticals salesperson.

She was attractive, in that she was fit and took care of herself, though not overly stylish or trendy. I chatted her up about the Austin music scene. I think she like being connected somehow with the dirt and undergrowth of society. Her name was Marcy. She tipped $5. Good girl.

Coming back from the airport, the Thing got impatient. I don't blame him. I wouldn't want to hang out at a cheezy brothel ex posto cookie-popping.

Here I lost one and a half nights' cab content and a story about me riding a bike and seeing the aftermath of this car crash. Blogger.com fucked up. Damn you, Blogger.com! I will rewrite it later. I's gotsta work now.

Elvis Parsley With A Bee Pollen Body Booster

How can I be so thirsty today, when I had so much to drink last night?

Comin' atcha. Sunday Night. Okay, Monday morning, about 3:41am.

In keeping with recent tradition, I've accomplished nothing on my day off. I slept until 6pm. Feels good to slack, when you have no real pressing obligations.

I had intended to go see Yonder Mountain String Band at the Blue Note. I didn't. It sold out. I had just dressed and was collecting my bearings when JW called to tell me. I had told him I had planned to attend, and was going to request him for round trip cab rides. He heard from his girlfriend that it had sold out and called to let me know.

I wasn't terribly upset. I had never really listened to the band, and was a little put off by the idea of a 'jam band' playing on strings. I knew there would be entirely too many hippies to drown out whatever may be desirable in the music. But, I hadn't been to a show since mid-November, after my second week of cab driving. Okay, it may have been the third week of November, but I'm not going to bother to check. Okay, I checked, but that post was relocated to my blog from the old blog, and the date was superseded. Okay, I checked the old blog and the memory came back to me. The last two concerts were Jason Ringenberg on November 14, and the Asylum Street Spankers on the 21st. I had omitted the Spankers show because it was utterly unfulfilling.

Yeah, so it had been a long time. I figured I'd rather go to a show I'd probably only half-enjoy than to not. And concerts seem to be my A #1 venue for meeting chicks.

But, it was cancelled. I debated on what to do. Either way, I needed to eat. I went to Smokin' Chicks BBQ. I had my usual, except for an unusually attractive waitress. I averted my eyes, mostly, because she was so attractive. She was wearing a denim mini, the kind fashioned to look as if they were made from a pair of discarded jeans, with the seam flattened out in the back, and a frayed cuff. She was wearing running shoes with socks, and had a partially zipped sweatshirt over what appeared to be a boy's thrift store baseball T-shirt. It was blue, and I only saw the top part of the Optimist Club logo. Very tall, and leggy. She was attractive enough to ruin the fanciful waitress/customer flirtation mystique, like when the white trash character in the movie has perfect teeth and healthy proportions, and impairs your ability to suspend disbelief. I'd have preferred a 7.5 or 8.

After eating, I headed downtown, and went to 9Th Street Video. I figured I could use a little visual fodder. I didn't look long before I remembered their box set of The Trailer Park Boys. I rented the second and third discs from the 3 disc set, which covers seasons 1 and 2. The first disc was checked out.

I had only ever seen one episode previously, at my buddy's house in Fayetteville. He had built it up quite a bit. It is a charming series, whose brilliant moments outweigh its realistic flat spots. My absolute favorite part was an episode where Bubbles was stealing shopping carts from the mall Ricky had taken a job at, as a security guard. They do a good job of not overexposing Bubbles' character, and always leaving you wanting more.

I consumed another 6 pack of Pyramid Apricot Weizen while I watched both discs straight through with Peat. It is a show best watched a couple of cold ones down. Also a nice show for heterosexual cat lovers.

So, that took me up to about 1 am. I was a little beer-tired, so I decided to take a little beer nap and wake up to bring you some blogging. That is now going as planned.

Cab!

I showed up Friday and was issued #7 and a call as soon as I hit the door. It was to pick up food at the Main Squeeze, and deliver it to the dialysis lab at the University Med Center. I hate to be a stereotypical Midwestern caveman, but, what a fucking racket. There must be some big money in pretentious vegan and tofu bullshit. This is good though, as this is what makes us different, and variety is the spice of life. Diversity is truly a wonderful thing. Feel free to express the same disgust in my unhealthy delight for smoked hog ribs.

But, I enjoy not being a vegan. I also delight in not wanting to ever live in that Republican-stronghold-new-L.A.-fucking-Colorado. Beautiful scenery? Fucking keep it. I'd much rather live in Salt Lake City. Mormans are fucking awesome. I hope every rich white person with money hurries up and moves to Colorado. You can build 10 Wal-Marts in my back yard in exchange.

Yeah, but, I went to the Main Squeeze. Compulsory, job-related. Don't even try to tell me anything about smoothies. Keep those, too. I parked on Cherry and went inside to pick up the order. There was an unhealthy/healthy unnatural/'wholesome' odor about the place. It made the chemicals and preservatives that have set up camp in my body and are busy implementing their long-term cancer operation want to vomit in revulsion. Sorry, Main Squeeze, I am already otherwise affiliated. I will tell you this--I'd sooner believe that the girl behind the counter got her pleasant curvy figure and good palor from some BBQ than I would from vegan food.

I worked my way through the hospital carrying the not-right warm-smelling bag of food up and down hallways and on crowded elevators (2 or more parties constitute a crowd on an elevator in the Midwest, especially when two are making politely trite nonhumorous comments about stealing the delivery man's food). The 'organic' food seemed even further out of place in the fluorescent and sanitary-chemical-smelling haven of western medicine. I found the dialysis lab and the doctors who had ordered the food.

As uncomfortable as I had been walking into the Main Squeeze, it was even more awkward standing in a big, open room where three sick and old people were hooked up to giant whirring and buzzing machines filtering their blood. While a woman doctor fetched money a guy propped on a bed receiving treatment fretted with alarm that he was hot and his neck was going numb. Being confronted with sickness and mortality in the same setting where a froo-froo doctor was eager to consume an Elvis Parsley with a bee pollen body booster was most unsettling. I had worn my typical thermal underwear top with my heavy knit cab shirt over it. I was perspiring. My face was flush. It was also daylight, and an unseasonal 60 degrees or so.

The order had been pre-paid. The fare, with wait time, was $7.55. The doctor gave me $12.55. A $5 tip is giant at 4pm, even if you earn it by not being reimbursed for the time it takes to find them in the hospital. I took another sweaty, uncomfortable ride down on the elevator and returned to #7. I drove into the parking garage next to the hospital and got out of my cab. I peeled off my shirt and ditched the sweaty undergarment. I unbuckled my belt and unzipped my pants to tuck my ridiculously long uniform shirt back in. Even though I was standing inside the open door of my cab with my back turned at 4pm, I half-expected the woman who pulled in and walked behind me to scream rape at the clinking of my belt buckle. She didn't.

I went home and changed shirts. It felt like a Monday or Tuesday. It was staring slow, and I didn't expect to make much money on the night. I don't think I had another call after the Main Squeeze incident until a 6pm time call. It was on Sanford, which is pretty much in the hood. I knew where it was, because the last lady I 'dated' lived there, and, if I remembered correctly, this was probably her neighbor. Or maybe her.

I would have been more tense if I hadn't have e-mailed her a couple of times in the previous couple of weeks after two months of silence. We had lost contact for a while, and I thought she may be seeing someone with a beard. I hate that, since I can't compete on that level. Ours had been an odd if not informal relationship. We got along great. She was the only cool chick I had ever met that impressed me with a level of useless knowledge that approached my own.

Perhaps the biggest stumbling block to a 'relationship' I saw with this chick was her apparent sanity. I kept waiting for a glimpse at some baggage or daddy issues. Bad habits. Insecurity. Bipolarism. OCD. Something. Where could it be hiding, so deftly?

As far as I know, she is still completely sane, and, dare I say, 'normal' and 'stable.' These qualities were in extreme opposition to all of my notions of femininity, and frightened the hell out of me, since I couldn't' really see myself with a woman without having a built-in escape clause. Plus, I have a real crazy-girl fetish. I have some irrational need to have .5% of my mind consumed with the thought, that, at any instant, my lady friend might actually kill me.

Maybe in my sleep. Maybe give me a nudge when I'm looking out over a rocky outcrop some place like Ha Ha Tonka State Park. Who knows, maybe cut my brake lines? It's the myriad number of possibilities that fuels the excitement. It adds a whole new dimension to lovers' quarrels and is one extra, critical factor to weigh when figuring out just how far you can push her or just how much you can fuck with her before she goes Lorena Bobbitt on you. What's life without a little risk?

So, I never got the vibe that this chick would get worked up enough over some jackass as to actually kill him. Which is a good thing. Or, she was so good at masking her insanity that she would actually kill you, without you ever recognizing the possibility or provoking her. Which is a bad thing.

All of this just adds up to the fact that we quit seeing each other. It played out like apathy, and was probably at least influenced by my drastic change in hours when I took the taxi job, and my incessant bitching about my old job, and my renewed bitching in those early days over the cab. I think we only saw each other one time after I started driving a cab, and that was after I had worked exactly one night.

Anyhoo, it wasn't her that called for a taxi, it was, in fact, her neighbor. It was forty-ish grandma, with, I'm assuming, a teenage granddaughter and a 4 year-old grandson or great grandson, not sure. Either way, we were going round-trip to KFC on Worley. The round-trip was a welcome surprise, since it would turn a $6 cab ride into a $10 cab ride, plus any additional wait time. Fares were hard to come by Friday, and this wasn't likely a tipper, demographically speaking.

On the way there I talked about how a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken had been the centerpiece of a family Friday night in Lebanon, Missouri, in the late 70s/early 80s. This was when my dad still left the house for something besides work but before he spent his Friday nights in a bar room. Four of us, smelling like soap, would cram into the seat of a pickup, smelling like sawdust, sweat and motor oil. We'd go to the drive-through of the Kentucky Fried (pre-KFC bullshit), me dodging the big 4speed shifter with my knobby bare knees and staring at the racks of glistening chicken through the window behind the cashier. I'd eat chicken laying on the hardwood floor of a $75 dollar-a-month company rental house, smashing up Hot Wheels while watching The Dukes of Hazzard. The theme song for Dallas meant 9pm and bed time.

So here, now, 25 years later, a tattooed skinheaded white guy pilots a fragmented black family in a Crown Victoria taxi for the same purpose.

I ran wait time while they went in. As the fare climbed some $10 in wait time I expected friction over the fare upon their return. They got back in, with no complaint of the meter. Apparently KFC was getting slammed, and they were running out of a lot of stuff. They got some substitutions and extra food, and weren't too upset about it. She noted the fare and said that she would gladly pay for a taxi rather than deal with thugs on the bus, especially with kids in tow. I mentioned I knew her neighbor, and that we had dated for a time. She said that she talked real nice. The fare came to $20.30, which she paid, graciously, exactly.

I figured it would be another hour or so waiting on the next call. I felt lucky for the $5 tip earlier, and the $20 round-trip fare, instead of a $6 drop-off. I backed out and pulled in the neighboring driveway. My ex-somewhat-lady-friend's car was in the driveway, and there was a TV on. I tried her phone but got no answer, after only four rings. I backed out and drove across town to the gas station.

She rang back before I got there. She had been on the other line. She said she thought she saw a car pull in but assumed she had been mistaken when no one came to the door. We had a very enjoyable chat about nothing. She's a lot of fun to talk to. I left an open (platonic?) invitation to ride around in the cab drinking beer some time.

I had also talked to my old buddy Brandon in Fayetteville and my old buddy Andy in Springfield between my first two calls. I had been enjoying my down time. I got a call to pick up at the University Med Center, on a social pass. These are rarely worth much, and there's never a tip involved, since they are basically reserved for indigents, though you do get the occasional long-distance ones, which can be nice on the meter.

The chick came out and got in. She was going to a shelter on North 10Th, about a $5 fare. Crap. She asked if we could go by Walgreens, to get her prescriptions filled. I told her I could only do that if the pass authorized it. It made no mention. She went back in to ask her doctor. Cool. It may turn into a $15 call.

She came back with an addendum from her doctor, authorizing the wait time. We rolled out. She said she had fallen on some stairs at the shelter. She struck me as a bit of a hypochondriac and an injury pity/drama queen, and seemed to be stifling excitement over the prospect of drugs. I dropped her at Walgreens and went in for a diet soda. I returned to the Crown Vic to wait.

There were two other cars waiting on people to come out. After a few minutes, they had left and I had made it up to the door. With wait time running, the meter had grown from about $3.55 to about $12 or $13. I saw Dan, the new driver I mentioned, walk out of Walgreens. He waived and came over to my window. I knew from looking at the schedule that he was off Fridays.

"You not working tonight?" I asked him how things were going on the job and we exchanged stories, talking about his first couple of weeks on the job. He had pissed off Miss Jean when he didn't know where Chris McD's was. I tried to tell him as many of the little tips and tricks I had learned, and referred him to my blog. He's a fine arts student, recent graduate, from Columbia College. I think he's working towards an MFA. As we talked the wait time kept running. It was well over $20. I told him that I thought that a lot of the homeless people in shelters seemed to get hurt a lot, since they could get free meds. It makes sense, since they have no money and can't drink at the shelters. They can also barter and trade pharmaceuticals for other stuff.

A homeless guy came up to us and stood, waiting to be addressed. I never broke from my conversation, to make him have to interrupt. He asked for $.50.

"What can a man buy for $.50 these days?" I asked. The guy shrugged something, and I added, "I guess you can't buy much of anything for $.50, can you?" He said he could use all he could get. Dan dug in his pocket.

"Here's $.09, if you want it." The man took it, thanked him, and left.

I was still talking to Dan when the chick came back out to smoke a cigarette. She said it should only be a few minutes more. She was wearing terry cloth house slippers and had greasy, stringy hair. She finished her cigarette and went back inside. Dan rode off on his bicycle. She came back out and I took her over to North 10Th. The fare ran $37.80. It was hard to feel too bad about it, since that was money in my pocket on a night where it would be hard to come by. I also hated reporting it, because some people would look at an example of abuse of the system and further hate and condemn people for being poor and/or needy. Regardless, that's how it happened.

So, I had only had three fares in 3 hours, but they were good ones. I got another call, to go out off of Rice Road, out off of Ballenger. That's at least a $16 fare to anywhere near downtown,and people that live out there have cars and usually only use cabs when they're going out boozing or have lost their licenses. They usually have some money. Sweet.

I boogeyed out there and found the spot, a duplex at the end of a cul de sac. I pulled in and waited. A Siamese cat walked by. I rolled down my window and said, "hey, cat." It stopped and meowed at me. The door to the duplex opened and a chick walked out. She had on a half-shirt, barely covering her rack, and was shaking out her long, dark hair with her hand, as if she had just rushed to finish drying it. She was dressed cheap, like a stripper, in jeans and a T-shirt, not classy-slutty like all of the college girls out downtown. The exposure isn't much different, but the implications sure are.

She had a mouthful of teeth, like your typical second-tier mid-Missouri stripper, the one with the nice body but rough face. The one who sweeps up tips from the Mexican truck drivers and dirty old men after the hotter chicks leave the stage. The one who would be the classy-slutty college chick downtown on a Friday night if her family had had any money and taken her to the orthodontist.

She got in, and seemed like she was stressed, in a hurry. "Where are we headed?"

"I need to go to Club Vogue, but I have to go to Gatehouse Apartments first, and grab some stuff."

"You know we charge wait time, right? It's about $1 a minute."

"That's cool. I'll hurry. I'll only be like 5 or 10 minutes, I've got to be at work by 9." It was about 8:30.

"That's a pretty cool cat out there." She didn't have anything to say, except to ask if she could smoke. The fare to Gatehouse was about $20. I started wait time. I amused myself for 10 minutes or so, wondering (but not looking) at what might be in the plastic bag she left to show she was coming back. And what it might smell like. She came back out, wearing the same stuff, at least on the outside. I ran her to Club Vogue. Again, she was quiet, except to ask that I take the highway. She had an impressive knowledge of streets and directions, for a stripper. Or for a chick, for that matter.

I opened up the Vic on the highway, where I could. "You want me to get off at Providence, or Rangeline?" Rangeline was faster, though, technically, maybe a hair farther.

"Rangeline," she said, almost before I could get it out. I got her there at 8:56. The fare was $43.80. I heard her shuffling bills in the back as we took the Rangeline exit and neared the Business Loop. I was curious how she might tip. Strippers are great at making money, and love to spend it. Most of them are cunts, though, and won't tip, and would rather try to hustle you, acting naive and flirting, promising. But, this chick seemed to go about her business, almost resigned.

She handed me several bills, folded, promptly upon stopping, said thanks, and exited in efficient fashion. I took them without counting and thanked her. After she was inside I looked at the money. $52. 3 $10s, 4 $5s, and only 2 $1s. Good girl. The extra $2 shows how hard she tries. Strippers make 'tips,' but its not like a 'gratuity,' meaning it's payment in and of itself (though not technically 'set') and not a percentage reward for a fixed monetary amount, like a cab fare. Besides the social conscience to tip, she also possessed the faculties to do the math, the courtesy to do so, and gave me the extra $2 on an already pricey fare, rather than rounding off at $50, like a business man might have.

So, here I've only ran 4 calls on the meter, in 5 hours, and I've still managed to take in $110 on the meter, with $13 and change in tips. And, still a few hours before bar rush. Any other night 4 fares in the first 5 hours would have translated into about $30-$40, and no tips.

My next call was a couple heading to the Outback Steakhouse. It was a white girl, local, past 30, big enough, and a nice black guy, an over-the-road trucker, from Maryland. He hadn't seen the chick in some time. They were in good spirits, tipped, and asked for a card to request me later.

Next, I had a call to pick up on Zinnia. If you recall, I had a hell-night experience finding it the first time. I had this to say about it, "Zinnia is 3 streets from a street 6 streets from 5 streets from a street you never heard of in the middle of fucking nowhere." It took me an hour to find it, after several frustrating wrong turns and vague directions. This time, it was a time call, due in 7 minutes from when they gave it to me.

Well, let's just say I'm a pretty fucking fantastic cab driver. Despite all odds, I made it on time. I picked up two guys and brought them to a house near downtown for some drinking.

My next call was at a house near where I cleared. Dispatch was doing a good job of handing me calls that were originating near where I cleared, especially considering how few calls they had to choose from. Luck seemed to be on my side. I grabbed the call, a drunk group of 6. The ringleader (drunkest, most boisterous guy--homeowner) thought I was hooking them up by taking all 6 at once, but that's pretty standard. He sat up front, noticed the mandolin, and talked my ear off the whole way. He wanted to hear some pickin'. I took them to the Penguin. They took cards to request me back, but only a marginal tip resulted (~$2).

It was about 11 o'clock. The cab company and all of the drivers had been dead. Likewise, I had few calls, but they were all money calls, especially the back-to-back $40 ones. I went to Hardees and grabbed a chicken sandwich. I was trying to eat it when dispatch interrupted with a call. It was near Harrisburg, several miles up Route E, North of town. This sounded dicey for a number of reasons.

1) Out of town calls near bar time can really suck. You only have one chance at a tip, versus the 4-5 you might be able to pull in the same amount of time. Odds are good that 1 in 5 drunks will throw some cash at you. People spending $50 on a cab ride are usually too annoyed (and broke) to give you much of a tip. 2) There's the very real possibility of a cancellation, especially with drunk people late at night. If I drive 4 miles out south and I get a cancellation, I'm a little annoyed, but have only lost 15 minutes or so. If I drive a half hour north I'm going to lose at least an hour, and near bar time. 3) I'm out of my element. I don't have maps for the woods. I don't know where anything's at in these little towns. It may take me a half-hour to find the place. I can't expect dispatch to be much help, either. If I'm late, it increased the chances of cancellation and decreases the chance for a tip. 4) Highway driving poses bigger risks. Namely, in Missouri, they come on four cloven hooves and have white tails. The hood on a Crown Vic is low enough to clip a deer's legs out from under them and long enough to get them spinning good so they can come through the windshield and thrash at you, injured and crazed. People die like this every year in Missouri. At the very least, I bang up the car and catch hell from the owner, taking out a good car and landing me back in #8 or a shitty Lincoln. And, 5) I was trying to eat my damned chicken sandwich.

It's with all of these shitty scenarios flooding my mind that I gunned #7 North on Route E, which is one twisty, narrow, dangerous, rural motherfucker. I drove 60-70 when the speed limit was 45-55 and the corners were marked 25-35. I wanted to get there as soon as possible, in any case. It worried me that I was going someplace rural, rather than, say, Jeff City. What was this redneck going to do in Columbia that he couldn't do at home? Also, my directions were to go 6 miles north of some other road whose location I was equally ignorant of. Then I was to turn right and look for house number 5711. House numbers are hard enough to find in Columbia subdivisions, much less on houses set way back in the woods with no lights on, housing people who don't want to be bothered.

I found the right road without mishap. I turned on it. Dirt. Great. I've been doing a good job of avoiding washing the cab since it has been so cold, but I 'll have to regardless of temperature if it's covered in mud. So, now I'm racing down an even twistier, narrower, darker dirt road. Luckily, house numbers were easy to read on mailboxes, but the houses were pretty far spread out, and I had no idea how far I was going. The houses started at about 7000 and were descending. The lone pleasing aspect was the serious Dukes of Hazzard shit I was pulling in a retired cop car.

I probably went at least 5 or 6 miles down the dirt road, which became increasingly bad and backwoods. I kept my foot in it. On one tight blind corner a narrow two-track shot straight off, through an open stock gate and into a muddy field. "That can't be it," I thought, yanking #7 to the right and gunning it. The road stopped. Abruptly. Dead-ended with no sign or warning into thick brush and woods. The last number I had passed was 5800something. Shit.

I backed up, and re-evaluated the field entrance. Fuck, gotta try it, I guess.

I idled cautiously through the open gate. The lane turned into a path which curved back to the West. There was a newer, spartan, double wide trailer, with some lights on. It was 11:25. I passed a couple of dead lawnmowers, a tractor, a trailer, and a late-model Chevy work-truck, about a $30K affair, maybe an '00 or '01. The front end was smashed up, and the driver's side front sat on some cinder blocks. There was another, even newer, sporty shortbed 4x4 Chevy in the driveway. It had nice aftermarket wheels, tires, and exhaust. There was a tiny deck with no railing on it. A dude walked out, looking at me, confused.

I opened my door and got out. "I guess you know I have no idea where the hell I'm at, right?" The guy was squinting at me. He didn't look as mad as I expected. "Is this 5711?" I asked, not expecting it was until then.

"Come on in." I wouldn't have normally, but I had already got out of the car and I did have to use the bathroom pretty badly. The guy was wasted. He was in his early 30s, lanky, 6'1" or 6'2". He had short-cropped hair with a tiny curtain of bangs, cut square across his forehead. His jug-handle ears jutted forward, making him look boyish, though his face was riddled with tiny rash-like scars. He wore a plain blue long-sleeved T-shirt, tucked into some plain blue jeans, pulled over some lace-up western style boots.

I walked in the trailer, which was bachelor-messy. I asked to use his bathroom and he pointed me down the hall. I had to kick some pants out of my way to get the door closed. There were kid's bath toys and a potty-chair booster seat next to the toilet. I went back to the kitchen, where he had resumed drinking beer. He acted like we were new friends.

Drunks like this rarely have any sense of urgency. I tried to get him in the right mindset to leave. He had offered me a beer, and pointed to two or three opened boxes of domestic beer. He tried to say something about having had some people come by earlier. He wasn't slurring badly, but was fairly disjointed. He may have said something about his wife leaving him. I tried to steer the conversation towards leaving. I mentioned that I needed to get the $50 up front.

He said something about paying me. I told him I trusted him, but I at least needed to see some green. He opened a bank envelope he took from his wallet and showed me a couple of $100 bills. He started to take one out, and I told him I had plenty of change. He reconsidered, and produced 2 $20s and a $10. He grabbed 3 Bud Lite bottles for the road. I had him in the car and on our way by 11:31.

I asked him how he had been doing. Apparently, in addition to his somewhat recent split with his old lady, he had 1) been fired, 2) by his father, 3) sent to MidMo Mental Health, and 4) been sentenced to some jail time, all since Tuesday. I guess he was going to live it up before having to go to jail to begin his sentence. I would be taking him to Stephanie's Cabaret, by way of an ATM. He also said he would probably be there about an hour, and then need a ride up to Lynn's (whorehouse) before going back home.

He thought I was a good dude. I yokeled it up a bit for him. We made it to Columbia without incident. With all of the talking he only managed about 2/3 of a beer before we hit the ATM. After watching him fumble at it a while, I got out to help. I walked him through it, and he took out another $200. I made sure he got his card back, and got him in the car. I had been holding his open beer the whole time. He was a bit embarrassed over his struggles with it, and I said they were hard enough to operate sober when standing up, because they were hard to read and I always hit the wrong buttons.

I dropped him off at the cabaret. He had some sort of membership card there. He looked intently at every bar we passed, and I believe he had been kicked out of them all, which is why he preferred drinking alone. He also had issues with local law enforcement, who knew him on a first name basis. He said he was ornery a number of times. His neighbors had got him in trouble for shooting his gun at 3am--even way the fuck out in the middle of nowhere. I'm guessing he was going to jail after a ton of DWIs. He took his remaining two beers with him. I had offered to dispose of the empty for him, but he had insisted at throwing it a concrete underpass. "I know how these cops is--you don't want that in your car."

I asked dispatch, but he never called back that night. He may have saved himself some time and just gone to jail from the cabaret.

I had one call after bar closing, at the Med Center ER. I was mildly annoyed to get called out of bar rush to pick up there assuming it would be another social work pass. I pulled up and no one came out. After a couple of minutes, I got out and went in. The woman at the desk didn't know of anyone waiting for a cab. I went around the corner to a waiting room. I was in the process of asking the scattered weirdos if anyone called a cab when a nice looking blond girl who I thought was asleep in a chair got up and came over to me. She followed me out to the cab.

At least it was a cash call. She didn't look like anything was wrong with her, though she looked upset. I figured she had been out with friends drinking and maybe there was a car wreck or something. I hate to ask people stuff like that. "I'm guessing this isn't how you wanted your night ended up?"

It turned out that she hadn't been at the hospital at all. She had some sort of mild drama out downtown with her friends, and took off walking. She was visiting from out of town, and thought she'd find a gas station to call from. Instead, she had been walking across campus and went into the hospital to wait, thinking it would be an easy place for the cab to find her. And it was warm. She tipped $3 on an $11.80 fare.

As I was clearing with that chick, dispatch radioed that I had a request at the Martini bar. I hadn't taken anyone there and was curious who it might be. It was right around the corner from where I was at. I got there quick, and went in. It was the couple I dropped off at the Outback. They were pretty drunk. I told them I would be outside, and saw an old friend, Zeke, from when I worked at Mr. Tranny. He was friends with the guy who owned the business next door, and was often at the shop. He bought and sold some cheap cars and motorcycles. He does security at the Martini bar, something I wasn't aware of.

We had stepped outside and were talking when the drunk dude came outside and said he didn't need a cab. The chick had called her brother, who was picking them up. It was my only cancellation all night, so I didn't mind much. Plus, I was enjoying talking with Zeke. But, the guy went the extra step and gave me $10 for showing up. Fuckin' sweet! They could all cancel, if that were going to be the case. Shit, that would be preferable, actually.

Then I couriered some more bloodwork. I think it was for drug testing purposes, but they said STAT. I picked it up at Columbia Regional and took it back to the University Med Center. It was raining a bit. I went in through the ER. Some drunk college student had come in after falling on some stairs. He was holding a mostly-melted 10lb ice bag on his elbow. I found the lab and dropped off the specimen.

The people from Zinnia called back and requested me, too. Lots of people say they will, but few actually do. I set a new personal-best time getting them there.

I had one more call at the Diner before calling it a night. It was two dudes who had seen the Schwag at the Blue Note. They weren't too hippie-fied, though. They tipped $3 on a $6.80 fare.

So that was Friday night. I only ran 15 calls, but set a new personal best at $283 on the meter. My take-home from that was $99, along with $60 or so in tips. Awesome. That certainly beats the shit out of most nights. It was especially good for only 15 calls--I usually average a little more than 20 on a good night. It averaged $18.90 per fare, compared to an average of $7 per fare on Monday, and about $10 per fare on Tuesday. None of the other drivers got close to that, it was all luck. I was the only one who didn't get hammered with tons of cancellations, and the personal requests helped, too. But, those three big fares ($37.80, $43.80, and $50) were monumental. Some days its good to be the cab driver.

Take Away My Sin And Give Me Grace

Ah hell yeah fuck shit balls.

What is this? Wednesday night?

I slept until about 4pm. I got up and went to the Shell station, the UltraMart, Arena Liquor, at Green Meadows and Providence. I purchased a sixer of Bell's Cherry Stout, a sixer of Pyramid Apricot Weizen, and a sixer of Pony Express Gold beer. Then I grabbed an 8-piece bucket of KFC chicken, along with some macaroni-and-cheese, some mashed potatoes (no gravy) and 4 biscuits.

I wish I liked gravy. It is a good white-bread staple. Scott Biram has an original, in which he sings "your love's a lot like gravy, won't you come over here and save me." I shall never know such love.

Bobby Bare Jr. used to do a number, a love song tribute, where he sang "I'll make you biscuits and clean the kitchen." Likewise, I have never made biscuits. Except the Pillsbury instant kind.

Anyhoo, I ate some damned chicken. I love to shred me some poultry, but it had been a while since I had had any fried. The nice thing about fried chicken is that it brings you as close to the source of your meat as about any food. You're given a fried carcass, and you have to fight through the skin to pull the meat off of bones, ligaments, and tendons. Very visceral. Not removed like a lot of processed foods.

I like the contempt that comes with carnivorism. "Fuck you, bird, I'm ripping off your fried flesh. Take it and like it." I also like pork ribs, for the same reason. Fuck an animal. I am the top of the food chain. I don't even have to work for it. All I's have to do is drive my mechanechanized motor-vehicle through a window, and present some linen paper money. And, boo-ya, fried fuckin' bird. That is what I'm talkin' about.

So, I ate some fried dead bird. I found it disgusting. Nasty, fatty shit. I ripped away a little white meat. Even the tators and mac'n'cheese was a little lackluster. I peppered the tators. Damn, this is making me hungry again.

At this point I went downstairs and ate some more chicken. I also drank some more Cherry Stout. And, I did not return to blogging.

So now I'm back. I drank too much stout last night. That stuff carries quite a cock-punch, especially for someone out of practice. Now I'm drinking Pyramid Apricot Weizen. Quite tasty.

So yeah, I got nothing much done last night. I accomplished equally little today. I had thought about riding my bike and definitely planned on finishing up the Eastside sign, but, I didn't. I drank apricot beer and tried to clean my house.

The appy partment has become increasingly un-fung shui. Peat's shit has been taking over. My living room has consitantly shrank in usable space and the couch has steadily receded from the television. It hasn't bothered me, mostly because I never utilized the living room much anymore, due to my hours. Non-communal shit has cramped the living space. I'm talking a half-stack, speaker cabinet, two guitar cases, and the usual giant table of houseplants, a cabinet of insect specimens, a cooler, a rubbermade tub, a package of potting soil, the giant cardboard box the half-stack came in, 5 kitchen chairs, some weird cabinet, two empty metal plant stands, two glass aquariums, etcetera, etcetera. I couldn't see the fireplace anymore. The couch was a mile away from the TV. The dining table had crept into the living room.

I shuffled some shit around, but its still pretty fucking far from cozy. I'm all about having instruments at hand, and my banjo is readily available on the couch. Likewise, my RC-51 sits ready on a stand by the fireplace. So does Peat's acoustic. But, we also have the Warlock and the speaker stuff. Plugging in. Sheesh.

At least I don't have any neighbors yet. The other half of the duplex has sat vacant since the end of July. I know Homkor blames me. I think only white-trash types have even checked it out. I like to think that, after peeping my barn-fresh '67 Scout in the driveway, they peek in the window to see a banjo and a Warlock metal guitar. That should keep them out for a while. I wish I had some life-sized cardboard cutouts of myself, ala Big Pants, that I could put in the window as a solemn warning to would-be tenants.

The wind blew like stupid-crazy a couple of days this week, and riddled my yard with tons of errant trash from all the way up the street. One particularly impressive piece is some gigantor subway poster, of some purported teen idol or some such bullshit, on some celluloid film, blown up to my front door. Homkor visited sometime in the past couple of days, and no doubt they saw all of the shit. I know they were here because they doubled their leasing efforts, pulling up the 'for lease' sign and restabbing it more directly in front of the house. I'm bad enough about cleaning up my own trash, so I haven't exactly had a fire under my ass to pick up all of the shit that was deposited in my yard by that bitch Mother Nature.

But enough about that shit. Cab, you say?

Monday night. I showed up at the cab shack and waited for a car. I had been off for a week. There was a new guy. Some fresh-faced kid, maybe 25. His name is Dan, and he has some shaggy hipster hair, and was bedecked in Birkenstock closed-toe slip-ons, and some corduroy pants. He carried a outdoorsy-style water bottle, decorated with some scotch-taped-on postcards. One said simply "Son Volt," the other was some press release stock for a Japanese sculptor. In the bottle was, I am presuming, tea. Green tea?

So, I was immediately suspicious. My first thought was that he may have been a low-lying comoer, but I don't think that's the case. Some hipster's trying to cut in on my "not-creepy cab driver" angle. We'll see how things turn out. He introduced himself, and I asked if he was going to be a cab driver. "I have been, for two weeks now." Well, I was off for a week, so I can see how he slipped under my radar.

So, I waited for a car. New Guy Dan got #5. Hmm. I was the last to get a car, some 40 minutes later, an hour after I had shown up. I got number 8.

#8 was Psycho Ken's steady girl. It is a '96 or so Crown Vic, but it mucho worse for wear. Lowlights: exterior: aesthetically, it has a number of dents. It's subtle, but it has been jacked pretty hard in the rear, and the car is buckled ever-so-slightly, so that the doors don't fit tight. It has mismatched tires/wheels. Interior: this car has a tan/beige interior, instead of the more utilitarian blues/grays. Thus, it shows stains and dirt worse. I had never driven #8 before. They had tried to put me in it the previous Monday, when it refused to run properly. Well, at least it was running good, this time.

But that's about the last good thing you could say about it. 1) no radio. At all. Instead, a black plastic knock-out filling the hole. 2) the cop spotlight is gone, and there is wadded paper shoved into the empty hole it had passed through. 3) the steering wheel is upside down. Completely, 180 degrees out. This is very awkward, and a pain in the ass. The center of the steering wheel houses the air bag, and it is set low so that it does not interfere with your hands around the rim of the wheel during normal driving. But, turn it upside down, and the air bag is in the damn way. 3) #8 smokes like a chimney. It is ridiculous, bad enough to get you pulled over. One side of the exhaust pours thick, rich black exhaust smoke, and it reeks of burning oil. If you are parked the wrong way the wind will pull the exhaust smoke to the front of the car where the fresh-air intake sucks it in, and the car is filled with noxious fumes. I looked in vain for an idle police car. I was going to ask the officer to write me a warning ticket for the exhaust so that I could use it as an excuse to never drive #8 again. 4) the turn signals/hazard lights don't flash. Rather, you are expected to cycle the switch on and off to create the blinking effect while you're in the act of turning. Like you need one more distraction while driving a cab. 5) One side of the domelight was inoperable. 6) the rear end is well-past worn out, and screams like a banshee. A number of customers asked me if the car was going to make it. It sounded like a Formula race car, going 200mph, and you couldn't drown it out with the non-existent radio. Actually, this was my favorite thing about #8. 7) the heater blower motor was mounted on a toggle switch, and had one speed. High. This made modulating the heat very difficult.

But that's just me complaining.

While I was waiting for a car, Jason the dispatcher/driver walked through. We were talking a bit, and I mentioned something about the van from the previous Monday night.

"Oh, you were the one driving when the woman fell out of her chair."

"No, she popped a bit of a wheelie, but she didn't fall out of the chair." I told him in more detail.

"Well JW said she was crying when he got there." Turns out that after the fiasco I had with the wheelchair van, another driver picked up the same woman and didn't put any straps at all on the front of her wheelchair. She did a complete endo, fell out of her chair, and hit her head. The driver managed to pick her up and put her in one of the van's seats, before JW got there to help. Together, they were able to get her in her wheelchair and take her home. Ouch. And I felt bad for making her pop a wheelie. Poor, legless, bad-kidney lady.

So, yeah, I had been off of work for a week. Which meant I was broke. I like to have $30-40 in change to start out with. I went to the ATM and only had $37 in my account, with a couple of items likely outstanding. Crap. I took out $20, and still had to eat. I hoped to make enough money to deposit that night so that I did not overdraw my account the next day. After eating I had $17 to start the night on. I figured I'd be okay, since you don't get hit with too many twenties that early in the evening.

So, for my first call, after waiting an hour for a shitty car, was to pick up a group home regular. "How much cash do you have on you?" Kelly asked.

"Not much, barely $20." She then proceeded to tell me that I had to reimburse the fare for another cab ride she had taken a few days earlier. I was thinking maybe $5 or so. She was a group home charge, so I wouldn't be taking any money in, just giving it out.

Well, I'll be damned if I didn't have to give her $8.80. That left me with $8 on me. Crap. I saw that JW's Blazer was in his driveway when I drove by. I hoped he might have $100 for me, since I didn't see him on Saturday night, since I was at home sick. It was still there when I came back by, and I actually caught him in it, getting ready to leave. Luckily, he had $97 on him, which he gave me. Thanks, JW. Now I had some money to work on, and a little extra to put in my bank account.

I picked up one of my regulars. An older blind guy who is a student at the university. He's good for conversation, and we had a nice chat about the prospects of the 2006 Cardinals club.

I picked up one of my group home regulars, the one who makes choking, shitting noises the whole time. He's a giant fat black guy, a bit microcephalic, with the requisite magenta sweatpants pulled up past the equator. I hadn't carried him in a while, and couldn't think of his last name. Lets say its Conrad. I asked him what it was. "Dondahrd," very matter-of-factly.

"Donner?"

"Dohndrad."

"How do you spell that?"

"J-O-A-N." Again, very matter of factly. I just wrote his first name down and had him sign it. He wrote it, fairly neatly, C-O-N-R-A-D. He spent much of the ride telling me about what his mamma was making for supper, I think. He also said he'd be needing a ride the next day at 6pm. His rides are all set-up in advance by his case worker. I'm pretty sure his mamma was making greenbeans and cornbread.

I picked up Miss Jean, my regular. She was at the Olive Garden this time, a first for me. She usually only eats at Columbia's classier places, and never anything franchised. She was really fond of #10, because it had grab handles in the back which made it easier for her to get in and out of it. I expected her to fuss over #8. I purposely shut it off before going in to get her, since I was loading her on the side that smoked terribly. The passenger's side rear door apparently wasn't opening from the inside.

I went in and found her, sitting in the foyer. I greeted her warmly, asking her how her evening was going. She surprised me by being quite chipper and cheerful, which apparently also surprised the wait staff and hostess. She typically gives them hell. I noted that she had a different cane. I always check for her cane, since she has a habit of forgetting it. "I see you have a new cane. Did you get tired of your old one, or did it get misplaced?"

"I misplaced it."

I told her I didn't have #10, but that didn't phase her a bit. I took her home and escorted her in, receiving my standard $2 tip. Actually $1.70 this time, since the meter clicked over to $16.30.

I picked up Roberta, another group home regular, at the workshop. She's the one who told me of her half-Hispanic daughter, in foster care. We were riding along quietly when she said "my daughter called me, and she told me that this guy I used to go with was divorced, and that I should call him." She added that it had been some 20 years since they dated. She said she took down his number, and thought she would call him. You go, girl.

I picked up two people from the University Med Center at the same time, going separate places. One was a very congenial black woman, going to the Harbor House, a homeless shelter. The other was a 40something white guy, going out to the Lake of the Woods. Apparently he had made some suicidal threats, or something, and called 911. A sheriff's deputy had brought him into the hospital. He was miffed that they brought him in and he had no way home. He was discharged with a social work pass. He was lost in his own mind when I dropped off the homeless woman. She leaned over the seat and wished him better. He was oblivious to what she said, so she touched his shoulder and told him to get better. He roused and thanked her. It was a very warm human gesture. Apparently the two had chatted while waiting for the cab.

I couriered some blood between hospitals. It was frozen bag of it. I always feel like I am going to drop it or something. That would be awkward.

At one point, I picked up a woman from the Boone ER. She was suffering from some sinus problems and lead poisoning. She said she was poisoned by a rental house she was living in, with lead paint. I labored under the supposition that the passenger's side rear door wouldn't open from the inside for most of the night. But, one guy tugged hard and it opened. So, when it didn't open when I dropped the woman at Walgreens, I told her to just pull harder. She did, and broke #8's inner door handle off in her hand.

After 1 am I had a call to Ruby Tuesday's. It's not a huge drunkard's bar, but there was an American Indian from Montana who had ridden his bicycle there and got soused. The bartender insisted he take a cab back home. I told him we could put his bike in the trunk, and he was cool with it. The guy was drunk, but a lot of fun. It was a short ride, though, so I didn't get much of a story out of him.

I picked up 4 guys, a flag, outside of the Vogue. Cash calls had been hard to come by. We were really slow Monday, and I was running lots of group home charges. This was a tidy score. Unfortunately, though, they were only going as far as the Ramada. But, there were 4 of them, and they tipped $3 on the $7.05 fare. They were a little riled up. The three in the back were huge grizzled rednecks from Poplar Bluff, Missouri. The guy in front was lean and less rural, and was apparently from St. Louis. I'm not sure of their connection, but I imagine they all worked together. Along the way the guy in front wanted a cigarette and they wouldn't give him one. I think it was for his own benefit, like they were trying to keep him from slipping on his New Year's Resolution or something.

The guy in front was talking like he was mad, and threatening to kick some ass when we got to the hotel. I knew it was mostly all in fun, but they were some good ol' rowdy boys. Sure enough, they broke into a bit of a wrasslin' match as soon as they spilled out of the cab, taking out a trash can in front of the Ramada. He was horribly outweighed, and being tossed around like a rag-doll by the burly redneck. The other two rednecks were urging the third to stop before he broke the guy's arm when I rolled out.

My last call was to pick up at Club Shattered. I was pretty close when I got the call, and was pulling up to a group of girls on the sidewalk when dispatch radioed to see if I was getting anyone. Apparently they were on the phone trying to cancel as I pulled up. Dispatch guilted them into the ride, and I picked up two of them. They were only going as far as Jones Hall on campus, and talked among themselves the whole way. I didn't expect much of a tip, as in they were undergrads, had tried to cancel, and only gone a mile and a half. The fare was $4.30, plus $1 for the second passenger ($5.30). The girl handed me a $20 and asked for $7 back. I thought she must have meant to pay $7 ($1.70 tip) and get $13 back. I asked, to clarify, and, again, she asked for $7 back. Sweet! A $7.70 tip on a $5.30 fare.

On the night, I did $145 on the meter ($50 take-home) and made right at $20 in tips. So, $70 for 12 hours worth of work, which is less than $6 an hour.

At least I got called in a little early, at 2:45. I figured this was a reward for having been sent out last and in a shitty car, which made up a little for the new guy getting in #5 right away. But, I pulled up to see that I was the last one called in, on top of everything else. Bollocks.

So that was my shitty Monday.

So Tuesday I rolled in, and was put in #6. #6 may be our flagship cab. If #5 and #7 are dueling hot sisters, #6 is their Rachel-Hunter-aging-supermodel mom. Sweet. #6 is a '98 or '99 Crown Victoria Police Interceptor, and, aside from the paintjob, is the same as CPD's cruisers. It has the newer front end and black plastic honeycomb grill. #6 has a few more miles than #7 (154K vs 104K) and a few extra holes in her headliner, from cop stuff. There are also three brackets adhered to the windshield where cop stuff was mounted. It has black-tinted windows, and no hubcaps. Just raw, black-painted steelies. Pretty stealth, actually.

#6 was just fuckin' fun to drive. A regular-ass cop car. There's one spot on North Anne where you can do the Hill Street Blues/Sabotage video cop-car jump. It is fun. Plain-ass fun.

My first call cancelled. Apparently she had waited over an hour. My second call was on the South side, at the Walgreens on Forum and Nifong. The guy got in and dispatch apologized over the radio for his wait. I asked him how long it had been and he said and hour and a half. He pretty much didn't care. He had learned to expect it, and set things up so he wasn't in any hurry.

He was fun to talk to. We talked about medical procedures, surgeries, and teeth-pulling. He mentioned something or other about having a procedure done on his testicle, where they left the sac open. He said every time he went to the doctor they would rip the bandage off and it was like getting kicked in the nuts. I can only imagine. He tipped well.

My next fare was the Conrad kid from the sheltered workshop. I asked him how supper had been. I'm not sure, but I'm guessing it was good.

I picked up another group-home regular from where he works as a janitor. I've mentioned him before, briefly. He is stooped at the waist, pretty bright, older, and may have Tourette's. He got hosed once before when dispatch had me double up with him and a lady waiting at the grocery store, and he was 45 minutes late to work. On the way to the call, dispatch mentioned I would be picking up two people there, which was a first. I hoped (not assumed) that the second fare was on Bill's way, since he had got hosed so badly that one time before.

Bill has a new coworker, a high school kid named Tim. Poor old Tim is as dumb as a post. Or, he would be if he were any smarter. In his advantage, he is just slow enough to be considered developmentally slow, and not simply dumb. That's probably not very politically correct, but it is a fine line.

And, of course, Tim lived way out of Bill's way. Bend over for screwing number two, Bill. The cab company doesn't give a fuck about you. I apologized to him, and said I would take up his cause with the cab company. I tried to tell him that it must have been an oversight on their part, but neither of us believed that.

So, we had a long ride. The Tim kid sat up front. He said "this is an old cop car, isn't it? You know how I can tell, it's got that...light...in it." He was referencing the A-pillar spotlight. "Does it still work?"

"I don't know. I haven't tried it yet." It didn't. He noticed the tattoos on my forearms and asked what they meant. I told him something or other.

"I'm into body art," he said.

"Yeah, well, it's not for everyone," I said.

"You know what else isn't for everyone?"

"What's that?"

"Bull riding." Tim went on to mention that this was a field he wanted to get in to. I told him that I never met a bullrider with all of his teeth. He said that was a price he was willing to pay. "Maybe I'll just get dentures and I can take them out to ride." Good thinking, Tim.

Tim mentioned being in high school. I asked if he went to Rock Bridge or Hickman. He said Rock Bridge. I mentioned that I would rather be a Bruin than a Kewpie. "Me too. It's a naked baby."

After that I had to pick up some videos at Hollywood Video and take them to the daughter of one of our drivers, Beverly; some old, tootles, morbidly obese day driver, god bless her heart. I dropped by the video store, and purposely didn't run wait time to go in, an act of professional courtesy.

Of course I got screwed. There were two K-Mart cowboys trying to settle up with the video store over some video games that had been long overdue. There was also some GQ wannabe motherfucker acting all annoyed with his girlfriend, next in line. Fuck you all, I'm the one losing money here.

I was still waiting when Guy, another day driver, walked in. He was there to rent a videogame. Guy is probably around 50, with a nice furry white goatee, and a shaved bald head. He has some rather noticeable debilitating gimp limp in one rigid, locked leg. He is cool as shit. I had caught him on Monday afternoon, and he mentioned he was going crappie fishing at the Lake of the Ozarks on Tuesday. I asked him how the fishing went.

I finally got through the line and picked up 3 DVDs. One was Flight Plan, another was Red Eye, and the third was The Fog, or some such shit. I paid for them and took them to Beverly's daughter's old man's place. I got a $2 tip. I had saved them about $12 or $13 in wait time.

After that I picked up at the Boone County ER. I rarely ever get people who had accidents, it's usually just sick people. But, in this case, it was a trucker with his arm in a sling, zipped up inside his jacket. I asked him what had happened. He had been in the act of tarping a load on his tractor trailer, when the high winds had caught the tarp and yanked him off of the top of the load. He fell onto the headache rack on the back of his tractor, bruising his ribs pretty badly. I was taking him back north of town to the Eagle Pipe yard, where his tractor was. He was going to try to sleep a few hours before driving his load into Texas on Wednesday, and returning to his home in Iowa. Ouch. Banged-up ribs are no fun. He winced at every bump the Vic hit.

After that I grabbed my buddy Alex. He is a possible co-conspirator for my documentary project. I told him that the screenwriter dude had called about a brainstorming session, but that it was when I had pink eye.

The I had a handful. A drunk mother-daughter combo, straight out of the projects. It took me a while to find them. I had two different people trying to give me directions over the radio at the same time, with no reference to where I was actually at. I finally found the mom and picked up the daughter at the end of the parking lot, at the mailboxes.

They were going to Wal-Mart, the regular-ass hood Wal-Mart. Mamma had got a credit card and sister had just got out of county. She had drank three beers and had a good buzz going, since she had been in forced sobriety for eighteen days. They were all fired up because mamma had $302 on her credit card. The planned on paying for the cab with the card. This made me a bit nervous.

It was a bit of a ride to the Wal-Mart. Mother and daughter were exchanging jail stories, the food, the guards, etc. The didn't have a tooth between them. Daughter was about 260lbs, mamma maybe 90lbs. At one point mamma said something about "straighten up, and act like you know something."

Daughter said "She ain't put together for shit, but she's mean."

We got there and I took the card. The daughter had already asked how I would know if it were good or not. I told her that I radioed it in to my dispatcher, who ran it on the card machine. They assured me innumerable times that it was good, that there was $289 on it, that they had used it that day, that they had called and checked on the balance, etc., etc. And it better had be good, otherwise they couldn't pay me until Wednesday, etc., etc. It was declined.

Crap. Now I had them at the Wal-Mart. Dispatch had smelled something from the get-go, since we had so many problems finding them, and they were drinking. I knew the daughter had just got out of county, and she had mentioned a few times that she didn't have "no warrants or nothing," but she flinched and freaked out every time we saw a police cruiser. "It's just that every time a cop sees me they find something to arrest me for." The fare was $9.80.

I had already given up on getting any money. I just didn't want to deal with dispatch, since they would want me to get the police involved. I didn't want to deal with any cops, especially since I would be losing only about $3.50, and I would likely lose an hour dealing with the cops, where I wouldn't be making any money. Fuck all that. And, I would be expected to somehow keep them in the car while I waited on the cops. No, sir.

I reread the numbers, but they were all right. I was trying to talk to them and dispatch kept radioing. "Do we have a problem 6? I'm not getting an answer, 6."

To my surprise, mamma produced 2 $5 bills. They were wet. Creepy. But, money. They wanted to go back home. If the card was bad, they couldn't do any shopping. I was muoy surprised that they produced the cash, and didn't believe they were trying to hustle me. They wanted to charge a ride home until Wednesday. I told dispatch they came up with cash and got him off of my back. I told them I would take them back home if they were cool. I figured I had plenty of time before my next call.

I hadn't even made it out of the parking lot before dispatch radioed, and told me to pick up at the employee entrance at the Holiday Inn Select. There's a regular there, and he only goes about a half of a mile to some nearby apartments. I told them to be cool, that we'd drop this guy off, and then I'd run them home.

As I rolled up to the Holiday Inn, I immediately recognized that it was not my regular. It was a young guy with a bag. He came up and opened one of the back doors (tinted windows). He was surprised to find two drunk, black, toothless women in his cab. He got in front. He was going to the bus station.

The ride there was very entertaining. I couldn't apologize to the guy for the women without being condescending and insulting. They were all riled up. I got him to the bus station with no major incident. The fare was $11.05. He opened his wallet and the daughter said "Damn. Look at all that money, he's loaded."

"Yeah, and I'm going to take it all from him," I joked. He was cool, and tipped me $3 or $4. I got them home.

On the way, the daughter said, "Can we put the radio on 106.1 or something? This white-boy music is killing me." I was listening to BXR, adult contemporary.

The mom interrupted, scolding her, "I like some country music." She also added, "I bet he likes some of our people's music, too."

"Do you like rhythm and blues?" the daughter asked. I pulled the copy of "You See Me Laughin'" out of my cargo pocket.

"I'm a big fan of the blues. Look here, 'You See Me Laughin', the last of the hill country bluesmen.'"

"Oh yeah, they do bring it. They's good." The daughter started singing. She was making the mother laugh. She was mildly incontinent. And had to pee. The daughter antagonized her more. I didn't want the poor old lady pissing herself or my cab. The damp money in my shirt pocket was all the more suspect.

We made it back okay. I had told them twice that I didn't want anything for bringing them back, but they asked for my card and swore they would pay me Wednesday. I am starting to turn blue.

My next fare was a dude about my age, perhaps an aging hipster. He had thick rimmed glasses, longish wavy hair, and a goatee. He was drunk. I had got out to find him, and left the radio louder than normal. We got back in to a Cold Play song. I started to turn it down, apologetically. Then I looked at him. "You're not a Cold Play fan, are you?" I knew he was.

We talked a bit about British accents in songs. He brought up AC/DC. It was a bit discomforting.

After 12 am I picked up my Indian buddies from the Shell Station/UltraMart/Arena Liquor. I take the first out South for the first fare, then restart the meter for the second guy when we pass the gas station heading back towards his apartment, near East campus. So, I get about 45 minutes with the second guy, who is closer to my age and speaks better English. The guy works a shit-load, and is an engineering student. I admire that.

After that, I grabbed three girls from Willies, heading back South. The were pretty pleasant. The all three requested cards. As they were deciding who was paying, I heard the two in back whispering. The one in front called them out, making fun of them for doing the math. "What is 20%..."

"Oh, we already figured out what 20% is, but we want to give him more, because he was cool." I got a $4 tip, on a $12.80 or $13.80 fare. And perhaps some new regulars.

At around 2am, I picked someone up from a party on East campus. He was a scrawny white college student, trying to pull off some Jimiriqui Eurotrash look. Silly hat. He bitched a bit about the $2 service charge for using a credit card. His fare was only $5.05. He tipped $2 cash.

After 2am I grabbed a guy from an apartment downtown, and ran him way out off of Scott Boulevard. He had got shut down by some lady-type he was after. He had been mildly bent about it, before securing the key to some other chick's house from her roommate. That's where I was taking him. He was drunk, cool. A Columbia native, poli-sci student. The fare was $17.30, $4 tip. Mama's credit card.

My last call was after 3am at one of Columbia's finer eateries. It was the head chef/general manager, leaving after a long, long day at work. He was drunk. One of my more incredulous Columbia stories involved his boss (the owner/namesake of said restaurant), a wasted kid named Tripiano with a broken sandal, a beer bottle to the neck, 30some stitches in a thumb, and me telling two of Columbia's finest to "just get back in your car and leave." I told him a brief version of the story. And he was a talker, too. He wanted to fill me in on a regular of mine who had had a bowel/incontinence problem and had been banned by the restaurant for shitting herself (regularly) during lunch and dinner.

I let him keep talking, even after we got to his house. He was drunk, and hadn't paid yet. Dispatch had already told me to clean it up and bring it in when I was done with him. I figured indulging him would translate into a big tip. He told a couple of intertwined stories before I could get rid of him.

"You like to party?"

"Well, I do what I can. It's kind of hard to do much with the hours I keep."

"You like to party, wild?"

"I do a little drinkin', but that's a bout it. I try to keep it clean. I change jobs a lot, and that helps." Mostly bullshit.

He paid me, and gave me a basic tip. "Are you sure you don't party?"

"No, but thanks for asking."

I ended up running $231 on the meter, with a take home of $80 before tips. Much better than Monday, and pretty good for a Tuesday. I ran solid most of the night, and didn't have time to get bored. It was a good night to stretch #6 out, too.

I stood around talking to Derek, the dispatcher, and Lorette, the day driver, for most of an hour before going home.

So, since then, I have accomplished little. I did get my living room/downstairs bathroom a bit cleaner. And, I did some pickin'. A good coupla hours with the banjar, and some time thrown in with the mando and the gitfiddle. I also drank 5 Cherry Stouts (9% alcohol by volume), 6 or 7 or 9 Apricot Weizens, a Pony Express Gold Beer, and ate an 8 piece family bucket-o-chicken. I got You See Me Laughin' from the public library on Tuesday night. I watched it 3 or 4 times. I had it on a loop while housecleaning. I owned it before that thieving selfish ex-stripper ex-'girlfriend' of mine kyped it. I did officially give up on ever getting any of my stuff back, though, and did the spiritually cleansing act of officially deleting her phone number from my mobile. The movie rules. Brings tears to my eyes and makes me feel alive. Cuts right through the bullshit. T-Model is my brother.

So, yeah, my lack of accomplishment does benefit you, my faithful reader, with a timely blog update. I can't say why (or won't), but my heart's just not in it the way it used to be. We'll see how things keep up. If shit goes my way (and when doesn't it?) I'm going to have a knock-down, drag-out brawl of a party at mi casa real soon, with lost of free booze. You will all be invited. I look forward to seeing you all, and you better get used to the idea of listening to Bloodshot and Fat Possum artists.

The Bloody Tenant Truth Peace

Woo-hoo, It's Sunday night and I am clear-eyed! Great day in the morning!

Let's see here. Not to much cab content to throw at you. As many of you may know, I've been off of work for a while, thanks to my old friend, Pink Eye. Pink eye sucks. I'll recap any way.

When I last wrote I was finishing up my post (last Monday) when I got a call from the cab company telling me not to come in. This was good, because 1) I don't like to work if I don't have to, and 2) it gave me plenty of time to edit my post. I wrapped up my editing and was deciding what to do with my unexpected evening off. First of all, I needed to eat. I hadn't had anything since breakfast. It was about 4:30 and I also wanted to try to get to Linweld before 5pm so I could get a new bottle of gas (CO2/Argon mix) for my welder.

I took the regulator off of the gas bottle on my welder and threw it in Corpsy's back seat. A truck would be nice. I had only got a couple of minutes away from my house when the cab company called back. I pretty much knew answering it would mean having to go to work, but I did anyway. I hadn't made up my mind what I was going to do and figured I could use the money, anyway. Sure enough, they wanted me to come in and work. There was a men's basketball homegame, against archrival Kansas, an ESPN Big Monday kickoff. They had just realized this and were panicking because they only had 3 drivers on the road.

You may wonder how I could drive if they had just told me they were a car short, but that would be using your brain, and that would be defeating cab company logic. So stop it, goddamnit.

I told them it would take me a little while to get there. They said it would be cool if I were there by 5:30. No problem. I still had to eat, shower, and get dressed. I made it to the cab shack by 5:35.

Phyllis handed me the keys to #8, and told me it was out back. She also mentioned that they had just picked it up from Schilby's Tire and Wheel after they called me the first time. Apparently they hadn't anticipated them having it done in time, but somehow they had finished it. She added, though, that something wasn't quite right and that I'd have to drive it two-footed, since it had "wanted to die a few times on the way over."

Hmm. If the cab company tells you something's a little bad, it generally means its fucking terrible. That's usually when they only begin to take notice of something. And, let me go on the record, to officially unendorse Schilby's Tire and Wheel. If you want to buy tires or wheels, go crazy. But, having been a mechanic in Columbia and having seen their handiwork, I would tell you to stay pretty fucking far away from there if you ever have any mechanical problems whatsoever.

Example: when I worked at Mr. Transmission, Schilby's referred a customer to us for a driveline vibration problem. The truck, a lifted early 90's Chevrolet pickup, came directly from their shop to ours, and arrived with no brakes. Apparently the stainless steel aftermarket brake hose had got caught on something when they hoisted the truck, and snapped it. They either didn't notice brake fluid squirting everywhere, or didn't care. They had also lifted the truck and 'inspected' it due to handling complaints by the owner. They sent them away (they had installed the lift kit some time earlier) assuring them nothing was wrong.

I could tell from across the parking lot that the truck's front end was fucked. Sure enough, when I got it on the lift, there were 4 or 5 joints in the front end worn dangerously past tolerances. All four tie-rod ends were junk, as was the idler arm bushings. The alignment was a mile off. Besides the brake problem, the tie-rods were so loose on one side that I told the management to tell the customers that I wouldn't even drive it around the block without fixing it first.

So, it was little surprise, when I got into #8, that it wouldn't run for shit. Not at all. I had thought from Phyllis's comments that it may have just needed the throttle set screw adjusted, but it had a grievous vacuum leak somewhere. I guess they had had the heads and intake off. My cursory inspection (in the dark with a flashlight) revealed a number of missing fasteners. I tried to keep it running. I had a 5:50 time call waiting on me. It was apparent that this was wishful thinking, as the car was downright dangerous to operate, since you could only keep it idling with one foot buried in the accelerator, the other in the brake.

I tried backing it out of its parking space and there was no power steering fluid in it. Phyllis had told me it had been checked out and topped off before I got in it. I parked it and told her it was a losing effort. She agreed (evidence that it was really, really bad). "You wouldn't drive a van, would you?"

"Sure I would. I'll drive whatever you got."

What I got was #15, an extended Dodge 1-ton passenger van, with a hydraulic wheelchair lift and raised roof. Boo-ya.

When it came in I asked the day driver what I needed to know about it. He said "nothing." He told me that the interior lights didn't work and that I'd need a flashlight. He showed me how to work the school-bus style passenger's door. Want in? I'm in control, bitch. He also said it needed gas badly. I asked about the wheelchair lift and he was adamant that I wouldn't need to know how to use it.

With all of this, I tore off for my 5:50 timecall. Driving impressions: wow. This is one big fucker. There is no passenger's seat, since it has the school-bus door and that is how you climb in, standing, due to the raised roof. The wheelchair lift is behind the two side passenger's doors, and folds up vertically. Most of the floor is open, with grids laid in the floor to allow ratcheting straps to fasten easy, to secure wheelchairs. There are 3 rows of seats on both sides, in the very back, some 10' behind me. They are those funky molded plastic individual seats, like on city buses or subways or something.

The driver's seat is perched very high, giving you a commanding view. I found the seat belt buckle end curled up on the floor. When I went to fasten it it reached most of the way across my waist. Buckled, this put the latch in my sternum. Not doable. I wrapped the buckle end around the vertical pole behind my seat to shorten it to an appropriate length The van responded and accelerated well enough, and the big side mirrors gave me decent visibility. However, an empty one ton van rides pretty rough, and the wheelchair lift rattled and clanged vociferously. Add to this the giant open space and it resonated very loudly. One big rattly echo chamber. From Hell. On wheels.

It was already 5:50 when I left the shack. I hoped I had enough gas to pick up the fare and get to the arena. I listened to the broadcast of the game on the radio. They were tipping-off when I pulled up to the Holiday Inn Select. I figured that with a 5:50 time call they were trying to miss the rush, anyway. I didn't know if the raised roof would fit under the awning thing in front of the lobby, and was craning my neck to look up out of the windshield, to try to assess the possibilities. Before I could reach a decision, though, the passengers came out and up to the van.

They opened one of the side passenger's doors before I could remember to open the school-bus style front door. I looked at them through the mesh network of wheelchair lift parts and remembered the front door. They climbed in. I apologized for being late (it was right at 6pm) but they didn't care. They weren't even going to the damn game.

They filed to the back (2 dudes) and some jackass honked his horn for me to move. I guessed, correctly, that I was low enough and drove under the awning, since the aforementioned assjack was blocking me in from behind.

The passengers commented that they weren't quite expecting a giant empty van with a wheelchair lift, and I told them it was just as weird for me. I had to talk very loudly, to be heard over the van, and for my voice to reach them, way in the back. I was in the process of telling them I had never driven the van before as I turned left onto Bernadette. In midsentence, as if to punctuate the thought, the passenger door flew wide open.

Whenever you close the door there is a big rod that goes from the handle to the inside of the door panel. It is like a cam-buckle, and you have to pull hard to break over the cam angle to lock the handle in position. The inner door flexes enough to do so, and it is held tight once locked shut. I had not pushed hard enough, and the cam wasn't broken completely over. There is also and adjustment on the linkage, and it could stand to be adjusted a little looser. Anyhoo, the damn door flew wide open into traffic.

"It's a good thing I didn't have a handicapped passenger there. He'd have been more-disabled."

The dudes were from Illinois, and were presumably in town for business. They were going to CC's City Broiler, on recommendation from someone at the hotel. "Does Columbia have any topless bars?"

"We don't have any topless bars per se, but there are two all-nude clubs." I proceeded to give them a run down on the downtown bar scene. I dropped them off at the Broiler and went and got some gas. I expected there to be steady calls, but there weren't. When I was fueled up, dispatch told me I would have to pick up at the Plaza III Medical Center, at Boone County Hospital, at 6:50. It was a damn wheelchair.

What the fuck. I had just asked them about operating the damn thing, and they assured me that I wouldn't have to and not to worry about it. And here I was, with a wheelchair for my second call. Damn damn damn.

Dispatch quickly added that he would send another driver over to show me how to operate it. This was the least of my worries. What really pissed me off was that I knew that once they knew I could operate it, they wouldn't hesitate to send me out in the van on any given night. But, the van is not for me. Don't like. Big, loud, and uncomfortable, and you can't talk to people. Medical charges that don't tip. Time wasted strapping people in and unloading them. Weird smells. I prefer the close confines of the Crown Vics.

So, I waited for my time call at Plaza III. I had never picked up there before, much less a wheelchair patient. I rolled in some 20 minutes early and navigated the big van into a parking space. A handicapped space, that is. Felt good.

I picked at my mandolin for a good while. I radioed dispatch to make sure I was on the right side of the building (I was in front), but got no answer. I kept on picking. I finally saw another A*1 cab pull in at about 6:55. It was Creepy Clyde. Flippin' great. I've never told you guys about Creepy Clyde, and let's just say its because he's too fucking creepy. I'll address it later, but he's off-putting.

So Clyde's here to show me how to use the lift. I told him I didn't know if I was on the right side of the building or not, and that I hadn't seen anyone. He said he'd drive around and check. And, of course, he didn't come back. Dispatch finally radioed and sent me around back. It was about 7pm, already 10 minutes late.

I pulled around back, and did a fine job of pulling the van in so the ramp would fold down exactly where I wanted it. Clyde was out there, though, telling me I'd have to turn it around. I maneuvered the van according to his bizarre instructions until he thought it was just right. Then he went to open the back doors, and realized the lift was in the side. Dipshit. He'd never used this van before. I had to move it again, back to where I had it in the first place.

After that, I realized quickly that he didn't have any more idea of how to operate it than I did. Once you open the van's doors, the lift folds down. Clyde said just to pull on it. It did nothing. There's a latch that holds it upright. I found it and released it. Then there's simply an up/down button. It did nothing. I remember seeing a power control module for the lift on the dash, and had made sure it was on. It was. It was cold, and the van lights didn't work, so I was prowling around with my MagLite.

I finally got Clyde out of the way and found a label that said the parking brake had to be set. I did that and the lift worked. I got it lowered to the ground. Hmm. No handicapper. I had hoped for someone in a power chair to just zoom in, and, bang, I'd be done. Hmm.

I went inside with Clyde. It was a dialysis lab. There in a manual wheelchair was one of the oldest, and definitely the blackest woman I had ever seen. I mean the blackest person, ever. Like blacker than African black. Blacker than Ghana black. Blacker than anyone in any Tarzan movie or in any issue of National Geographic black. She absorbed light. She was as dark as the inside of a cow.

So, yeah, she was very black, and had no legs. They were removed somewhere high on her thigh, and her stubs were folded up in a blanket. Something was up with one side of her jaw, like some missing teeth or something, and her mouth would grimace farther to that side than otherwise normally humanly possible. After fucking around with the lift I was now about 25 minutes late.

I rolled her outside and onto the lift. The lift is pretty cold and mechanical, and barely wide enough for a wheelchair. Once I got her on the lift, I hoisted her up, and climbed back inside the van. I had to wheel her over the threshold from the lift into the van. You'd think they'd have made the transition a bit smoother. It was like trying to get a refrigerator on a dolly over the threshold into your house, only it was an old, impatient black woman with no legs and bad kidneys. I thought it might end worse than a nick in the drywall if I jounced her too hard.

It took most of my strength to get her popped up over the threshold, and all of my restraint to stop her there and roll smoothly off of it. Now I had her in the van. Great. Now I had to strap her in. Hmm.

As I have mentioned, there were no working interior lights in the van. I crawled around her on my hands and knees with my MagLite, still frozen from the cold, the side door still open, Clyde still giving me useless directions. There were a number of straps which could be latched into slots in the floor, then strapped to the wheelchair and then ratcheted tight. I put two straps on opposite corners and ratcheted her down tight. I set the brakes on her chair and closed up the van's doors. It was now about 7:30.

I motored ever so carefully around the building and headed up to pull onto Broadway. Broadway is very steep there, and the driveway for the Plaza III is ridiculously pitched uphill, as you exit. I creeped slowly uphill in the van, trying to be as seamless as possible. When the van had pretty much reached the peak angle of the driveway I heard a bit of a distressed exclamation from my passenger. I turned behind me to see her riding a wheelie.

If the van was already pitched at a 30+ degree angle, she was pitched back another 45 degrees, making her roughly 75-80 degrees back of the true horizon, and fairly fucking stressed about it. I hadn't buckled the front strap properly (zero training) and it had loosened. Luckily it caught when it did, preventing her from going ass-over-tea-kettle. As careful as I thought I had been pulling out, I was even more careful backing down, braced for the inevitable possibility that she should topple backwards. Remember, she didn't even have legs for ballast.

Luckily, she didn't topple backwards, though she did bottom out rather harshly when she came over center and landed her wheelie. I got the straps tight, for real this time, and took her home. By the time I got her there, it was about 8pm. I drove past her house and had to turn around, but that was actually helpful since it put the ramp on the proper side, though you wouldn't have known it from her reaction. All in all, that call wasted about an hour and a half of my time. What, no tip?

So, yeah, Monday was sucking. Balls. On top of all this, my eyes were irritated. At first I thought it was just from staring at the computer monitor, blogging for 6-7 hours. But, it continually got worse, mostly in my right eye. It was watering, only it was some slimy slugtrail stuff. Not cool. I thought I might have got a flying piece of steel in there, a spark thrown from my grinder when working in my garage. This has happened to me twice, with pretty much identical symptoms. I kept rubbing it, and it was swelling. I couldn't look at it in the mirror, since the van's lights didn't work.

Calls were barely trickling in. MU was doing a good job of losing their game. At the end of regulation I was across town on a call, kind of glad to avoid the traffic shitstorm at the Mizzou Arena. But, most improbably, MU came back from being down 7 points with 34 seconds left, and tied the game. So, with nothing better to do, I decided to post-up over at the arena and try to snag some people coming out after the end of overtime. I figured with the giant van I could stack 2 or 3 downtown fares and make some decent coin.

I trucked right over and pulled in with my giant Dodge. I went up to the side of the arena, and decided to turn around and park in front. The street was empty, with cop cars parked everywhere. I was swinging the land yacht around, backing perpendicular to the curb to make a 3 point turn. "I'm cool, all I have to do is miss that no parking sign, and its brother...where is that other no-parking--(insert grating, twisting metal sound)."

Great, 8 out of every 10 cops in Columbia are within a couple of hundred yards of me and I just plowed down a no parking sign with my back bumper. I did a quick scan, and, save for a handful of curious smokers inside the Arena's foyer, no one saw me, except maybe for the KOMU8 news van who had to slow up for me to complete the turn-around. I thought that was pretty sweet, but wasn't about to press my luck by parking in front of the arena. I drove a ways down Mick Deaver and pulled into the mouth of a parking lot that was roped off.

I sat there listening to the game, and picking at my mandolin. I saw a parking dude with his orange vest and flashlight wand saunter slowly in my direction. He had a radio, but I figured he was just going to roust me and tell me I couldn't park there. He was some old dude, and not a cub cadet. He worked his way very slowly towards me, but I was determined to make him make me leave. He finally rolled up to my window. I rolled it down.

"Are you listening to the game?" I told him yes, and turned it up so he could hear it. We listened to the last couple of minutes of it and he thanked me, before returning to his post. Sweet.

Then I sat and watched a few thousand people stream past me. Attendance had been 15,061. Apparently none of them were into cabs. It doesn't help that the giant wheelchair van isn't what most people think of when they think taxi. After about 15 minutes two people got in. They were the same couple I hauled early on New Year's Eve. That had been there first Columbia taxi ride, this was their second. The chick went to the back and asked if I had been picking a ukelele or a mandolin. I told her mandolin, and she commented that "those 8 strings are tough."

They were cool, and said I could wait for another fare if I wanted. I told them I had already watch a few thousand people stroll by, and didn't think I'd be missing much. We talked about the van and I told them story about the black legless woman. "Do you ever waste time on the internet?" Since they seemed to enjoy my story, I gave them my blog address.

I picked up one girl, apparently a server at the Bistro, at about 1:30. "They didn't have to send such a big van for just me." She lived on Churchill, which I visit often. I started in on my usual route. She wanted to go a different way. I let her call the shots and it was about $4 more expensive than it would have been my way. You'd think she'd give me the benefit of the doubt. I was in no mood for argument. When we were on old Nifong she asked me if I knew where we were. I live off of old Nifong.

So that was about it on Monday. I had one annoying group of drunk college kids. I really hate it when people cut me off and say "just go" when I'm trying to tell them about the fare or something. Fuck you, you can spare another 30 seconds. My eye kept hurting worse and worse. My vision started getting cloudy. Headlights were glaring badly. I phoned dispatch and told them I was done. I left at about 2am.

I came home and went to sleep at 3am. I was wide awake at 5am, in pain. I called a cab and waited downstairs, in the dark. Ted (Peat's houseguest) was asleep on the couch. Tim the day driver picked me up and took me to Boone ER.

I told the nurse that I had been feeling like I was beginning to get sick for about a week, and that I might have a piece of steel in my eye. They numbed the eyes, and dabbed some yellow dye in there. The blacklight didn't reveal any debris or scratches. The doctor told me it was a bad case of pink eye, and gave me a prescription for antibiotics, just in case it was bacterial and not viral.

I had never had pink eye.

I took another cab to Walgreens. This time it was Steve, the day driver. He asked me about the seats in number 5, and we had a bitch session about it. I got my prescription filled and took a third cab, this time with Jeff the day driver, home. It was about 7am. I had spent $40 on cab fare and tips, which was all I had made on Monday night. At least I've got health insurance.

Pink eye sucks.

I left a note on both toilets, each said "Yo. I have pink eye. Highly contagious. Wash hands frequently. Sorry, Garner." Then I went to sleep.

Tuesday I had pink eye. It sucked.

Wednesday I had pink eye. It sucked.

Thursday I had pink eye. It was better. It sucked less.

Friday I was mostly over my pink eye, but I had been sick the whole time with a sore throat. I never had any energy and slept a lot. The pink eye hit the right eye hardest first, then slacked up on concentrated on the left eye for a couple of days. I couldn't really drive much. I woke up Tuesday with one eye matted shut. As I was getting out of bed a little pus dyke broke loose and a warm backlog of tears ran down my cheek.

The whites of my eyes were pink. All the pink stuff (inner eyelids, etc.) was blood red. Not cool. I kept thinking it especially ironic that I had been trying to get the catchphrase "that's pink" to catch on. Because pink was supposed to be the new cool. But there's nothing cool about pink eye.

I hated to go out, since, besides impaired, painful vision and suspect driving ability, I was contagious. Jeff the day driver had me drop my $20 in the seat of the cab so he could handle it safely and wash it without touching it. I went to get some carry-out from Smokin' Chicks, since I didn't have any food in the house. My eyes were blood red and badly swollen. I tried not to look at anyone.

I ordered my usual, large smoked turkey sandwich, fries, diet Dr. Pepper. Another waitress asked "do you ever get anything different?"

"Well, not in a while. I like to stick with what works. Besides, I really hate turkeys and want to eliminate them one by one by eating their breasts sliced and smoked with tangy barbeque sauce." She said she didn't like turkeys either. Or geese. "How 'bout swans? They're like the chief-president-geese-assholes." She'd never been close enough to swans to form an opinion.

"But ducks are cool. They're cute."

"Oh yeah, I could hang out with a duck. Ducks are cool. They're probably my favorite waterfowl." And wouldn't you know it, but a fucking duck walked right up?

No, really. There's a big pond on John Garry Drive and there are ducks that live there. This one was mostly white, with one of those red plastic-looking Darth Maul faces. I guess its a Muscovy duck. Yeah, so it walked right up. And the chick opened the door and we went outside. It was practically tame. We went back in and it stood outside the glass door, staring at me. Well, okay, maybe I couldn't hang out with this duck.

I also ventured out to 9th Street Video to get the DVD box set of The Trailer Park Boys. I asked them if they had it months ago and they didn't. I saw it the last time I was in, but it was checked out. I saw that it was there, and it didn't have an 'out' tag on it, but I'll be damned if it wasn't gone. Of all the shit you know. And I put $.15 in the meter.

But, as my eyes got better and I got more energy, I started spending some more time in the garage. Friday I felt legitimately bad, but I could have worked Saturday if I really wanted to. But, I was peeved about not getting to work on my project on my days off, since I was sick, and I thought I would make it a cool 6 days off in a row and stayed home. Thus, I got a lot done Saturday and Sunday, but have no cab content to report to you, except for the one story on Monday. But, hey, things are tough all over.

I did finally get a package from Slim Cessna's Auto Club. I ordered 2 shirts and a CD back in mid-November. Apparently they had ran out of the shirts on tour, and hadn't planned on replacing them. But, they hadn't updated their site when I ordered. To make up for the really long wait time they threw in 2 extra free T-shirts, some stickers, a hand-written note of apology, and 3 silk screened posters. So, I got to enjoy my new Slim Cessna CD while working in the garage. It's actually one I already had, but lost sometime last summer, before the rest of my CDs were stolen.

Yeah, so that's about it for me. I got in a lot of good pickin', too. I forgot how 'short' an eight hour workday is, since I'm used to twelves. Man, I gotta get a new job, if I'm ever going to get good enough to make my 2008 show dates.

So, I guess I have to go back to work tomorrow, which sucks. But, at least I don't have pink eye anymore. I'll be sure to bring you all of the lurid details. Maybe I can really wreck a paraplegic's day this time. Wish me luck.

Tarrying

Not Van Hagar

Show Me Off Like A New Tattoo

Holy shit, it's Monday morning.

My appy polly loggies for missing two updates in a row. It's been weighing heavily on my conscience.

And why, do you ask, have I been missing updates?

The big reason is that my sleep schedule has been consistently zany. I think my body is either rebelling against my synthetic patterns, or perhaps thinks it may be spring since it has been nice and sunny on many mornings. Regardless, I have been sleeping nights and staying awake days.

Almost all of my blogging, when I was steady-rolling, was conducted overnight, from maybe 9-12 until 4-8 am. It was in part a product of social deprivation and about the only interesting activity I had to choose from to pass that time. It was just me, a glowing screen, two sleeping cats, Bukka White turned down low, and a night of raw possibility.

But, since my schedule has been shaken, I have been sleeping from about 10-12 at night until 6-9 in the morning. Since the weather has been decent, and I hated to burn daylight, I tarried in my garage most days, cleaning and organizing it a bit. This, along with Cully's Honda restoration efforts got me jonesing a bit to fabricate something. So, I started on a little project last week. It's been going swimmingly, and is something I think we may all be able to enjoy in a couple of short weeks.

So, being awake and working all day left me tired early, so I would sleep nights, and not blog. This was also compounded by the fact that I had some genuine human social interaction a few nights, talking to Cully, Peat, Ted (the houseguest), and JW, the fellow cab driver. I also hung out with my old buddy and new daddy Chris last night.

I made a real effort, though, to get back into the blog swing of things. I stayed up until 7am Sunday morning, so I could sleep all day and write all night. Indeed, I did sleep until 5pm yesterday. Then I hung out with Chris until upwards of 9pm. After that, I bullshat with Peat and Ted until 12. I have also been laboring a bit with the early onset of a headcold. I drank some Theraflu last night and it put me right out. I went to sleep at 12, thinking I would be up by 2am, and would write all night, since I had only been awake some 7 hours. But, sadly, I slept until after 9 am this morning.

I also let my welder run out of gas so I wouldn't be able to work in the garage today. I had started to write a new update last Friday night, though I was very tired, when I had some technical snafus with my compy and gave up for the night, going to bed instead.

But, enough excuses. I owe you some taxi blog.

Let's flash way back one week to last Monday night, shall we?

I was glad to get my good girl #5 on Monday night. Glad, that is, until I went to get inside it. The day driver had just pulled in and was getting her stuff out of it. The seats were different. I rechecked the fender to see that, yes, it was number 5. In place of the original utilitarian police cruiser seats--buckets in front, were some well used civilian seats trimmed in a soft, light-blue-gray velour.

It was a what-the-fuck moment for me. If you recall, I had praised #5 in part for her seats, noting that the back seat was brand new and that the driver's seat, though a little torn from entry/egress, was full of foam, and, dare I say, comfortable. I also liked the little well left between the front buckets, which gave me a tidy place to stash my guide book, flashlight, jacket, and, now, mandolin.

In place of the old seats were some very used ones, presumably from another dead Crown Vic out back. One nice thing about the old #5 seats was that they were made from a sturdy broad-weave tweed, which was of such a shape and pattern as to not show dirt and to disguise and camouflage cigarette burns. Not the new seats. In addition to being a rather unsightly light blue-gray, they came pre-dirtied, faded, stained, and full of cigarette pits. What are they doing to my girl?

As I looked at the ugly new appointments all I could think was that maybe they replaced the seats because the new front seat was a split bench and could theoretically seat a third front seat passenger 'more' comfortably. The truth is, though, that whenever there are enough people to warrant three people in front there are usually 5 in back and they're all drunk, and no one's going to be 'comfortable' anyway. And, if that was the logic behind replacing the front buckets, why not leave the pristine rear seat in place? I guess so it would match the ugly new front seat.

But, aesthetics aside, how did they work? Fucking terrible! I got into the front seat and there was something bulging in between my shoulder blades. I thought that there must have been some adjustment available, though, and went ahead and tried to organize my shit before trying to adjust it. But, now there was no good place for my mando. And, when I tried to slide my guide book under the seat--like I always did in the Lincolns, it wouldn't fit.

I looked for some adjustment for my seatback. There was none. It was a civilian power seat, and, of course, whoever installed it had not hooked up the power controls. It was, however, bolted to the original cruiser's seat rails, so I had forward/aft adjustment, though the adjuster now stuck out ridiculously far from the front of the seat. But, this shit in my back was terrible! It was like riding the school bus with some little shit behind you having his legs locked into the back of your seat, pushing right on your 7-9 vertebrae (I'm guessing at the numbers).

I mean, shit, my shoulders didn't even touch the seat. It was oppressive. And not something you could get used to. Since my shoulders weren't touching anything my upper body swung like a pendulum every time I cornered. There are reasons why car seats have side bolsters. It sucked all night. There was also a pile of leftover bolts in the rear floorboard, further evidence of the cab company's attention to detail and craftsmanship. Sure, #5 is still light-years ahead of the old Lincolns, but I just can't understand why someone would fuck up something that was so perfectly useful, especially when the time and effort could have been focused on more pertinent things, like the non-working horn. Which is still non-working.

So, yeah, that was my greeting Monday night. I rolled next door to Greyhound. I had two reservations getting off of the bus. I had 15 minutes or so, so I grabbed the mando and started trying to pick out the g-scale. Billy, the Greyhound grunt, walked over to my window.

Billy loads and unloads luggage on the Greyhounds for tips. If you've ever seen Greyhound clientel, they're not big tippers, and most of them only have carry-on bags, anyway. If they had money they wouldn't be on the Greyhound. So, I don't think Billy's career choice is too lucrative.

But, luckily for Billy, I expect his living expenses are minimal. By that, I mean he's homeless. Or at least that is my suspicion. Billy is a blond white guy, of average height and build. I have never seen him without his giant worn, faded orange wool hat, from under which peeks long unkempt hair the texture of old barn hay. He is also always wearing a coat and some khaki Carhart-type coveralls. Billy rides his bike to and from Greyhound, and tapes his pantsleg cuffs tightly around his ankles, to avoid catching them in the chain. Which is a bit peculiar in a sense, since only the right leg is readily capable of tangling with the chain. Regardless, he does so, as of late with ordinary Scotch office tape.

This is also some evidence that Billy is homeless, in that he doesn't change his clothes. Apparently he wears the coveralls 24/7, because they are pretty filthy, and the dirt goes over the tape, and you would notice marks from the tape if he were to remove and re-apply it. Billy also has some sun-dried leather skin and no front teeth. Everything between the incisors is missing on top, but that doesn't stop him from having an award-winning smile. Billy is always happy and sociable. The sun-thickened skin piles in crows-feet wrinkles around the corners of his eyes.

His bicycle is a cheap old Wal-Mart mountain bike, which has been painted flat-black at some point. It has makeshift cardboard fenders affixed to it with duct tape, and is decorated with discarded CDs. They are zip-tied in the spokes of the wheels and here-and-there on the rest of it.

Billy whiles away his free time playing 1999 Golden Tee video golf in our breakroom. He is, apparently, quite good, and his scores are the target of the other cab drivers, who are constantly trying to beat him. The last time he came in he ran out of quarters, just as he felt he was poised to break his old record(s). "If I can make $1.50 in tips by the time we close I'll have to come back and play this thing some more."

So this is Billy. And now he's approaching my window, me with a mandolin in my lap. I rolled down the window.

"Play me something."

I told him I had just got it and didn't know how.

"Play me what you know."

Embarrassed and caught off-guard by his insitsance, I picked at it, clumsily.

"Let me see it." I cringed a bit as he took it through the window. "What is this--a ukelele, no, wait, this is a mandolin, right?" His fingernails were thick and yellowed, untrimmed, and thoroughly choked with dirt. He held the mando for a half second, pondering, before hitting it with the pick, and, dare I say, playing the shit out of it. Motherfucker, am I the only person alive that can't play a mandolin?

I was more than impressed, as Billy was presenting himself as quite a quandary. "Are you a guitar player, or something?"

Billy handed me back the mando, and held his finger up for me to hold the thought. He walked into the Greyhound station and reemerged with a ridiculous-looking lime/electric green acoustic guitar. It was a most-inorganic green color, painted all up the neck, including the headstock. Where the binding would be on the edges of the body it was air-brushed white. It was the kind of guitar you would see in the window of a Mexican pawn shop, or, apparently, around the neck of a toothless homeless guy at the Greyhound station.

Billy walked back up to my window. I was completely rapt and wondered what kind of schitzo music he would produce. As he pulled the strap over his head the bus rolled in. Crap. He showed only minor disappointment, with his trademark toothless smile and damn-the-luck attitude, and took the guitar back inside before assuming his position at the hatching belly of the bus.

Monday night was fairly quiet. I picked up one mom with her asthmatic daughter at a specialist's office over off of Forum. They were on a Medicaid pass, and were going to Boone Hospital. The girl was sick, and they were trying to figure out if she had pneumonia. I carried a cardboard box with a new nebulizer in it. The mom was way-too hopped up on coffee. She rambled on excitedly about the girl's father needing to take off of work some, too, to help look after her.

I hauled BJ, my group home regular (grandma voice and dentures, Rams jacket), and Roberta (half-Hispanic daughter in foster care) together. The knew each other from when BJ also worked at the same sheltered workshop. BJ was sporting some particularly pungent and offensive BO. I thought my eyes were going to water. He was sitting up front. Roberta was in back, wheezing most of the way, winded from her walk to the car.

As we headed down Old 63, BJ noted some Christmas lights that were still up. He said, quietly, but not entirely to himself, "Take down your Christmas light, People, Christmas is over already." Roberta commented that she liked seeing them.

Not long after that I picked up another of my regulars. I haven't mentioned him in any detail, but he is one of the more 'normal' group home regulars, and I think his disability was caused by severe drug use. He was complaining about that his case manager ("guardian") wouldn't let him get his own place (he's staying in a group home). He said he had written the judge a few times, but that no one was listening.

On another occasion, I carried him and one other employee from the workshop. He talked about some of his previous jobs, and mentioned losing his temper at one and hitting his supervisor.

"That's the only time I ever lost a job from hitting my supervisor." He mentioned that his temper had improved. "I haven't thrown a temper in...its been a year and a half or so." This guy is pretty good sized. The supervisor had been a woman. He also talked a bit about being bullied and getting in fights when he was in high school.

This guy asks to stop to get a soda sometimes, or cigarettes, and I will if I'm not too busy. He also buys scratch-off lottery tickets. On Monday he said "I don't even have any money for a soda, if we did go to a gas station." He said he had a friend that would give him some money, though. I wished him luck with it.

Sometime around 11 I got a call to go to the Black and Gold, which is, by rights, a redneck bar. It is a tiny bar with no windows where carving on the wood-paneled walls is encouraged. You have to be a pretty big prick to get kicked out of there, and my fare certainly was.

Before he came out, dispatch had told me it was a $25 flat rate, going out of town, and that I needed to get the money