Help There's a Fire

Hoo boy, if it isn't Thursday night already.

It felt like a Sunday all day to me. Not sure why.

Cab!

Monday: I was pleased to see a large pinkish-purple puddle beneath #3, seeping into the ash-colored silt of the chat lot behind the cab company. I guess that bitch finally bled out, and now I hope to put it behind me. I was in trusty #10, with CD in hand.

Monday was a weird night. It was pretty dead, but I still had a pretty good night ($199.79 on the meter). I had a couple of decent fares and most of the other drivers went home, so I got to clean up all of the calls after 1 am. I didn't have too many crazy characters.

I picked up one guy from the Wal-Mart Supercenter and took him to the Eastwood Hotel. It is pretty old, and dodgy. I think the guy probably worked there. He was Indian or Pakistani, or something, and smelled rather fragrant. It may have been something in his groceries, but I'd wager that it was him alone that I smelled, and it smelled very much like he had his pockets full of leftover Thanksgiving turkey. And cologne. Tasty.

That reminds me of one fare from the Med Center a couple of weeks ago. Dispatch had me double up on two fares. One was on a social work pass, so I ran the cash fare first. I felt like I should have given the woman the $16.05 fare for free, for having to sit in the van with the other guy, who reeked horribly. He smelled like the half-empty box of Arm-and-Hammer baking soda that's been in my refrigerator since 1999, only more pungent, with a chemical aftertaste. I think a lot of it was his rotten ass-breath. Like rotten vegetable matter and garlic. My eyes practically watered.

I picked up one guy on Anthony street and took him round-trip to the Petro Mart.

"I just need to go somewhere that sells batteries and liquor."

I remembered him from my first week, and told him several details about himself. He was impressed.

I ran out to the Centralia exit off of I-70 to pick up a Yellow Freight truck driver. He was staying in Columbia for the night, and had the option of staying at the Ramada or the Super 8. I told him the Ramada was a little further, but a lot nicer. He didn't care about the extra $4 or $5, since it was on the company dime. It was about $25 to the Ramada. I was still writing the time down on my sheet when he came back out and knocked on the window. I though he'd forgotten something, but it turned out that his company had cancelled their contract with the Ramada and he had to go back to the Super 8. So I made some more money on the deal, and he tipped me. Nice. I found out after my shift that the Super 8 wouldn't take him either, and he had to cab it to a third hotel.

I picked up one urban girl from Target. She may have been a tad bit Latina, but looked mostly Caucasian, though she had a very exaggerated urban accent. She said she was from St. Louis. She was talking about all of the stuff she got and all of the money she spent. "It's okay, though, I still got my rent."

"I went to Payless, to look for some princess shoes for my Goddaughter, and I was like, damn, $30. That's more than I paid for my Lebron James' for my daughter. I remember when you could go to Payless without yo' mama. Now I need my mama to go with me an I'm grown."

I asked her if she had a good Christmas. "Shit, I don't even do the holidays. I had to come down here. My people's calling me and sayin' to come over, and I'm like 'I'm in Columbia. Don't even bother.'"

She was calling her friend, who she was staying with, on her cell phone. She wasn't answering. "That bitch better be there, or she's gettin' a beat-down." When we got there no one was at home. I took her to her friend's mama's house a few blocks away. She knew the streets extremely well for being from St. Louis.

"Oh, I used to live in Columbia. If this bitch's mama ain't home I'm just gonna say 'fuck her' and have you take me on to Lynn's."

Ahhh, the tie-in.

The bitch's mama was home, so I left here there. She was gracious and tipped, $1 on a $9 fare.

I picked up a woman at the Break Time on Rangeline as they were closing. It was a thin black woman, in her mid-40s, maybe older, with no teeth, smelling of booze. She was in the parking lot, and waived at me when I pulled in. Not in a hail-a-taxi sort of manner, but the way your friend would wave at you to be silly when you were trying to park the car. She waived at the guy locking the front door as he flipped off the lights.

She was pretty fretful, urging me to drive fast because she didn't know if she'd have enough money to pay me. I explained to her that our meters ran on distance, not time, but she didn't get it. She kept telling me to hurry. I explained it to her again. She relaxed some, but not much. She said she used to walk it but that she just found out she had lung cancer and couldn't do it any more. She was wheezing a bit in the back of the cab, leaned forward anxiously. She was also smoking.

She had me stop when her money ran out. I knew we had to be close. "How much further is it?"

"It's just around the corner."

Statements like this are rarely accurate, but I was willing to drive her the rest of the way, because it wasn't a good neighborhood to be walking in after dark. To my surprise, it was just a few hundred yards more. She was moved almost to tears by my modest act of kindness. Her eyes were wet and she wiped at them as she said "you're my Christmas present. This was a Christmas present for me." She leaned forward and hugged me over the seat, the shell of her puffy coat cool against may face.

At 11:15 I picked up a girl getting off of work at the Casey's on Clark Lane. When she told me the address I recognised it. It was the daughter of the woman who drives for A*1 that I had to pick up for work in my first couple of weeks. She was the one who complained to her mom about a cab driver being rude, and she thought it was me, since it was "a young guy with glasses." I made sure she knew the difference.

My next call was to pick up a guy walking near St. Charles and Keene. I wondered what kind of shenanigans were afoot, though I myself have called a cab in similar situations. I drove a ways before I found him. He was bouncing a basketball.

The guy was Crow Indian. He had lived on a reservation in Montana. He had lived for years in Salt Lake City, and had been a Mormon. He had also been drinking, though he was very lucid and polite. He had come this way looking for work, his father had got him a job here. He had grown dissatisfied with the job and quit. He had been walking for an hour and a half. We stopped and he got a 40oz at the gas station.

He had me stop at the end of his driveway. I didn't know if that was for his or my convenience. The fare was $16.05. His wife had called for the cab, and he waited in the car as she came out. She opened his door and handed me a $20. "Oh, you reek," she said, not angry, mostly amused.

"Well, I was at that place."

I gave her change, 4 $1s. She handed one or two back, and was in the act of contemplating, when he said "you've got to give him more than that." I think I ended up with $5 in tip.

After 1am I got a call to the Thirsty Turtle. I pulled up to an odd mix of three men standing outside the bar. A squirrelly drunk guy with a blazer, glasses, beard, and a mop of hair, a nondescript friend of his, and a black man in his 40s. None seemed to be waiting for a cab. I rolled down the passenger window and checked. Just then the bartender stepped out of the door and held up his finger for me to wait. The bartenders there are pretty good about calling cabs for people and helping them out. The concrete steps and curb outside of the door were an irregular afterthought or accommodation, and are perfect to induce a drunk into a nasty header. They tilt askew on a couple of different planes and are of unusual height.

After a couple of minutes the two bartenders managed to herd out two 30something women. They were somewhat dumpy and unfashionable, though they weren't into girls. One had a somewhat fashionable, if unfashionably short, haircut. They were toasted and having too much fun with everything. Not mischievous, entertaining drunks, as I fancy that I am, but just irregular, babbling, prattling women laughing at things that shouldn't be funny, even after drinking whatever they had drunk.

It took some doing to get them into the cab. Luckily I could rely on the bartenders to do so. They weren't bent on driving, or really anything, but they did posture that they wanted out so they could drive themselves, though I think it was just another not-funny attention-grabbing mechanism that was overly entertaining to them.

It was one of the more annoying rides I've had with drunks, though they just thought they were funny. I guess the most annoying part was how even when drunk they were still completely unfunny. One was asthmatic, and would laugh ridiculously about nothing to the point where her bronchial tubes would try to collapse. This, too, was apparently funny, and would exaggerate her laughter into a sick equine snorting chortle, like a fat man in the throws of a particularly unnerving snore. At one point she was lying across or on top of her friend and said "oh, I've gotta fart, Nigga!" Her voice was more that of a little girl's, perhaps with a mild cold.

And she farted. It was a most graceless and indelicate spectacle, but high-fucking-larious to the pair of them, as was the other's frantic demands to roll down the window. Did I mention they thought I was cute? And funny? Trust me, I wasn't trying.

It was as hard to get them out of the cab as it was to get them in. What a handful. One tried to hug me only to clamp down with crude drunk strength on my Adam's apple. Thanks, but, ouch.

After that I couriered some blood between Columbia Regional and the University Hospital. It's kind of fun, the feeling of accomplishment when you successfully navigate your way to a destination within the hospital. It's typically a $9 charge, which isn't a lot considering it may take at least 10 minutes on each end to find the right places. But, there wasn't too much doing at that time of night.

At about 2:55 am I picked up a woman from a used car office on Parkade. I had picked her up once from the Red Roof Inn and brought her there, perhaps a month or so before. This time she came out with some luggage and was going to the Greyhound Station. To go to Milwaukee. She didn't have much else to say. After making change for her I listened for the rustling as she got her stuff together to get out. I didn't hear anything, though, and turned to see her holding up a $1 tip, which was beyond my expectation.

I had just finished gassing the cab and was getting ready to take it in for the night when I saw some squirrelly ethnic dude humping a big pack across the sidewalk in front of the gas station.

"Are you driving taxi?"

"Yeah, that's me," I said, walking up to him.

"How much to go to grake hount?

"Greek Town?"

"Graketown."

"Gatehouse? Gatehouse Apartments?"

"Grayhoundt, bus."

"Oh, Greyhound. From here, about $4." I figured the other bus had already left. He got in the cab and we headed over there. He was telling me that he and his brother, whom he was living with, had been fighting over a girl. He was trying to relate to me, that he just had to get out of town. I dropped him off at Greyhound, $4.05. I doubted another bus would be there for some time.

That was Monday night.

Tuesday: I had spent a fair amount of time obsessing over my hair Monday night. I became convinced that it conspired to keep me unhappy and foolish-looking. I would shave it off. I woke up late Tuesday, and was in quite a fog. I knew the only prudent thing to do would be to wait until my days off and give myself a trim. Rather, a spread a plastic bag over the sink, put on a #1 guard (1/8") and buzzed it off.

Shaving your head is cathartic. I'm not a good candidate for the cue-ball look, though, so I leave an 1/8". That keeps it from being a shining white beacon, and looks less vain than if I were to Bic it. Of course it is a bad time to shave your head, since it is so cold out. But fuck it.

My first call was to the Harbor House, which is a homeless shelter on North Ann. It was a family, though, so I guess they're temporary residents. Two black woman and three kids, maybe 8-13. I took them to the Golden Corral. They were pretty excited. Apparently it's not a good idea to walk around a homeless shelter gloating that you're going to the Golden Corral, or everyone will hate you and try to glom on. I told them it was $1 extra for the second adult passenger and the woman in front said, "I don't care, just hurry and get us there."

As I was turning into the Golden Corral a car topped the hill in the oncoming lane. It's a four lane there, with a turn lane. The oncoming lane crests a hill where the speed limit drops from 45 to 35, though most people are doing at least 50 when they top it. I had plenty of time, but as the car topped the hill the woman in front freaked out for a half second, before she realized we were cool and that the car was decelerating. "Ahhh! You're not trying to get me killed, are you?"

"I thought you were hungry! I'm just trying to get you there. What, you'd rather not eat in an ambulance; you're not that hungry?"

"No if a car hit us the baby would come and I wouldn't get to eat for a week." I gave them a healthy dose of post-Christmas candy canes from the still-half-full tub.

I headed from the Golden Corral across 70 to pick up Miss Jane at her gracious-retirement-living home. She was pleasant enough, for Miss Jane. We were heading to Murry's (I've been misspelling it 'Murrays'). I've developed a habit of making sure she has her cane, since she tends to forget it and have no idea where. She had it this time.

The parking lot at Murry's doesn't flow too well. There were cars parked blocking the door, so I couldn't pull right up front like normal. I stopped the cab, turned on the flashers, and escorted Miss Jane inside. I had left the back door of the cab open.

I came back out and there was a semi-professional looking white dude, 40-somethingish, in a nice new Toyota SUV, stopped, waiting to get through, coming opposite the direction the cab was facing. Though there are parking spaces facing that direction, they were already full. He had his window down as I walked quickly around the cab, closing the rear door mid-stride.

"You could have done just a little better job parking," he said, in an overly-polite tone. Why bother dressing it up? Just because you say it nicely doesn't make you less of a dick. Am I supposed to feel guilty? Should I apologize, and lie prostrate before you? To think I delayed you for nigh on a minute's time, when you're in your autumn years and couldn't possibly reverse and use the other exit?

I managed not to say anything. I grinned and tossed my head back, nodding with a wild-eyed stare, as if in agreement. What the look said was 'you'd best not fuck with me, I'm likely at the end of my rope and would like nothing better than the excuse to eat your soft heart,' or so I thought it might convey all of that. It was a brief exchange. People. Entitlement. Inconvenience. Importance. Urgency.

It was an unseasonable 50 degrees or so when I showed up for work. People mistook it for spring, and there were legions of people loitering idly in the somewhat suspect neighborhood I drove too as dark set in fully. I wondered when that neighborhood had been taken over by thug life. It's funny how insular race is in a town like Columbia. Most white people live in their own neighborhoods and only see black people in passing cars or at the Break Time. Columbia is just big enough to support separate bars and business for different races. White flight has not slowed one bit since Brown v. Board of Education.

I picked up another regular whom I seldom haul. She is an attractive blond girl, from Maine. I think she's paid to take her clothes off, at least part-time. She has some more 'legitimate' pursuits, as well. She was very conversant the only other time I picked her up, in my second week of driving.

"Are you new? I've never seen you before?"

"Yup, brand new. Fresh as a daisy."

"Really? So this is your first night?"

"No, actually I've been driving for a couple for weeks now." I suspected she may have been a stripper the second I saw her. She had on a nice tailored mid-length wool coat, over what must have been a short skirt, short enough that I did not see evidence of it. She was wearing some shiny leather boots that came over her calves, a la Condy Rice.

She asked about Creepy Clyde, and told me a story about how he had driven her the day before, then said, "well, I guess I'll see you around."

"Then he showed up where I work. I was like 'are you working tonight, Clyde?' And he said no, but gave me and my friend a ride home, anyway. I just thought it was funny, though, that he would show up where I worked."

Pause.

"You, know, where I work."

Bait.

"Where's that you work?"

"Club Vogue."

I suspected she may have been fresh in the game, as she wasn't completely jaded, bitter, defeated, pregnant, tattooed, pierced, strung out, etc. Most strippers aren't chipper about their jobs (in my limited experience), and it seemed like it was fresh for her, like she enjoyed saying it aloud. As we chatted she asked me how I came to be driving a cab. I said something about going to college for seven years.

"Seven years?"

"Well, I got a degree in English, then I went to law school."

"Really, I'm working on a degree in English. Let me guess, you're doing this so you can write a book?"

The thought had never crossed my mind, but I had just written my first real blog entry. I thought it somehow prophetic.

"Well, I guess I'll see you around, then." She said.

She definitely stuck in my mind more than my average fare. I spent a while fancying how a chick could fancy me. Then I spent a while longer chastising myself for being an idiot, and how pathetic it was that an attractive woman could rule me so simply and effortlessly, and that these ladies were particularly well versed in male puppetry.

That night I asked some other drivers about her. None of them knew anything about her stripping, so she may have only just started. It was one of those cases where you're sure you're talking about the same person, but you each know a completely different side of her, so you'd rather think that you're talking about two separate people, so as you don't have to admit that your perceptions were erring or illusory.

She had largely slipped out of my subconscious when I got the call Monday night, some 6 weeks later. She was wearing the coat again, but this time with some of those trendy yet less-fashionable ugh boots. She got in the front of the old Lincoln. Her face looked more ordinary and approachable than I remembered.

We chatted about something or other related to the cab business on the short ride to her house. The conversation continued. We chatted about music, and she impressed me with her interests. In as much as anything might have impressed me, as I had adjusted my musical requirements downward in inverse proportions to how attractive she was. Yet, she exceeded even what would have impressed me in a far more modestly-attractive female.

The length of our conversation, parked in her driveway, easily exceeded the length of the cab ride (though it was only about 5 or 6 minutes to her house). It ended, again, with, "well, I guess I'll see you around."

Again, I spent some time over-analyzing every nuance. I have given up on reading women. I assume all of them should find me irresistible, though most don't. It's not that I can't read signals, it's just that if I am wrong one times in ten the embarrassment and burning anger with myself is enough to keep me erring on the side of the conservative. Maybe in another 6 weeks I can get another chance. Baby steps. Leave 'em wanting more.

At 9 o'clock I had a call to pick up another regular. In a recent post I mentioned how I returned his gloves to him at 4:30 in the morning because I thought he was cool enough. This time, he wanted dropped off at the Wal-Mart on Nifong, a couple of miles from his house, from which he would walk. I was sure this was because he was broke, though he didn't say so. I estimated the fare would be about $10 to there, and I was going to just run him in the rest of the way for free since he was a regular and was working hard. I wasn't going to bring it up, though, until we were close.

We had only gone a little over a mile when he said "is that meter right?" It was at $4.80, which, with $1.80 for the first 1/10th of a mile, was about right. "Nah, man, it only cost me...like...I got all of the way to Wal-Mart the last...two times...for like $5 something."

Bull shit. No fucking way. Now way in hell on the meter, and I knew no other driver would ever hook him up, since he was a black guy with his grill all crunked up. He was trying to bullshit me, which was pretty insulting, since I had done him the unthanked favor of returning his gloves and had been planning to help him out. Then he said he only had $10. The fare to Wal-Mart is $10.30. Why you gotta do me like that?

I went to the library. I got a Bukka White CD and a copy of an R.L. Burnside CD I had lost (I think I left it in the CD player in a truck I sold). The Bukka White is alright.

I picked up the same girl from Caseys as the night before, the one who had confused me for the other driver. "Didn't you give me a ride last night, too?"

"Yeah. I shaved my head, though, so no one would mistake me for that other dude anymore." She was mightily indifferent.

At about midnight I had a call to the Fairfield Inn. I picked up two early 20-something males, dressed a little pimp, like they should be downtown at the Field House.

"Where we headed, guys?"

"3215 Rangeline."

Hmm. The last houses on Rangeline, near the business loop are in the 1200 block. 3215 should be further North. I couldn't think of any houses up there, except Lynn's, the whorehouse.

"Is that a house or a business you're going to?"

"It's a house."

Hmm. We headed up that way. 3215 is Lynn's. Who the fuck were they trying to kid? I'm a cab driver, goddamnit.

"You guys have a good time."

I ate some El Rancho chicken tacos, the first time I had been back since my puke-o-rama night. They went (and stayed) down with no incident.

Shortly after 1am I had a call at Tellers. I pulled up in front and waited. The front doors were papered off, and said "Closed: Private Party." I saw several people milling around inside, saying their good-byes, drunkenly, and finding their coats and drinks. Sal from Eastside walked out the door. He kind of glanced at the cab, and went back in. Then a woman with a black cocktail dress came out and got in.

She said something about Sal calling a cab for her, and watching for it.

"That Sal is a real country gentleman."

She lamented being a woman by herself at a wedding reception. Apparently everyone was hitting on her. Then she tried to wait outside, where bums and transients hit on her. She was nice enough, though not in a pleasant mood. She helped herself to a candy cane and crunched away at as she spoke.

I had to wait on her to go inside to get money to pay me. She was drunk and bobbing along the walkway to her house. She had lost her right shoe, though the straps were still tethered to her ankle. She tried to put it back on without breaking her wobbly stride. She took her shoes off inside, and I saw her pass the large front window at least five times in both directions before she reemerged and paid me. As I was heading back downtown I saw a tube of lipstick that must have fallen out of her purse. It was 'WET WET RED.'

I got another good fare out of Tellers before the party had completely evaporated. Then I picked up a group of four drunk college males, at the Steak and Shake out on Worley. They were pretty cool, and we spent much of the ride exchanging Clyde stories.

My last call came at about 3 am. It was to go to Santa Barbara, in the El Chaparral subdivision, out east of town. That place is shady. The streets are like a maze and heavily lined with cars. Visibility is poor. My street guide was confusing on the location of a certain street, and I had had a frustrating experience the first time I went out there. I was wary of what kind of legitimate call might come out of there at 3 am on a Tuesday.

I found Santa Barbara right away, this time, and the house numbers started at 4200. The address I was given was 1115. I called dispatch and he was telephoning while I drove around to see if I missed something. I saw a couple of slender girls in coats walking on an adjacent street. They didn't look at me, which I found a bit odd, since I was the only source of activity in the otherwise dull, mute neighborhood.

Dispatch radioed back and said the phone number he had been given was a wrong number. This coupled with the nonexistent address was exceptionally fishy. About this time I passed the girls again, walking a different direction. I have heard of a number of robberies in Columbia that begin with a woman asking for help and then a number of men appearing suddenly to rob you. One of the girls threw her arm up. I still had the car in gear, with a clear lane ahead of me, and no one else in view. I opened my door.

Now they were walking away again, like they didn't see me. "You guys call a cab?" One of them said 'no' without looking. They were probably only 15. I think maybe they were sneaking out of their houses and had considered taking the cab to go somewhere, but chickened out. Either way, I left them to their own devices and got the fuck out of there.

That was Tuesday night. I did $145 on the meter, so I took home about $50 plus some tips. It was misting and cold when I walked out with Psycho Ken.

"I was thinking about riding my bike to Rocheport on the Katy Trail, but this mist is none too inspiring."

"Ah Hell no," Ken said, the words barely out of my mouth.

I had thought I might do something useful on my day off, Wednesday. But, I woke up and it was rainy and overcast. So I slept until 6 pm or so. I was kind of mad at myself. I dug out my old NiCad Cygo Lite bicycle headlight, thinking I may get that ride in sometime.

I went to Buckingham's and had some ribs. Then I went to the library, where I got a Ralph Stanley CD and Outfoxed: Rupert Murdoch's War on Journalism, a documentary about the abomination that is Fox News. I will find Bill O'Reilley and kick him in the dick. I also picked up a sixer of Pony Express Rattlesnake pale ale. I watched the vid, drank 4 brews, and got nappy. I slept from about 12 until about 3am. I was considering riding, but needed some food. I figured I'd wait until 4 am, and get some MacDonald's breakfast. While I was waiting I finished up Faulkner's "Light in August."

Well, I ate some breakfast, but couldn't get much further past that. I watched a documentary about Howard Hughes on cable. Then I checked out my blog, actually reading a little of it myself. Sorry for the typographical and grammatical errors in that last one. I should try proofreading some. I explored some other blogs, also. I uncovered a handful of taxi blogs. One was old and dormant, from a Manhattan cabbie. One was from a woman in California, one a guy in Boston, another from Anchorage. The one most like mine is written by a 42 year old bisexual male in Lexington, Kentucky. Which is not to say its just like mine.

I also looked at incredibly bad band web sites. This all kept me busy until about 8am. I was exhausted, but couldn't sleep. I went to my garage and decided to try to fire up the old Homelite. I first put the new handle in my splitting maul. Then I mixed some gas for the saw, and filled it up, along with the bar oiler. But, try as I might, I could not make her run.

I cleaned the air filter and the spark plug. I had ran it out of gas the last time I used, probably 18 months ago. It always started remarkably easy, but not this time. I'll have to do some research. I didn't bother checking to see if it had any spark while I had the plug out.

Damn.

Well, I decided that, in that case, I would try to clean out the garage some more and haul off some scrap. I am a bit of a hoarder and a pack rat, and hate to throw stuff away. Especially raw materials, since any single scrap of steel could be just the thing I need in a future project. But, in reality, being able to use that one little piece may save me $.30, and I have to store it and it's thousand little buddies, butt ends of tubing and flat stock, scraps of sheet metal and diamond plate, in the way, for indefinite periods of time. And, if I need a 3" length of a given piece of tubing, it is usually easier to cut it off of a longer piece of stock, rather than the 6" piece I've been saving, since it may not be long enough to clamp in my chop saw and I could lose a finger trying to hold it. Fingers cost more than tubing.

So, I hauled off a surprising good lot of scrap. Then I decided to ditch the giant metal desk someone had given me, to make more room in the back of the garage. The desk was not the optimal fit, and I have a large mechanic's roll-away chest I built for working at the tranny shop to take its place. It took a second trip to haul off the desk. I still have plenty of cleaning and organizing to do, though. I slept again at about 3 pm, getting up at 9pm. Then I went and ate, and grabbed some cat food and litter.

That pretty much brings me up until now. At least I accomplished a little something on my days off. This Saturday is New Year's Eve, and I'm working, so I hope to make some damn money. As much as I complained about money when I started I've about got used to starving this month. It will be nice to start doing $200-240 on the meter again, vs. $108-$145. And, who knows, maybe some nice girls will show me their nekkid breasts for my troubles.

Que Up, and Form a Line

In four hours and twenty minutes adult contemporary radio stations will be playing "Brick" by the Ben Folds Five.

Hola, Amigos, its the day after Christmas. Since I last wrapped at ya--

I got my last update up at about 7 am or so and crashed out for some shut-eye. I got up and left the house at about 3:20 pm. I needed some food, though I had no real appetite. It had been hard to get out of bed. I didn't have time to eat at Jimmy John's but figured I would have time to eat a sandwich while I waited for my cab came, even though this meant that I would have to eat at the filthy table in a cloud of cheap cigarette smoke.

For those of you curious, I take a #4--Turkey Tom with no tomato, cheese, and BBQ Jimmy Chips.

Sadly, I was only half-way through with the sandwich when they gave me a car and a call. Bollocks. I re-wrapped the sandwich and swept the chips back in the bag. I was only half-upset because I had only been half-hungry.

And which car did I get put into? Why, dear old #3, the minivan that I went off about in my last post. Of course they hadn't done a damned thing to it other than top off the fluid, which is not the source of the problems. Jerri added some ATF before I pulled out. Reverse was on its way out. When you put it in "R" it did nothing, until you revved the engine for a few seconds, then, 'Bang!" it would slam into gear, feeling like the van had likely spat the transmission on the ground in disgust.

My mom had called me when I was in a rush to get into Jimmy John's. She wanted to know what I wanted for Christmas. I told her nothing. She said that she had thought she could replace some of the "tapes" I had stolen. For those of you who don't know, my CD collection was swiped late this summer. I told her that she could only find them online, as that was where I had bought them, either from artists' web sites or at concerts, and not to worry about it.

I had taken Split Lip Rayfield's live album with me to work, in case I got #10. Thus, I was even more disappointed in #3, which has a rattling empty socket where the stereo should be. The night would be slow for some time, and I would scream at myself and sing in random intervals. Once I screamed for no apparent reason, loud enough for a passing couple, bent against the rain, to turn and look at the cab.

So, yeah, #3 was alive, like a horror film antagonist or a clingy ex-girlfriend. I was not thrilled.

But, once again, we were predictably dead for the first 7 or 8 hours. I had about one call an hour and would pass the time reading Faulkner in the parking 'structure.' I was into my book and almost annoyed to get calls. Once I had a cancellation at the Gerbes on west Ash. That's one location where you're pretty much guaranteed to not make any money. It's almost always some low-income woman who lives a couple of blocks away. Anybody else would drive their own cars to Hy-Vee or the Wal-Mart Supercenter. So, I interrupted my reading to drive over there, only to come up empty. Dispatch sets up a rotation for the drivers, based on the order we show up that day, and hands out calls accordingly. When you run one call you're dropped back down to the bottom and have to work your way back up again. Thus, it really sucks to get a $3 call, because now you're out of the running for another hour, and the next guy may get a $100 fare. At least the cancellation kept me alive for a potentially better fare.

I tried to get into Toys 'R' Us to buy a gift for my niece. The first time I got a call the second I pulled into a parking space. The second time I went in, but nothing immediately caught my eye. The lines were extremely long, though, and I doubted I could get through one without getting a call from dispatch. My mom had told me that she had picked up something extra for my niece that she had wanted, and that I could tell her it was from me. I'm a shitty uncle.

I had one call in a subdivision on the south side. These are generally groups of students headed downtown for drinking, and they rarely ever cancel. But, when I pulled up to the duplex, no one came out. A neighbor stepped out and said that the people had got a ride from someone else, and had already left. I thanked him for saving the time waiting, and he said that his group may be interested in a taxi. He apparently couldn't convince them. I told him that since I was already there, and would be wasting a round-trip and time, that I would run them for 1/2 price. If I ran them for half-price and put the fare down at what it should be on my sheet I would be paying for 15% of their fare myself. I decided that I would just call it in as a cancellation and take the four or five dollars for myself. This would be the first time I ever didn't run a fare the right way. It was either that or come up with nothing, again, and I knew that that would be one more call at bar closing.

I explained the situation to them (it turned out to be four guys) and told them that it required silence on their part while I phoned in the cancellation. As soon as I pushed the button on the mic one of them said something loud and stupid. I laughed at my own stupidity, and was glad that he had at least spoke up before I reported a cancellation. I told dispatch I got my fare and was resigned to losing money on the deal. His friend told him he was stupid, and only then did he figure out what he had done. The straight fare was $18.05. I told them to give me $9. Even though there was four of them it appeared they weren't going to help me out in the least. Luckily, the last guy tipped, and I collected $13 from them, which covered the fare and gave me about $1 for the ride. Then one of them asked if I would pick them up for free later that night. "Dude, I'm starving tonight. I'll be lucky to make $50 for 12 hours at this rate."

I had one good fare, early. It was a guy going from Green Meadows drive all of the way to Wagon Trail Road, north of Prathersville Road. The straight fare would be $26 or so, and there was a 10 minute stopover at the pharmacy. The total fare was $36.80. The guy was a carpet layer with back problems. He picked up a prescription of 180 perkocettes, as well as two other pain killers/muscle relaxers. He said he took all three at once and worked all day like that. I took one perkocette a week after I broke my collarbone and nearly passed out when I had to stand up for an X-ray.

I picked up two other guys north of town and took them to TK Brothers'. It was a decent fare, and they asked for a card so they could request me later. They called at about 11:30 or so, to go to another bar, with another friend in tow. One of them lived in Chicago, was a salesman of some sort, and liked to beat the hustle. He tried to get me to turn off the meter and not report the extra passengers. Not so they could pay less, but so that I could pocket more. I've had a few business-types that try this. It's as if I am insulting them by going by the book. They'll try to convince me that hustling is the only way to do things, since honesty is misplaced in an essentially shiftless cash-based business. I always tell them that they can feel free to take the difference out of my tip and that I won't take it personally, but that honesty is the one thing I have going for me that I can be proud of.

And they usually do. I got the $.20 change from the guy's friend when he paid to get the first guy to quit arguing and go inside. I also try to explain to them that the cab drivers they think are hooking them up will steal from them too, by not running the meter and exaggerating the fare, or taking a longer route. But they just want to feel like they've won something and that they're street savvy, even when they're paying the same amount. As if fulfilling the cabbie hustler stereotype is a performance worthy of gratuity. Well fuck them.

Every time I got a student or young person in the cab I'd ask them what was keeping them in Columbia for the holiday. I got into a chat with one guy about small town life. I told him a story, for a change, about going to a bar in Lebanon the night before my 10 year high school reunion. I told him I would ask young locals what there was to do for fun in Lebanon, already knowing their answers.

"There's nothing to do here, except drink. Lebanon sucks."

"You know what I've found is a fun thing to do in Lebanon?"

"What's that?"

"Pack up and get the fuck out of here."

No one ever disagreed.

I picked a latina woman up at the mall about 9:30, with two little girls. She spoke Spanish to them in the cab. The younger girl, maybe 3 or so, was getting fussy and cranky. As we drove past the new Chuck E. Cheese's the mom pointed it out to the daughter.

"Bonnie, vamos a Cheese's? Vamos a Cheese's?"I had wished she'd say Queso's. Then, when she started crying a bit, "Tranquila, Bonnie, tranquila."

I took one girl to Harpo's around 11. I asked her why she was still in town, and she said she had worked at Chevy's until 10.

"Fresh Mex?"

"That's it."

"Do you guys have to sing birthday songs there?"

"Yes. I hate it." She gave me $6 on a $3.55 fare.

At about 12:30 I picked up a regular and took him to Club Vogue. He was the kid who celebrated his 21st birthday at work at Flat Branch a week or two earlier. He's a fresh-faced kid with short cropped blond hair and an earring or two. As he got out I told him to take it easy on the ladies.

"Don't go breaking too many hearts in there, Marshall. Those poor girls are delicate flowers."

I picked up a douche bag from there a bit later. He was probably 35, with a bit of a John C. Reilly quality to him. Dopey face, curly hair. He was wearing a Punisher sweatshirt. A grown-ass man.

I asked him about it and he said he got it at Hot Topic in the mall. He went on about how the girl working there had forgot to remove the ink-bomb security device on it.

"I didn't really care, because when I was a kid--I don't care who you are, you stole stuff when you were young. Anyway, I was always really good at taking off the ink capsules, without breaking them. " Rather than return it, he tried to beat the ink capsule and it exploded. He went back to complain and the Hot Topic manager threatened to fire the girl. He had got mad at the manager for being a dick, and went on about a 90 day probation period and how he knew how to manage people. He was also pissed off to be going home along. He was doubly mad that he had tried to get on some ugly chick and she shot him down. "I would have even settled for a blow job."

#3 had been holding up okay, I guess. A few customers were shocked when it slammed into reverse, and worried that it would break down. I assured them it wouldn't. One guy, a cab regular whom I have only hauled once, thought it was particularly amusing.

"Don't you have a NASCAR-like pit crew at the cab company, which like totally rebuild the car the second you drive it in?"

"I wish. We've got one sawed-off prison dyke (she's not a dyke) that checks the fluids and the owner's son tries to work on them. We're under orders to drive this one until the transmission completely blows up." I also reminded him that I picked him up once before, on Paris Road, that he had a six pack of Labatt's Blue, that he had asked me what my shirt said, that I told him it said "Brown and Burnside," and that he had said "Oh, you're one of those artsy-fartsy cab drivers." Then I told him where he lived.

"You've got a pretty good memory."

"Don't you forget it."

On top of its other ailments, the failing transmission, the dim excuses for headlights, the out-of-balance tires and worn front end, #3's rear tires were both losing air. I didn't notice sitting in the parking garage reading a book, but when bar rush hit they were both noticeably low, and, coupled with the loose front end, the van was getting pretty squirrelly. I was too busy to stop and air them up, besides, there was a cold rain falling and I was pissed that the cab company still hadn't repaired them. So here I am blasting through the dark with practically zero visibility, with the van all over the road. It was especially bad when a pot hole that went unobserved (no headlights) would nearly jerk the wheel out of my hands and set the little blue van a weeble-wobbling.

I had just cleared off of Ballenger Lane with a turbo-drunk student from downtown, and was trying to keep the van on the road when I got a call to go to the Arrowhead Motel, a shitty old roadside stopover which is a haven for crackheads and prostitutes. I was headed that way when dispatch called me off.

"Disregard that, I need you to come into the office here, ASAP."

I couldn't figure out what the big deal was. I wondered if maybe a cop had seen the van and noticed its poor headlights or flat tires and they needed it off of the road. When I got to the dispatch office I pulled around back. Apparently Taxi Terry, the Hustler, had been pulled over in the handicap-accessible Medical Transport van and told he could be driving it at that hour without a disabled passenger. I still don't know what the fuck that was about, but that's the same van on the road every night. He had had a passenger, which is why the called me in, to take him the rest of the way home.

I had picked him up before, from Hoot-N-Anny's. The guy gets more comatose drunk than anyone I have seen. He's in his 40s, and has a breathalizer on his work truck. There are apparently many mornings he can't go to work because he's still too drunk to get it to start. He wasn't as shitfaced drunk this time.

He got in and wasn't overly put out, since he was drunk. He was a little peeved about Terry, though, saying he had given him $20 already, just to get pulled over and delayed. Of course Terry didn't give me any of the money. So now I'm cleaning up another mess for the cab company (they should now the laws about their equipment) and getting screwed on payment. The guy said he was going out Route B, towards Hallsville. I ran the meter to see just how much money I would be losing on the deal.

I asked him what the fare was when he gave him $20. He said he never saw the meter. He also said that Terry always ripped him off, and that he had got him in trouble with his old lady one night, when he said "Oh, you're that no-tip motherfucker from last night." Apparently his lady didn't know he'd been out the night before, or with whom. I told dispatch he'd already paid Terry, and they told me not to charge him for the rest of the ride. When we got nearly to Hallsville--the meter was at about $23, we went by his girlfriend's trailer and she wasn't home. He wanted to head back home, on the south side of Columbia. I told him I had to charge him the meter for the ride back.

About the time we crossed 70, #3's transmission did the exact fucking thing it did on the last night I drove it. It lost power, coasted to the side of the road, and wouldn't stay running. I was livid. In addition to getting screwed out of $23 to Hallsville, now I would get screwed out of a $30 fare coming back, since the guy had his second cab strand him also. I got on the radio and told dispatch to send another car.

It was about this time that it occurred to me that a large part of the problem was that stupid wreath on the grill, blocking airflow to the radiator (which houses the transmission fluid cooler), and causing the tranny to overheat when driving on the highway. Then, when it had cooled off, it would work again. Phyllis was in the office now (the owner) and told me to put fluid in it. I asked her if there was any in the van. She said there were two quarts under the hood. No one had ever said anything about checking or adding fluid, besides the fact that I was so busy and it shouldn't be my responsibility.

I checked the fluid. It was a little low, but not enough to cause any problems like I was experiencing. I stood in the rain in the dark and added one quart. Predictably, it made no difference whatsoever.

After 4 or 5 minutes it cooled down enough to run again. We made it about a mile further before it did it again. This time I made it onto the Stadium off ramp. Again, I radioed for a car. The fare was at $29.05. After several minutes, Psycho Ken showed up in #8. I was mad as hell, and grabbed all of my stuff out of #3 and got in #8 with the fare. I told Ken that he could bring me back after we dropped off the fare and it would probably be cool enough to limp back to the shack. He radioed to say he had us and Phyllis went off, saying that I should have stayed with the van, and to turn right around and go back. We were on 63 and the guy only lived at the next (AC) exit. Ken ignored her and ran him home. He radioed and asked what he should charge the guy for the fare. It as $29.05 on my meter, $6.05 on Ken's, and he had already gave Terry $20. He had been in three cabs and it had taken an hour and a half to get back to his house. It was 3:30 am.

"Charge him whatever Garner's meter read plus yours." That's $35.10. I was in the back seat, shaking my head. If I was the customer I would have told them to get fucked, especially now that we were sitting in his driveway. Ken turned to him (remember, he's a regular).

"How 'bout we just make it an even $40, Mike."

Mike grumbled on about the time, the three cabs, getting pulled over, breaking, down, etc.

"Okay, let's just make it $36 then." He produced his credit card, still grumbling.

"Put it on there, and I'm gonna call and cancel it in a half-hour." I was sure he'd be passed out in a half-hour and not remember in the morning. He paid $36, no tip on the card.

Ken dropped me off on the side of the road. The van started, and acted like it would move, as I had expected. I radioed "this thing acts like it will move, do you want to cancel the tow truck and try to limp it in?" It was 3:30 now. I didn't even get a fucking response on the radio. I was livid. Normally I'm headed back into the shack at 3:30, and I had to be back at work in 12 hours, for Christmas Eve.

I was livid in the cab, and it took everything I had not to quit right then. I was going to call John Luter Transportation, our competition, and take a cab back to dispatch, get my car, and go home. I was hungry. I couldn't calm down enough to read. I waited for a drunk driver to careen off of the ramp and hit me. I resolved that the owner better or act right or we'd have a scene once I got back.

I wanted to blow up the van, but I also needed it to run so I'd have heat. The only thing that made me feel better while I was waiting was to bounce the tach off of the rev limiter and drop it in gear, at four or five minute intervals.

The tow truck arrived at 4:20. The driver had fallen asleep on his couch while putting on his shoes. Still, he beat my estimate by some 40 minutes. I ranted the whole way back about the cab. That made me feel a tad bit better. When I got back Phyllis didn't say 'boo.' I did my paperwork and dropped my cash. She said thanks. It was almost 5 and I was exhausted from my blood pressure skyrocketing. I had to be back in less than 11 hours, for another 12 hour shift.

"Do you just want to not come in today."

"That sounds like a good idea." It's that easy to placate me. I was instantly much happier. I had Christmas Eve off and could go visit my family on Sunday with less effort. I chatted with JW for several minutes. It turned out that Phyllis didn't even know anything about Terry getting pulled over. I couldn't figure out how the fuck the previous dispatcher could fail to mention it. I gave JW a ride home and returned to mi casa. I turned off my alarm and slept until 6:20 Christmas Eve.

I had just got out of the shower and dressed when I heard keys in the door. I knew Peat was coming back on the 24th but I only then made the connection. He was pretty beat but seemed interested in going with me to grab a bite to eat. He said Flat Branch was open, so we went there.

I would enjoy a meal, relaxed, sitting at a table, for the first time in a long time. I refrained from having a beer. I thought I might pick some up on the way home and have a little Christmas Eve celebration of my own. We ran into Francis, one of Peat's entomologist buddies. Francis is about 41, I think, and British. He was drinking it up at the bar. We invited him to join us at out table, and he did.

Francis is pretty cool, in that he's a British man's man, not a half-assed limey fruit. He's got a rockin' accent. I suggested he should duke it out with Simon Rose, and establish himself as Columbia, Missouri's premier British gentleman. Francis was getting tanked, killing time before he had to go to midnight mass. It was about 8pm.

We stayed at Flat Branch until 9, when they closed. I saw Marshall from the night before and chatted him up. I drove Peat and Francis to Eastside Tavern, where we thought we'd do a little drinking.

Francis had ran into a couple of ladies who liked ladies, whom he'd met while MCing a women's arm wrestling tournament, I think at Shakespeare's. We ran into them again at Eastside. The four of them hit up the pool table while I selected 18 tracks on the juke box.

I learned a bit of practical advice, which I shall pass on to you. I always hate it when I miss my first 2-3 songs while I'm selecting the remaining 15-16. A good starter tune is "Papa Was A Rolling Stone." Not only is it funky, it's really long, so you still get to hear everything you played.

The foursome had settled into a festive group at the pool table. I sipped a bourbon-and-water and took in the scene. Peat has a dancing habit. Lesbians are not immune to it. The booze was flowing and the bar became a haphazard dance floor. I watched cautiously, waiting for the first spilled drink, bumped billiards player, or otherwise put-out bar patron. After one particularly spastic fit of some jig or another Sal jokingly suggested he should "take your medicine, dude."

Francis couldn't seem to resist the allure of the gal-pals, though he harbored no illusions to their preferences. He and Peat and the ladies exchanged a number of bizarre group hugs and embraces. Francis is moving soon, and was carrying a book, having people write fond remembrances in it. The ladies each wrote poems, which moved him. Francis had also hurt a hamstring moving something heavy, and one leg would collapse, sending him to a knee in pain at random intervals and with no warning. I tried to keep an eye on his book for him, since he seemed to misplace it every few minutes.

I was thinking of my favorite British expressions when I remembered a story Jay Mohr told in his stand-up, about getting in a fight in a London airport. He was talking about how it's hard to take them serious when they're angry because they have such polite accents. He had been straddling two different lines, so he could get in whichever one moved first without committing to the other. A guy told him to "que up, and form a line."

I asked Francis if he would say that for me. It didn't make any sense to him, he was wasted, and trying to remember what he was talking about before. I figured it had slipped through the cracks, and had pretty much forgotten myself, when, in response to an innocent question from Peat, Francis bellowed at the top of his lungs, "I said que up and form a line!" Priceless. Fucking priceless.

Somewhere into my third bourbon-and-water I retired to the bar. I ordered a Bass, a Newcastle, and a Woodchuck from Jarrett, the bartender. He seemed to think a Red Stripe would round out the world tour nicely, and I succumbed to his keen salesmanship. I set the four bottles in front of me, along with my whiskey, and went to work. I told Jarrett I had seem him play on his 30th birthday, and I paid for some shots my friend Susan got for him. He was gracious. I also asked if I could make some grammatical changes to Sal's rules, posted behind the bar. The 'your' instead of 'you're's were distracting.

Jarrett assured me that he had worked there for a year and his boss probably wasn't up for such shenanigans.

At some point Peat made some non-friends, apparently from the pool table. I know no details. Someone said something to the bartenders. He came up to order a drink or something, and Jarrett took whatever he was drinking away, if I remember correctly. They had a bit of an exchange.

"Look, I can vouch for this guy, he's pretty cool (meaning Jarrett), and I live with this guy (meaning Peat). If we need to leave we'll do so, but I'm sure we're all reasonable adults here and we can resolve this amicably," I said, or some drunken variant of that. It think that was about all it ever amounted to. Jarrett told me that he had to suck dick for tips at his other job, at Flat Branch, and had zero tolerance with customers who got out of line when he worked at Eastside. I continued to mind my business by myself at the bar, and I'm not sure what Peat busied himself doing. Francis was MIA and we figured he had stumbled to mass at some point. I re-met Steam, but, as I was last time, I was again shitfaced.

Jarrett checked up on me some time later. "How are you doing, man?"

"Dude, those 'your's on that sign are killing me." I had my Sharpie out. Jarrett indulged me, and, at my direction, added an apostrophe and an 'e' to the misused words. I hope he doesn't get fired.

As best as I recall, no further drama ensued. We called A*1, and JW gave us a ride home. Peat was pretty worked up. I had made it out with another Woodchuck, which I slipped into a neoprene coozie and worked on sitting on the coach. Peat continued to rage around the apartment, and, well, in retrospect I suppose I should have dropped off the recycleables.

As I sat on the couch and laughed audibly, never looking behind me, I watched Peat make pass after pass through my field of blurred double-vision, hurling bottles near the front door. I knew with the first one that the fireplace would have been a more practical target, but could tell from the dull thud that the bottle had been embedded in the drywall. Might as well let it run its course.

Sometime later maybe a case of beer bottles, a couple of pint glasses, two clocks, a coffee pot, the Rubbermaid box from the porch, and its contents, all lay scattered and smashed at the entry way. One bottle stuck out from the wall. Since a 3 inch whole isn't much easier to patch than a 6 inch hole, and perhaps to make Peat less self-conscience of his efforts, I laughed and put my head through the wall in an act of kinship. I also took photos and told him I didn't take it personally, though I would have to document it on my blog. I passed out near two.



I woke of at 5:45, and took a shower. The lights and the TV were still on downstairs, the Power Puff Girls were on. I serenaded the cats with the Leadbelly song I had stuck in my head. I called a cab and drug the door over the broken glass to go outside. I drove to Lebanon listening to a Fat Possum sampler over and over.

If you would like to support this site, do yourself a favor and purchase this: Fat Possum: Not the Same Old Blues Crap. You'll be helping my site because you'll fall in love with the CD and buy all sorts of stuff from Fat Possum, if you have any soul. Then they can stay in business. Then I'll be able to buy their CDs when I get some money, and maybe I can work for them some day. And that will make me happy, and I'll be able to keep writing. So quit talking about it and do it, goddamnit. There are a few more volumes of the sampler, and can be had at Streetside for like $6 often times. $4.98 on the site. "Let's see, I could get a #2 extra value meal from MacDonald's, or everlasting salvation." Don't disappoint me.

Well before I hit Lebanon I was starving. I knew a trip to the Waffle House was in order. It was just getting good and light out as I drove down Jefferson Avenue. I saw a whiskey barrel being used as a trash can on the sidewalk. As I turned and circled back, I saw that they were everywhere, with lids on them with swinging doors. They looked brand new--the wood hadn't even grayed and the bands hadn't started rusting. I took the lid off of one and lifted out the plastic trash can inside it. The one downside I have discovered to my Corsica is that there is no way you can get a whiskey barrel in it. They're bigger than you might think. I had some white oak stains on my pants form the wet wood as I hit the Waffle House.

I had a double 1/4 cheeseburger plate with regular hashbrowns. A greasy gut-bomb. I went to my parents' house and tried to get some sleep. At 3:30 my old man woke me up and we went to my sister's house. She got me some useless stuff. An oversized Snoopy T-shirt, with snoopy as a seasonal Joe Cool. It says "Have a Cool Yule" on it. I asked her what she had been thinking. She also got me an MU Santa Claus figurine, a credit card style Swiss Army knife, and a mini-Mag Lite. Now that's nice. We wrapped up about 7 and I drove back to C-Town.

I was a bit exhausted and crashed out, sleeping from 10-12:30, when my cat woke me up, clawing at my door. She was smart enough to run down the stairs when she heard me at the door. I sprayed her with water from the squirt bottle I had in my hand, all of the way from the top of the stairs, in the dark. She freaked out, and, inexplicably, ran back up the stairs, and past me into the bathroom. I squirted her the whole way. She realized her folly and tried to hook a huey out of the bathroom, slipping and falling in the fresh water I just sprayed. Cats are retarded. I am superior to them. They are just little machines for turning cat food into cat shit. Of course I pay for their food and let them shit in a box in my house, which I in turn clean up. Perhaps I am the one who is retarded.

I took a shower and headed to the Waffle House. Gut bomb #2. And here I am, blogging. It's now T-minus 96 minutes until "Brick" hits the airwaves.

See Eloise Go Linin' Track

Well hola, Amigos! Is it Thursday night already? It seems like it should be this time, because I've actually been busy the past couple of days.

Oh boys, is you right?
Done got right!
All I hate 'bout linin' track
These ol' bars 'bout to break my back

Oh boys, can't you line 'em, Jack-a Jack-a
Oh boys, can't you line 'em, Jack-a Jack-a
Oh boys, can't you line 'em, Jack-a Jack-a
See Eloise go linin' track

Moses stood on the Red Sea shore
Smotin' that water with a two-by-four

If I could I surely would
Stand on the rock where Moses stood

Mary an' the baby lyin' in the shade
Thinkin' on the money I ain't made

Oh boys, can't you line 'em, Jack-a Jack-a
Oh boys, can't you line 'em, Jack-a Jack-a
Oh boys, can't you line 'em, Jack-a Jack-a
See Eloise go linin' track

Let's time travel all the way back to Monday, shall we?

I had blogged well into the wee hours Monday morning, to get an update up for you at about 7am. I was pretty tired when I got up and went to work. Because I sleep so late I rarely have time to enjoy a meal before heading in. And, I really don't have a proper appetite until I wake up a bit. Thus, I usually just cram something down with no desire to eat or taste for the food, since it will likely be several hours before I catch a break. Even then, taking all of your meals hurriedly, sitting in a cab, is not the best way to savor and enjoy a meal. Those are just some of the concessions that come with a 12 hour work day.

So, I was still foggy when I rolled in at the cab shack. As I was parking on the street a day driver rolled past in the light. He had a Christmas wreath on the front of his cab. I though it was a pretty arm-pit way to hustle tips. I certainly wouldn't want to prostrate myself like that.

As I walked around the building I saw that the rest of the cabs were similarly bedecked in bright seasonal wreaths. Great.

I went in and sat down at the folding table in what serves as a break room. It is the backside of the offices in a strip-mall sort of affair. There is no ceiling and the drywall dead-ends several feet short of the beams supporting the roof. Some naked fluorescent shop lights hang from the rafters on long, thin chains. The walls are yellowed from years of cigarette smoke. There is a crude sink, an old refrigerator, and a couple of arcade-style video games. One is a 1999 version of Golden Tee, which the drivers find addictive. That is one more bad habit I have successfully avoided.

The driver's table is of the particle board variety, the top bubbled and scarred from spilled beverages and use. On it sits two large plastic ash trays, stained and melted from burned-out butts. At any given time there are some Avon catalogues and a days-old newspaper. The chairs are mismatched and similarly aged. Now there stands the rack of uniforms, on an over-built pipe structure, along one wall. On the other side of the table are a snack and soda vending machines.

On this particular day there were a couple of night drivers and a couple of day drivers already at the table. The day drivers are finishing their shifts and doing their paper work, while the night drivers are waiting for cars. One particular day driver, who's never impressed me so much as to note his name, was wearing a cheap Santa Claus hat when he walked in. When I poked my head into the little dispatch office I saw several plastic tubs of bulk miniature candy canes (310 each) and a stack of cheap faux fur Santa caps.

I sat down across from Psycho Ken. Ken has recently acquired a black leather hat, perhaps in an Indiana Jones style. He wears it along with an old, faded, dirtied St. Louis Rams jacket. The Jacket is of pre-2000 vintage, as it has the older, brighter, banana yellow and royal blue cartoon colors. Or, rather, would be bright were it not from age. He has a sizeable gut and no ass. He apparently owns neither a belt nor drawers, as when he stands up you have to careful not to catch an eyeful of crack before he can hitch up his jeans. He never takes his coat off. I know that buried somewhere in it lies at least two knives and some cigarettes, which dangle from his bottom lip with branded regularity. Some scruffy cheap white tennis shoes round out his attire.

Ken has a graying goatee and usually has at least a week's worth of patchy scruff on the sides, giving him a feral look. His glasses have thick lenses and over-built, cheap silver frames. The lenses are scuffed and pitted. Where lens meets frames there are deposits of green and black tarnish, grease, and funk.

I started to give Ken shit about having a wreath on his car. He gave me his predictable psycho stare, intended to be both menacingly grave and serious. He expressed his displeasure over the wreathes, then, hushed almost to the point of pantomiming, he said "and you damn sure won't catch me wearing one of those stupid hats."

A minute or so later, Phyllis appeared, carrying the hats. She seemed ready to meet opposition, and was trying to deliver a cheerful sales pitch for our benefit. She said if we wore the hats we would get better tips. My laughter and expression conveyed my skepticism, as did Ken. The nameless day driver was eager to support Phyllis' claim, which made me no less skeptical.

"Exactly how much more in tips did you make?" asked Ken.

"I don't know, probably $15 or $20."

I doubted it. I was sure that no one who would otherwise not tip would be so stirred by the ridiculous hat to proffer a gratuity. And, if anyone tipped extra, it would probably be because they were sympathetic to a fool who did not even realize the extent or direction of his folly. Laughing at you and not with you.

Phyllis was already working on Ken. He took off his black leather hat and tried the Santa hat on. Rather, tried to try it on, as apparently one size only fits most. He stretched at the cheap hat and managed to get it pulled over his crown. I started laughing immediately.

"You're right Phyllis, that makes me want to give him money already. Here, Ken, let me give you a tip."

Phyllis was encouraged. My opposition was neither slight nor veiled.

"I'd love to, but I'm allergic to acrylic and fake fur," I joked, examining how cheaply made the hat was, and wondering about the third world sweat shop worker's contribution to our commercial holiday and its fleeting materialistic trappings.

"I'm not going to make anyone wear one, but I promise you you'll get better tips."

"I'll pay the extra tip money not to wear it. Besides, I'll just be the control, so we can determine just how much more in tips everyone else makes. I'll sacrifice myself for the cause." I hated to dampen her Christmas spirit. "How 'bout I take it and see if I warm up to it?"

She was pleased with the concession. It was a pleasant exchange and I felt bad for trashing her a bit in my last entry. Of course my true intention was to absolutely never wear it, but, I figured that if I showed it to my fares they would get a kick out of it and that might result in better tips. Not that I grub for tips. I am a server, but not a servant.

So, I took the cheap, crappy hat and the bucket of candy canes and climbed into #3. I was supposed to hand out exactly one candy cane to every passenger.

"At Christmas we're going to count how many we have left and see exactly how many people we had in the cabs for the holiday." I keep a detailed log, as does everyone, as per policy, documenting the exact number of adults and children who ride in my cab. It's right there on the driver's sheet that I turn in every night that they check over and file away. To think that someone would bother to count candy canes that are not there is absurd.

#3 is a '94 or '95 Dodge Caravan, and it shows its wear. #3's driver's seat holds an average of about 350lbs all day every day. Lets just say there's not much support left to it, and the seat back is splayed back a few degrees beyond what I find optimal. It may also lean a bit to the outside, though I don't notice because I am perpetually humped forward to sit upright and see. The seat's armrest points straight towards the floor.

#3's transmission has been dying for a while. It is actually a unit that I installed when I was still at Mr. Transmission. The one out of it was beyond repair, with a broken case. They found another core unit and rebuilt it. It had been from a different model year, and, after I reinstalled it, it would pop the driver's side axle out of the transmission and cause it to leak, since it had a shorter extension housing and the axle was no longer long enough. The brain trust at Mr. Tranny glossed over it and swapped in some cobbled junk to get it out the door. I'm not sure that that is directly related to this failure, though, since the life of a remanufactured transmission is significantly less than that of a 'new' unit. Either way, this one had issues.

The transmission had been slipping intermittently and had developed a pretty delayed engagement when I got in it. This means it did nothing when you put it into gear, then, after a couple of seconds, it banged into motion. Plus, it was losing fluid somewhere. Phyllis had made the executive decision to run it until it dropped, rather than have it repaired. Mr. Transmission essentially offers no warranty on commercial vehicles. Jerri topped it off with fluid when I got in.

Aside from #3's looming tranny failure, it has no radio and a spin-cycle vibration at about 30 mph. It comes on quickly and is very noticeable. You have to power through it and speed up for it to smooth out. But by far the worst thing about #3 is that the headlights barely glow. They are beyond pathetic, and, essentially, a safety issue. They are so dim that customers ask if they are on and then make me check even after I assure them that they are. You can't see shit if you get away from downtown and the streetlights. Cars following you throw a shadow of the van into it's own path, which its pathetic high beams can't even half-pierce.

The first time I drove #3 and it got dark I called in to see if there was a trick or something. Dispatch was useless. Phyllis relayed that I should clean the headlights off at a gas station. Yeah, right, and a little makeup would turn Barbara Bush into a Playboy model.

Also, with #3, the inside door latch for the sliding door is hard to open. When it doesn't open on the first pull people fuck with the lock before you can help them. The lock mechanism is finicky, and will stick, especially when cold. The only way to unstick it is to work at it from the outside with the key. Sometimes it takes only one try, sometimes it takes 10 minutes. More than one passenger has had to climb in or out through the front seats. And, when you close it from the inside, it doesn't latch completely about half the time. So, I have to get out in the cold and slam it so the dome lights will go off.

So, yeah, #3 is a piece of shit. But it had a shiny new, festive wreath zip-tied to the grill.

It was slow Monday night. One of my first fares was at 5 pm, to take a group home regular to his job as a janitor. This guy's name is William, and I probably carry him more than any other group home regular. William is probably close to 50, quiet, and walks hurriedly to the van with a rather pronounced and permanent stoop at the waist. When I first started picking him up from his place of employment I though he may have been a social worker. He is tidy and prompt.

William rarely said much of anything, though he always answered politely and promptly, albeit in a hushed tone you had to be concentrating to hear. He would mutter low things to himself in the back on occasion, which I could not pick up on. I believe he may have some sort of Tourette's-type disorder. After carrying him several times I got him to talk a little bit about where he was from one night. I guess that opened him up a little. He commented on the wreath. He got a kick out of it, and thought it about as profound and serious a gesture as I did.

I showed him the hat and he got a good laugh out of it. He asked to look at it, and presumed, correctly, that the cab company would probably want it back or take it out of my pay. He was more conversant and relaxed than usual. I remembered and gave him a candy cane. Like me, few people seem to view peppermint as candy or a treat, But, William did and I could tell that he really relished it. "I really enjoy peppermint. I'll save this and devour it later."

Monday was dead, and I was dreading a long night of not making any money. At about 7 I got a call to pick up at the hospital ER. It was a fare to Auxvasse, near Fulton, about 30 minutes away. It paid $55. This would help me out a lot, since there didn't seem to be any money to be made on the street. I thought for a second about #3's tranny, but I figured it was surely up to the task. Other than the slow engagement, it had been working fine for the 2.5 hours I had been driving it.

I picked up the guy and headed out to 63, to go the 2 miles or so to merge onto Interstate 70 East. He was a blue collar guy, on a social work pass. He said he had been at the hospital since 10 that morning, and was ready to get home. I didn't ask him what ailed him, but he looked and acted beat.

As I drove down the off ramp onto 63 North something didn't feel right. I looked at the speedometer and tried to listen to the engine's RPM. It didn't seem like it had shifted into third, but the RPMs didn't seem to be high enough to indicate it was in second. I was mulling it over in my head, calculating the distance to Auxvasse and the 20 degree temperature. I didn't have long to think about it, though, as the tranny went to neutral and the van dropped speed. We were almost to the exit onto 70.

"I think we might have a problem."

The van slowed to a crawl, then a stop. It was still running, but acted like the engine was under heavy load, and it refused to move. For a second it seemed like maybe the engine itself had blown up. The temp gage read normal, though. Then smoke came from the corner of the hood, then I smelled burning tranny fluid. Nope, it's the tranny.

I shut it off and radioed dispatch, telling them to get another car out, ASAP. Dispatch told me to call on my cell phone. I did, and reiterated the message. He tried to ask what was wrong with the van and I told him it had laid down and died. This shouldn't have been hard to grasp, because it was common knowledge that the tranny was on its way out and we were going to ride it into the ground.

After a couple of minutes of waiting, I tried restarting the van. The engine was running normally again, so I tried it in gear. To my surprise, it decided to pull itself. I limped to the exit at about 40 mph and radioed for the other car to meet me at the Quick Trip. My fare was taking it well, but felt ill and laid down in the back of the van. I checked on the fluid level. It was low, but not low enough to cause the problems I had experienced. I knew from my time at the tranny shop that there was serious internal damage.

Now the owner was on the phone to dispatch, and found out that the van was moving. The dispatcher said to top off the fluid and to go ahead and drive it to Auxvasse. I had a hard time keeping my cool. I told them my fare was sick, that I wasn't about to take off on the interstate, that the tranny was fucked, and that it would be way more expensive to retrieve the car if it broke down on the interstate. And I'll be damned if I was going to sit in the 20 degree weather for hours waiting on a tow truck, not making any money, with a sick passenger. Then they told me to drive it in to the dispatch.

When I got there Psycho Ken was waiting. He took my $55 fare and headed off. I took my candy canes and dopey Santa hat and went inside. They gave me the keys to #16. They hadn't bothered to start it to let it warm up. Fuckers.

I was freezing when I started #16 and realized that it was all but out of gas. Dispatch raises hell if I don't have the gas tank overflowing each time I bring a car in, and this one was all but empty. I had to stop and waste more time gassing it. Plus, #16 was barely running itself. It had a bad, loping, erratic idle and what sounded like a main bearing knocking. The torque converter was locking up at the wrong times and causing a terrible shudder. It may have been skipping a gear. The car was still cold when I got my next fare.

Luckily, I was spared from too much embarrassment by the sheer fact that there was no one to pick up. We were completely dead. I had lost an hour in the car exchange. I had to pick up Miss Jane downtown.

I usually pick up Miss Jane from McD's or Murrays. Monday she dined at the Pasta Factory. The entrance to the Pasta Factory is around the corner and down a corridor from the street. Miss Jane isn't good with ramps or inclines. The walkway was paved with brick, and on a long, steady slant. And she forgot her cane.

I was overly cheerful when I picked her up, as usual. "How's your evening going, Miss Jane?"

"Terrible." She was pissed about waiting for a cab. I doubt she had waited long, since we had near zero business, but she is cranky and loses track of time when she has a few drinkypoos.

"We've got a bit of a jaunt tonight."

"A jaunt?"

"To the cab. We've got a little further to walk tonight."

She thought that meant that I had parked further away than normal. When she saw the car she remarked that that was as close as it always was.

"Yeah, I just meant compared to Murray's or Chris McD's, we have further to walk."

"But I'm not at Murray's or Chris McD's. I'm at the Pasta Factory and I expect to have to walk further."

"How was your meal tonight?"

"Let's not chat, let's just drive."

Since it was slow I went to the library and looked for some William Faulkner. I read As I Lay Dying and The Sound and the Fury years ago in college. I have read about 3 books on my own accord outside of institutional learning. I thought I might read a novel to see what this writing stuff is all about, to see if I looked at it any different than I remembered it.

I'd like to find whoever recommended William Faulkner to Oprah Winfrey and kick him in the dick. Imagine my embarrassment and shame, having to check out a paperback novel with a gold seal on it reading "Oprah's Book Club--Summer 2005 Selection." I'd like to have absolutely nothing in common with that woman or the mindless army of drones she is grooming to take over the rest of the world. And poor William Faulkner, he must be spinning in his grave, his name on the lips of so many of the nation's semiliterate, breathed in the same context as Stephen King and Michael Crighton/Crichton, or--worse yet--Dr. Fat Fucking Phil.

I grabbed Light in August.

I was still tired from the late night of blogging, so, rather than read, I kicked back in the seat of the Lincoln and slept. I park in the Hitt Street 'Parking Structure.' It has a proud sign that actually says that, like its some marvel of architecture and not a fucking oil-stained concrete parking garage.

This was the first time I actually managed to sleep in the cab. It helped that I had an uninterrupted hour of time. It was a light sleep,and I jerked awake more than once. I was awoke the last time by dispatch, at 11:30, to see if I wanted to go home. I did. And I did. While he was on the radio, the dispatcher asked me more questions about #3's ailments. Then he tried to tell me that when a transmission failed, the car just wouldn't move any more. I couldn't get him to shut up long enough to tell him that I had just worked at a transmission shop the past 18 months and that I installed the very transmission in that exact van. When I got back to the shack, the dispatcher was sitting with Creepy Clyde and another driver. He apologized for the 'confusion' over the transmission and told me that he didn't expect me to drive it to Auxvasse. That was some more 'miscommunication' between him and the owner. Apparently the dispatcher revered Clyde as a sage transmission prophet, and he had convinced him (despite my pleadings) that #3's transmission was, in fact, completely toast.

I ran $108 on the meter, my take home was $38. The $55 fare that went poof would have put another $19.25 in my pocket, which would have been a significant improvement. Fuckers.

I decided to check my mail, something I don't do with the greatest of frequency. In the box was a tiny envelope with my name hand-written on it. At first I figured it was something from my sister, some Aerial the Mermaid invitation to Christmas dinner or something, but the return address said "Avey." That is my aunt's name, from Arkansas. I have never received any correspondence from anyone on that side of the family. I opened it and it was a Christmas card.

I just turned 29. I should probably be old enough to not entertain eager optimistic notions that a card may contain money. But, of course I still do, in the way you may imagine what you'd do with all of the money if you won the lottery. I intentionally did not let my eyes focus as I opened the card. It was barely long enough to conceal a bill of legal tender, anyway.

But, there, in the card, was, in fact, a bill. Shocked, I allowed my eyes to focus, expecting to see a $20. It was a goddamned Benjamin Franklin. There was a note in the card that read :

Gary,
Hope this finds you doing good. Granny Alta left each grand kid $100.00 so here is yours. Thought I'd send them + let you do something nice for yourself. Remember she loved you. Take care of your-self.

Merry Christmas
Aunt Sue
+
(Granny Alta)

Yeah, who the fuck is Gary? Well, it's not me. I was named after my grandfather, Alta's husband, Garner Blake Sutterfield, who died in 1995. I'm not sure my dad's family ever really accepted my mom, sort of a Five Easy Pieces kinda thing. I think some people were peeved that my dad named me Garner and robbed them of the chance to pass it on to their own progeny. And, my mom's a bit nuts. I imagine they thought I was a bastard child who wouldn't be around long and Blake (as my grandfather was known) was too revered to have his legacy smeared. Lets just say that a very few people call me Gary. I don't acknowledge it as my name. I have never called myself anything other than Garner and I'd prefer to be called fuckface to Gary. I don't have a sense of humor about it. Please take it as read, and think it no more than a minor historical footnote.

There, I shared. But, the important thing here is that I have $100.

I was touched reading the note. I kind of hate to spend it on rent, but, it's only symbolic, money is fungible, and it's not like I'm going to forget where I come from. And, I don't think Homkor would give a shit about my sentimentality. Those fuckers committed the second worst abomination on my name, spelling it "Gardner" on one of their letters. Fuckers.

So, yeah $100 I didn't see coming, in a month where I could really use it. Thanks, Grandma.

So Tuesday I was back at it. Thankfully, I was back in trusty Dies, #10. I'm a bit spoiled on her JVC CD player, and had taken along Bob Log III's School Bus for a rockin' soundtrack.

I picked up my boy Jon T from the workshop. I think he has Down Syndrome, or trisomy of the 21st chromosome to you science geeks out there. He also has a rockin' moustache and a pretty cool delivery. He wears sweat pants pulled way up over his gigantic gut. When he gets into the Lincoln he reels the seat belt all of the way out and puts the shoulder strap behind him, so it will be long enough to latch across his considerable girth. He usually has a Little Playmate Igloo cooler, some sunglasses, a cap pulled way down with an ironing-board flat brim, and a giant Thermos style mug. Earlier in the week I had picked up another employee and had seen Jon T through the window, rolling his chair back and forth between two stations a couple of feet apart, with great relish and a sense of significant duty.

It's work to understand exactly what Jon T is saying to me, and harder to transcribe it. I got his name from dispatch the first time I picked him up and spelled it "John" on the charge slip. When I asked him to sign it he protested and instructed me on the proper spelling, placing great emphasis on the "T." He makes his signature with the utmost concentration and attention to detail, in a fairly clean and regular script that belies the clumsiness of his flipper-style meat hand. He goes painstakingly slow, then shows me, saying it out loud, "see, J-o-n T. L-a-s-t-N-a-m-e. Jon T Last Name," laboring and punctuating each syllable." He took much pride in teaching me and always alights when he sees that I have spelled it correctly, with all of the pride a teacher can have in an apt pupil.

One of the first times I picked him up we were riding past a large car dealership in the dark. He leveled his flipper meat hand low over my leg, rigid and askew to his amorphous heft, in a gesture I was not sure how to take. Reserved and perplexed, I awaited the significance.

"Truck."

He was pointing at a shiny new Dodge parked up on a display near the road. He said it, too, with solemn gravity, as if no more profound or meaningful words had been spoken.

"Truck. Right on. Fuckin' A. Truck, man."

Then, I was unsure of which house was his. He would say things in a matter-of-fact manner, which made no sense to me.

"Ooh, Ess, Ayy fag. Oooh-Ess-Ayy fag."

"Uh, alright, dude."

"Unno, ooh-ess-aay fag."

"Uh, okay."

"Unno, ooh-ess-aay fag," and he put his flipper hands together in his lap and leaned them left and right, like he was limbering up with a baseball bat or perhaps manipulating his genitalia. That's when I realized that he was pantomiming waving a flag. A USA flag.

"USA flag?"

"Yneah, ooh-ess-aay fag." At his house. At the driveway, an American flag, so I'd know which one was his.

The last time I had picked him up he had tried to tell me about a party he was anticipating, I guess a Christmas party. The most important part was apparently that "me and my mom, are going to pick him up (his brother)." He repeated it for emphasis a number of times. Its hard work, but I'm learning to understand his pronunciation, the way a parent can understand a toddler's gibberish when no one else can. I asked him about the party, thinking it had taken place already. Apparently it hasn't, but he and his mom are definitely going to pick his brother up. This I am sure of.

Jon T is a good guy. I gave him a flipper meat-handful of candy canes.

After that I had a call at the Toys 'R' Us. It was a guy I had picked up at the Freedom House the night before. The Freedom House is some sort of home for physically disabled people, and I guess he works there. He's a bit kooky. He's got a very slight build, with a narrow beard that comes off his chin a good ways. He has large, old plastic framed glasses, and wears a thick, cheap wool stocking cap pulled over his ears. One ear piece is missing from the glasses, I imagine the extra pressure of the cap helps keep them in place.

He liked candy canes. I loaded him up the night before. He had rode the city bus to Toys 'R' Us to pick up something for his boss, which had been on backorder. But, when he got there, they couldn't find it and there was some delay and confusion. Ultimately, he would leave empty handed, and miss the last bus. He wasn't thrilled about the $13 quote he had received from the dispatcher. I got him in at $10.30.

I picked up two guys traveling on business from the Hawthorne Suites. They were going to Everett's. One was asking about the Fuji Spa. I told him that I didn't know anything about that particular spa, that the VIP Spa had been raided, and about Lynn's. I was really trying to plant some doubt in his mind. I'm out of the pimping game. It's not something I'd like to contribute to, even in the most minute form. He seemed up for Lynn's, though, and took my card. I didn't get the call back, so I guess they didn't request me. Don't know how their evening fared.

I picked up my buddy Alex from work. He is a cab regular. We worked at the same place for a couple of months a couple of years ago, but I never talked to him much. I know him better now, just from driving the cab. He had just been fired. Or, rather, not re-hired. The place he works has seasonal layoffs, and if you make it through once you're pretty golden. Alex had been through 2 or 3 layoffs but apparently had not made the right friends in the administration. I have other friends there and I know it's just politics. Alex is a little too free-thinking for most institutions.

Alex is from Chicago, and knows a thing or two about graffiti. He is also aware of the phenomenon of "Gasoline," the most prolific tagger in Columbia. We're teaming up to pursue the gasoline mystery and document some Columbia/Midwest 'graffiti.' This is a documentary style project I floated past comomusic once before, but no one got my point. I was, of course, intentionally obscure, though. We are looking for a third, someone with some film experience/access to equipment, to hash out ideas.

Things slowed down Tuesday evening. I had one call from the University Medical Center ER. I pulled up to a guy with a few days' beard carrying a blue Columbia recycling bag and an Aldi's grocery bag with clothes and other items. He was standing outside, bundled up. Homeless people don't like to put their stuff down, since there's no place to put it, so they would rather stand outside than take off their coat.

This guy was headed for the Phoenix House, a shelter of some sort. They were going to try to get him into detox. He had been drinking and "had a moment of weakness" and went to the University Hospital, in an attempt to get admitted to the Mid-Missouri Mental Health clinic. He said he had some partial disability from a work-related injury, but not enough to draw SSI from. He was down on his luck and thought that if he could get establish some mental health issues he could get some SSI. I guess he made an empty threat to hurt himself.

Well, he rolled the dice but came up craps. Mid-Mo was booked solid and turned him away, to the Phoenix House. He said didn't want to go, but they insisted on calling a cab for him. He said he was just going to walk away, anyway. He was going to walk to his mother's, who lived in a retirement community four or five miles away. All of his meds and his cigarettes were there. I told him I was dead and that I would run him by the retirement home.

He was very lucid and a pretty normal guy. He said he had gone through a nasty divorce, that his wife got a restraining order against him, and that he had a"weakness for pharmaceuticals." He was displaced from the family home he had paid for.

When we got to the retirement home it was 10 or so. Carrying your belongings in an Aldi sack does not make for a great first impression when you're trying to gain admission some place. I suggested he leave them in the car until they let him in. He wasn't used to being homeless and didn't catch my drift. I told him I'd wait until they buzzed him in, believing his odds were 50/50 at best. He said he'd stayed there for 3 days the past week, and that they knew him there. He told me he'd be fine. I gave him my cell phone number, just in case.

After I had made it back downtown I got a call from a strange number. It was a woman and she asked if I was "Mr. Garner." They wanted me to come pick him up. She didn't seem to believe any of his story, that I was a real person trying to help him. I picked him back up and took him to the Phoenix House. He never once asked me for anything. He was very gracious, peacefully astonished that someone would help him and listen to him. His spirit was largely defeated. He didn't freak out or get overly upset at his luck; rather he had grown used disappointment and failure and half-expected it. There was an attendant waiting to let him in at the Phoenix House when I dropped him off.

I had a call after 1 am to go to Forum Theatres. I thought it sounded funny, since I didn't think anything would be playing that late on a Tuesday. To my surprise, my fare was ready and waiting. A young couple, a white girl who did not taper at the waste and a slender, tall black guy with a skateboard.

They had seen King Kong, and highly recommended it. She was paying for the cab ride. The fare was $12.80. I gave her back $7 from a $20 and asked if she needed the $.20. The guy said yes, and took two dimes from me. The girl loaded up on candy canes.

I picked up an attractive yet pleasant couple at Jimmy John's at about 1:30. The were headed south. I was putting my seat belt on when the guy slammed the back door. The seat belt locked, mid-reel. I had enough to latch it, but enough slack to get a nice whiplash action which would likely snap my head clean off in the event of an accident. I fought with it all of the way but it wouldn't re-reel itself.

After I made change, giving the girl 4 $1s back, she handed me $3 for tip. I turned to thank her and noticed she had dropped the fourth $1 on the floor. I pointed it out and she was so impressed with my honesty that she gave me that $1 also.

One of my last fares was from a party north of town. A tall, attractive girl came out with a can of cheap beer. I guess she finished it before getting in the car. When she slammed her door the seat belt began working again. She asked if she could smoke and I said yes.

"You're my favorite!"

She had been drinking for a while. She called her boyfriend to see if he would take her back downtown for her car in the morning if she came straight to his house. He apparently said no, so we went to get her car at McNally's (across from the police station). We talked about DWIs along the way and she got freaked out. She wanted to know if she could pay me to follow her home, and wanted me to stop her if she was weaving. I told her I would have to run the meter like a regular fare, and she was more than happy to pay the money. She was a server and said she'd give me a big tip.

I asked her if she had an ice scraper when we pulled into the parking lot at McNally's. She wasn't sure. I had scraped all but one window of her car when she found hers. I followed her home. $23.55 fare, $6.45 tip. I'm not complaining (too much), but I've noticed that people who promise a big tip never really come through. It's the quiet ones that often hit you buy surprise with a disproportionately large tip.

One of our recent regular fares left some gloves in my car at about 9:30. The next fare pointed them out to me. I asked the dispatcher if he had called about them when I went back in. He hadn't. He lived about a block away from me, so I stuck my card in the right glove and left them on his doorstep at 4:30 am. He's a nice guy, about my age, black, from Kansas City. He has a small-town white girl for a wife and 3 boys. His car recently broke down and he's relying on cabs until he gets his income tax refund. The first night I picked him up from the gas station near his job he had one of those cheap, tacky gas station roses. I asked him if he was in trouble with the misses. "No, I just ain't got her any in a long time."

So that was the cab portion of this week's entry. Tuesday night I ran $170 on the meter, with a take home of about $60 and some tips. Ordinarily the post would end here, with some sort of quick half-assed exhausted summary about the universality of human nature and a psychological teaser to make you wonder about how my tome may be next time, and just how much your servant really is suffering. But, unlike previous weeks, I actually did something on my days off rather than sleep, eat pizza, and watch DVDs.

Grudgingly, I had agreed to be awake at 3pm Wednesday, to perform some of the service-after-the-sale I promised when I sold my van to Gene. Grudging in that I like to sleep, not that I wanted to shirk my responsibilities. So, I got up and went to his house. I was tired, and a bit cranky. My goal was to limp his van (failing transmission, no reverse) back to my house where I could work on it with the convenience of all of my tools. But, it wouldn't stay running. I kept having to jumpstart it with the Corpsica.

I had been ignoring a leaky fuel injector O-ring on the Corpsica for several months. I could tell by the increased gas smell and decreased performance and mileage that it had worsened considerably. But, having the hood open with car running cemented the severity and urgent need to repair it in my mind. Gas was literally dripping, steady, out of the injector and down the back side of the motor. At least it was a foot away from the exhaust pipe.

The van I sold Gene had three major ailments: poor heat, broken taillight, and the messed up ignition switch. I wrote about this early on in the blog. You have to turn the key on, open the hood, and touch a jumper wire to the battery for it to crank and start the motor. It was an emergency fix, and I never had the money to buy the parts to fix it. Apparently, though, his kids and Chinese wife all get a kick out of starting the van with the wire, and fight over who gets to do it. Luckily, though, Gene has an identical junk van with all of the necessary parts, which I offered to swap as part of the deal.

But, having no tools with me, I was a bit handcuffed. I inspected the heater valve under the hood, and it was functioning. I suspect it may have just been sticky, and the vacuum wasn't enough to overcome the stiction and open it fully. After working it manually for a minute the heat seemed to be working properly, though it was nearly 40 degrees and difficult to tell. Bonus. Gene doesn't really mind it, since he lived in Alaska and walks around underdressed for Midwest winters, comfortably.

That was good enough for Gene for the time being. I told him I would come back the next day to swap the taillight, since he had to be somewhere. To my surprise, he had another $200 for me. I sold him the van for $800, and took $400 down. I paid $300 for it, and was confident Gene was good for it, though I figured it may take some time, being near Christmas, and since he is not currently working. So, combined with my grandma money, that's $300 I didn't expect to see. Awesome.

With the Corpsy in dire need of repair, and my Blazer needing some work, I figured I ought to get the Scout out of the garage so I could have some workspace. Plus, I had mentioned to Culito that he could work on his new motorcycles in my garage, if I got it cleaned out. With these motivating factors and my newfound wealth I decided to be productive and attack the garage in the cold, dark night.

I went to Lowes and got a 20lb bottle of propane for my portable garage heater ($16). Then I went to Wal-Mart where I got some thermal underwear and a candle assortment for my Secret Santa gift ($26). One last stop took me to Orsheln's Farm and Home where I got a pair of Carhart duck bib insulated overalls on clearance for $60. Since I was saving money I bought a nice pair of warm socks, $7.

I went home and took out all of my trash. I drug the 100lb frozen bags of cat litter around to the curb. Then I bundled up and headed to the garage. I set the fenders and grill back on the front of the Scout, and held them in place with 3 bolts. I put the half-cab bulkhead back in, set the crude floorboards in place, and piled the front bench seat on top. Since the rear floor was totally gone, I laid a piece of plywood over the framerails and piled in the rest of the Scout parts. In a remarkably short time it looked complete again. I pushed it out and swept up the shop. I listened to Leadbelly while I worked. I aired up the 1/2 flat tire on the Blazer and pulled in Corpsy.

I had ignored the fuel leak through two twelve-hour round trips to Fayetteville, Arkansas, one to Marshall, Arkansas, one to St. Louis, and a couple to Lebanon. I had ordered the seals to repair it 6 or 8 weeks before I quit at the Transmission shop, and looked at them every day. Even in the 20 degree weather the job only took me 1.5 hours. I broke a couple of plastic vacuum lines, since the cold left them so brittle. That didn't seem to affect anything, though, as the Corpsy is back in fine shape. No more gas-smell, restored performance, and easier starting. And maybe now it won't explode into a giant fireball while I'm driving to work.

I got done in the garage and went for a test drive to get some food. I ate some Taco Bell for about the third time this year. Then I tried to do a little picking. The skin pretty much falls off of my hands in the winter, and the grease, gas, and solvents didn't help much. My fingertips were pretty raw by the time I got cleaned up, so my playing was minimal. I went to sleep at about 2 am.

I woke up again at 5:40. I decided to read some Faulkner. I did this until 7 or so, and got some breakfast. I then bought a heater core for the Blazer and went to the DMV. I was back home by 9 and had the heater core installed by 11. The heater box was easier to get in and out than I expected, but the core was a bitch to extract from the case. By far the worst design I've had to work on thus far. But, on the bright side, the heater core only cost me $17. Bonus.

I was pretty wiped so I slept again from 12-4. I wrapped the candle assortment in the issue of the VOX I had, with Kelly's picture on the front of the package. Gene called and I went to his house, with some tools this time. I swapped out the taillight. Then I went in for the company Christmas party. It was extraordinarily mild. I ate a bunch of carrot sticks, and a piece of carrot cake. Psycho Ken showed up, his beard line framed with shaving cream. I caught him coming through the door and pointed it out for him. Someone philanthropic soul must have given him a belt as an early Christmas gift.

I never asked who my Secret Santa was. I got an envelope addressed from "A Shitty Shopper." Inside was a card that said "Have a Merry Little Christmas" on the front. Inside it said "I meant a Merry Little Cocktail," and there was a $10 bill. I'm going to have to start opening more cards.

I also got a $25 cash Christmas bonus. It was a profitable hour. I came home and did some picking, but the raw fingers tripped me up again. I tried to drink a beer for the first time in almost 2 weeks. It was a 22 ounce Newcastle and it put me right to bed. I slept from 9-11, and got up to blog you up to speed.

All in all, it has been a pretty good couple of days. Culito is bringing his cycles over after Christmas. I've never messed with bikes any (save for my 3 piece collar bone) but I may be almost mature enough to ride one now. It will be nice to have someone else to help inspire me work on my own crap, also. So, and this is a rarity, I don't really have any complaints. Except my nipples are tender. Something about bib overall straps rubbing over thermal underwear in 20 degree weather. But I imagine I will survive.

I'll be driving Friday and Saturday (Christmas Eve). Hopefully this will help get you through those lean times and post-holiday depression. Wish me luck.