Dead Horses

Yo.

I've had a little trouble getting started this weekend so I'll just jump in.

I came down with my 3rd head cold since the first of November, when I started driving the cab. This is not a good pace. I'm sure a lot of it stems from the fact that I am constantly in and out of the cold, and have ample opportunity to pick up germs from the 20 or so different people who get in and out of my cab at night. I could also dress better and take better care of myself. I have yet to don any garment thicker than a $12 hooded sweatshirt and only recently tried a hat and gloves.

Wednesday night was what broke me. I had to go to court on Thursday, and got caught up in the blog. I never really got that tired, but felt myself getting sicker as the night progressed. By sunrise I still couldn't sleep and my eyes were pretty dried out. I ended up crashing for a couple of hours before I had to go to court. The sleep was less than restful, though, as I was wary of oversleeping and not feeling well.

I was paranoid I was running late, but made it to court fifteen minutes early. I was the first one in and watched everyone else as they filed through the door. They go through the docket alphabetically, though, so I might as well have been fifteen minutes late, as that didn't seem to affect anyone's fate before the judge.

I felt like crap and wanted to get out so I could get some sleep. If you're not familiar with the municipal court procedures, I'll bring you up to speed. It's for people accused of violating city ordinances, and, except for a handful of trespass, noise violations, and minor assaults, the bulk of the cases are from traffic accidents. And, in the bulk of these cases, you just plead guilty and take your fine. You do have a chance to explain yourself after pleading guilty, which the judge can consider in reference to the severity of the penalty. But, if you do plead guilty you can't say that you didn't break the law. If you do, it fucks everything up for the judge, who is supposed to reject your guilty plea and set a pretrial hearing for you. But, no matter how clearly the brochure they give you or the judge explains this, people invariably fuck it up.

So, I have to sit here listening to everyone defending themselves regarding their violations. I get screwed because my last name begins with 'Su.' Same story as the lunch line and gym class growing up. You damn Adamses always got to go first, and sometimes I didn't get to go at all.

But not in court. I have to take my turn. Most of the people in front of me who were charged with a moving violation would be asked by the judge, "have you had any other moving violations in the past three years." I myself had not, but did have a couple in the past 4 years. Technically, one occurred in November of 2001, over four years ago, but I missed my December court date and had to go in in January. So, it was less than four years. The second was a speeding ticket I got in May of 2002, so that was over three years in the past.

Of course the judge neglected to included the three year bit on me. The first ticket was in Boone County and showed up on his sheet.

"So you've had three moving violations in three years?"

I hadn't yet realized that the first was adjudicated in 2002.

"Well, more like four years," and I mentioned the dates involved. In doing so he corrected me on the January 2002 bit. "Well, closer to four than three." Don't think you can railroad me, "your Honor."

So I got a ticket for $82.50 with $22.50 in court costs. $105 to add to the $200 I just paid off for the door on number #10. That's $305 for the little 'accident.'

And I did get the $20 over the door settled with the owner. She had simply omitted one payment, for which I had recorded, and which showed up on my driver's sheet. So take that.

Yay, court. If you want to fine me for an accident, fine me. I hate the stern authoritarian demeanor you have to deal with. This isn't the fucking Principal's office, and I am not a criminal. I had an automobile accident. A minor one. There's a reason these things are called accidents. Worse yet is watching middle age women discussing strategy with their husbands, who have come for moral support, before doing their perp walks, kow-towing and kissing the judge's ass for his graciousness, and professing that they have indeed learned their lessons. You're not Cool Hand Luke being kicked into Boss Keene's ditch. Have some dignity.

And, if there was any entertainment value to be had, it's in the few non-motor vehicle cases where some woman knocked another woman's cell phone out of her hand at the Wal-Mart, following an altercation where the cell phone wielder told her she "best watch her baby's daddy." She had just come from one of her two jobs to buy her baby some milk, though. And diapers. But, sadly, in most of these good cases the judge would advise the person that they could face jail time, and that they should consider an attorney. So, you didn't get to hear the prosecutor read the facts of the case. Bummer.

They also expect you to pay your fine right then and there. I pretty much deal with cash only, and just try to deposit enough money in my bank account to cover the automatic withdrawals for my health insurance and paying some bills online. I hadn't seen a bank statement since the first of the month, but I imagined I was already overdrawn. I used my check card anyway. I still haven't checked to see how big of a hole I'm in, because I don't have any money to pay it anyway. I just try to keep enough cash in my pocket to eat right now. I had also been banking on selling my van before rent was due, which has proved to be the case.

In an earlier entry I talked about a guy named Gene whom I met when his van's transmission failed and he was taking a cab to buy groceries. After striking an informal deal it turned out that his transmission hadn't completely shot craps, just that Mr. Transmission was trying to screw him into paying for a complete overhaul (~$2000) instead of fixing his leak (~$150). So, he got his van back, working, for $40 (the cost of the tow to the transmission shop).

He had been adding fluid everyday rather than getting the leak fixed. He was still interested in buying a second vehicle off of me, but wasn't ready to part with the money. Then his van got stolen. A '91 Caravan in sleepy little Columbia, Missouri.

So Gene called me back, again interested in my van. I told him to take it and drive it and we'd work out the details later. They did recover his van the next day, but the kids who stole it burned up reverse in the transmission. Anyhoo, Gene came up with some money and brought it to me tonight. Good deal.

So, I may be able to pay all of my bills, after all. I hadn't heard back about the sprinkler installation job, so I e-mailed the guy tonight. I figured he may have overestimated his ability to hire me. But, to my surprise, he e-mailed me back in short order. I'm supposed to get a call about an interview this week. We'll see how it goes.

What's that you say? The taxi? Oh, sure, the taxi.

So I went to work Friday with a head cold. Nothing major, but my eyes burned and I wasn't sharp. I didn't really feel much like talking, and it wasn't always as brilliant or fluid as I hoped it would be. Even though I showed up on time, early actually, at 3:45, I didn't get in a car until after five pm. That sucks. There's an hour I'm just hanging out with no money to show for it. Feeling crappy, even.

When I finally got a car it was Sweet 16 again. If you recall, the previous Tuesday I was in 16 when the headlights had stuck on bright. I didn't gripe when they assigned it to me Friday, because I knew it at least had a good heater. I was anxious to start making money when I jumped in and began adjusting everything to my liking. Right away I noticed that the headlights showed they were on high beam. And some ham-fisted-monkey-fuck-knuckle had bent the shit out of the turn signal lever, trying, apparently, to get the high beams to turn off.

Man. I am pretty mechanical. If there's one thing I hate more than something being in disrepair it is something laboring under someones half-assed ill-advised backwards attempt at repair. And the dip-shit that did this was going way beyond the beating of a dead horse, more like beating, insulting the horse's mother, filing a lawsuit against the horse, and paying someone to break its knee caps before sodomizing it. "Let's see, the switch doesn't seem to work, so I'll gorilla-grip it into a boomerang shape like a strong man in a circus." Fuckers.

Now the turn signal lever was pointing towards the floor, gouging my knee. It was in an awkward, unintuitive position, and loose. Of course it worked no better than before at operating the high beams, it just had the added benefit of making the turn signals near useless as well. Fuckers. I couldn't stand to drive it like that all night, so I tried carefully to straighten it back out. This is a dicey prospect, because it was pretty severely bent, and might break off, leaving me without turn signals and the cab company pissed off. I held my breath and did the best I could. I got it reasonably straight, without breaking it.

As I was pulling out of the lot I wondered about the headlight situation. I pulled up behind another car so I could see the reflection of my headlights. Sure enough, they had unplugged 2 of the 4 headlights, so now I officially had no chance for high beams. But, then again, I know better than to expect the high beams to be fixed, when they won't even fix the hydraulic leak causing the brakes to pull to the left and the fluid to seep out. You know, like how people try to kill people in the movies. Touchy brakes like that are real fun in Columbia, where entire subdivisions go uncleared of snow and ice. It takes nothing for one to lock up and assist you in losing control. But, at least I was sick.

So once I finally got rolling in the car, I had a call to pick up at the Ramada. It was two late 30s/early 40s women from Springfield, Missouri, in town for the big concert at the Mizzou Arena. And that being Gretchen Wilson and Big N' Rich, complete with special guests Cowboy Troy and some midget. I am pretty good at making small talk about things I don't really like, but it was some chore to find positive things to say when I puked a little in the back of my mouth each time I heard the words "Big N' Rich," and these ladies talking about how great they were. This was a Christmas present to themselves.

So, I talked to them about Springfield instead. They started to tell me where it was at and I assured them I knew it well. I told them I had dated a girl down there (whom I met at a concert) and had driven down every weekend for the bulk of the summer.

"That's a heck of a commute."

"Yeah, at the time I convinced myself she was one heck of a gal. Believe me, I'd be happy if all I was out was the gas money."

After that I had a couple more calls from hotels going to the concert. When it was over I would pick up a couple of flags from there. It kept me pretty busy for a few hours.

Sometime during the Arena show I had a call to the Arch and Column Pub. I've mentioned before that it is known as a gay bar. I pulled up to see a white guy and a short black guy standing on the sidewalk outside of the bar. I picked up my clipboard and was writing down the time when the back door opened and the little black guy climbed in.

"How's it going tonight?" My stock spiel.

"What's up, Big Peeeemp!"

I broke out laughing. The guy was apparently by himself and half in the bag. "Alright, man, where are we headed tonight?"

"Ah man, I got $5 to get me over to the 'hood, then I need y'all to wait on me, I'm gonna pick up a package, and I got $5 to get back here."

Man, I hate it when the conversation starts out "I've got $5" or "I've got $10 to do this." I have a meter and am nonnegotiable. This tells me right up front that the customer is likely going to be a pain in the ass. Sometimes its different, like when someone says, up front, "I need to get as close as I can to X, but I only have $6." But usually its someone who wants me to not run the meter, and rip off the cab company, and the money offered is never a lucrative amount.

"Alright, man. I don't know anything about all that, but where exactly do you want to go?"

"Ah, man, I just want to go over in the hood and get me some stuff, you know."

"Where at in the hood? If you give me an address, I can take you there. But I can't go anywhere without an address. And I have to charge you wait time. It's about $1 a minute. Then I can bring you back." I was trying to get rid of this guy. People who want me to wait generally have no concept of how long things actually take, since they never run their errands with a stop watch. And I wasn't taking him anywhere without at least enough cash to get him there, because, if he got out owing me $5 I may have to wait ten minutes for him to get back, then he's only want to pay $10 for the round trip, and somewhere I was going to get the short end.

"Ah, man. Let me ask my friend, here." He got out and went back up to the white guy outside the bar. I thought about just driving off. The white guy came around to my door.

"Take him to the Break Time on Garth." I got the impression that they weren't buddies.

"He wants to come back. You want me to bring him back?" The guy shook his head emphatically 'no.'

The black guy got back in. I started to the Break Time on Garth. He was pretty wound up and wouldn't stop talking. He told me he just moved here and he hadn't found a dope connection yet. I asked him where he was from. He said Chicago, but that he had been in Kansas City recently. He got pretty worked up telling me about his exploits in Kansas City.

"Man, I was breaking them niggers up! I was picking 'em up, and throwing them through glass tables and shit! Picking them up by their necks, and nearly choking the life out of them, and throwing them by their necks and shit." I figured he was taking it all from a movie scene somewhere. "But I'm not really a violent person but sometimes--sometimes you just gotta get your point across, you know what I'm sayin', man?"

By this point he got so worked up in his story that he was leaning over the front seat to get a better look at my face. He was a little guy, and, in my estimation, completely full of shit. I didn't flinch. He held his hand up, and I wasn't sure if it was for emphasis or if he wanted me to shake it. Regardless, I was trying to drive.

"Man, what I need is a payee. Someone I can just give my money to and they can manage it for me. You got any felonies, man?"

"No,they ain't got nothin' on me, man. But I just drive a cab and mind my business."

"You ain't got no felonies. Shit, man, yous perfect. Why won't you do that for me?"

Does this guy want me to be his pimp? This is another first for me.

I pulled into the Break Time. The fare was $4.05. "Here you are, man."

"Na, man, this ain't it. This must be the wrong one, take me to the other one."

"Dude, this is Garth and the Business Loop. this is where the guy said to take you."

"No man, I think I need to go to the other one. It's by a school and shit."

"There's a Field Elementary School just right down the street." I was at the Break Time at Rangeline. I didn't even realize it until now. I was just trying to get him out of the cab, before his $5 ran up. He had given me the $5 en route. It would have been more to go to Garth. Besides, what do I know about scoring crack? I had pieced together along the way that he was staying at the Arrowhead Motel, down the Loop from the Arch and Column. That made a little more sense.

He decided he'd get out and ask around. I pulled out as soon as he turned the corner. I radioed dispatch and told them that if he called back that we didn't want him, and that he would be trying to get to the Arrowhead. They said they had had some problems with him earlier that evening, and would ignore him if he called back. Thanks for the heads-up, dispatch. I'd like to have got you a better story, but I didn't want to dictate it from a hospital bed while recuperating from multiple stab wounds. You will understand, won't you?

I picked up another group home regular whom I haven't discussed before. I'll call him BJ, because that's what his parents did to him. As if it wasn't enough that he was retarded.

BJ lives by himself in a trailer court. He works in some janitorial capacity at a large corporate building in Columbia. He is fat and has the requisite 1/2 gallon Thermos style mug in tow at most times. I picked up BJ where he works at about 10 pm. I think he was the last to leave. He came out hurriedly once he saw me, trying to get all of his packages and bundles in easy carrying order. He had a crumpled McDonald's bag and soda.

BJ has a high pitched voice, which reminded me of a grandmother's. I was writing on my clipboard when he poured himself into the front seat. The New Century Gold sleeve of his St. Louis Rams coat brushed across the tip of my open pen, leaving a 2 or 3 inch black mark. I didn't want to call attention to it, and upset the poor lad. He asked if I had been waiting long (I hadn't at all) and he commented that he was enjoying some of his McDonald's, because he needed to "hit the spot."

As we were driving he asked if I could stop at the Quick Trip for him, so he could get a soda. I'm not supposed to make any stops on group home customers without charging wait time (they have a flat fare and don't pay in cash). He said he wanted a soda because it was nice to have something to drink overnight because his mouth got so dry, "especially with these dentures in." Ahhh, that was the grandmother whistle I had detected. I hate to think of a retarded guy alone in his trailer with a dry mouth, especially after marking up his favorite coat, so I relented, on the condition he didn't rat me out.

When we were leaving the Quik Trip BJ noted that they were open 24 hours. "Quik Trip's open 24 hours, McDonald's open 24 hours, Steak and Shake's open 24 hours, , maybe Wendy's should be open 24 hours, Burger King open 24 hours. Oh, my." Perhaps giddy over his soda and having an audience, he worked himself into a little rocking rhythm as he spoke.

At about 11:45 I was dispatched to the Stoney Creek Inn. The post-concert craziness was just beginning to die down. When I got to the lobby a John Luter cab was pulling out. I wondered if he scavenged my fare. Someone was blocking the lobby so I could not pull directly in front. I waited a few minutes and no one showed. My dispatcher was calling me off when a young guy in a Honda stopped his car and came up to my window.

"Can you give me a ride...if I give you some money." That's pretty much how this works, son.

"Uh, yeah."

"Okay, I'm just going to park my car." He was drunk and was about to drive home across town. He got in the cab and I was in the process of radioing dispatch when the fare I was dispatched for showed up. Two drunk couples in their early 30s. I told the kid I could come back for him or have another cab sent.

"That's okay. I'll just drive. I was just trying to do you a favor, bro." He proffered some jive handshake, which I did my best to reciprocate.

The drunk foursome had been at the concert and were going to Cody's. They had some bawdy blue collar teasing going on along the way. They wanted me to come back and pick them up at 1. I phoned dispatch and set it up. Dispatch told me to tell them that we would definitely be there at 1, since they had called in advance. One of the ladies promised me that the other would show me her boobs when I cam back to get them, as if they shared the rights to them. "Oh, you ladies are too nice. How did you know I liked tits?"

I had a bit of a Taxi Cab Confession moment later that night, though it wasn't too dramatic. I picked up an MU sophomore at the gas station at 63 and AC exit. Dispatch had told me to go to Greenleaf. I looked in my book and found a Greenleaves, off of Hermitage, off of Nifong. I remembered there being an old Grindstone prior to the parkway, which was largely eliminated by the roundabout and parkway. I told dispatch I found a "Greenleaves" but no "Greenleaf." The dispatcher told me it was maybe the same street, off of Grindstone. That was of little help so I proceeded to Greenleaves.

I radioed back that I was at Greenleaves Court, which was a duplex cul de sac. Only then did the dispatcher tell me I was looking for a "Phillips 66, on Greenleaf and Grindstone."

I figured that had to be the one at 63, and headed over. Luckily I wasn't far out of the way. I went to the Petro Mart at the corner of Grindstone and Falling Leaf. I wondered for a second if I needed to be down by Providence, but the aforementioned sophomore ran up to the car. He was very gracious. I asked him how his night was going and he said "you don't want to know." The apprehension in his voice was obvious and heavy. I invited him to tell me about it, and we spent the 15 minute drive discussing ladies and the problems they can present.

He had been celebrating his birthday at a party somewhere near the gas station, and had walked a couple of miles in the cold before calling a cab. I had been in a very similar situation to the one he described. Rather than tell him I knew how he felt I told my own story and he was startled by the coincidences, as if I was describing his own troubles. I was in fine counseling form. I let him purge himself and left him on the high note that he was 20, had two more years in college, and was a student athlete. I dare say I helped him. Yay, cabbie.

When I was dispatched to Greenleaf it was about 12:30. I wondered where the fare would be clearing, and hoped it would be back up north, so I would be in line for the 1 am time call at Cody's. By the time I figured out the Greenleaf/Greenleaves/Falling Leaf debacle it was about 12:40 when I picked up. As the kid was pouring his heart out I was watching the redneck ladies' tit window closing before my very eyes. I figured I had missed out, and had to interrupt the kid to call dispatch to make sure they hadn't forgot to send someone. They didn't respond. I hated the idea of Terry the Hustler or Tim seeing the tits I had worked so hard for. They hadn't really tipped, either.

After my counseling session I was sent to Boone Tavern. I picked up a nice couple in their 30s, upper-middle class. The guy laughed at the age and state of the cab. He asked me why I was driving a cab and the law school thing came up. They asked me what kind of law I wanted to practice and I told them I didn't really care as long as I got to work with people I liked. The guy quite apologetically told me I was living a pipe dream. His lady tried to salve it a bit. When we got to their house I tapped them out of cash. The fare was $15.05. The guy came up with $16 and sent his wife inside for more. She went in through the garage, revealing a 1971 Cadillac El Dorado convertible. We chatted a bit about the car and its 500 cubic inch plant until his wife reemerged with cash. I thanked them and waited until I was out of the neighborhood to count it. Another $6. Sweet.

Sometime around 2am I was dispatched to Alpine Road. Alpine is a short street that has only four old A-frame 4-plex apartment units on it. I got there and radioed for the number. 5602. The addresses on Alpine are all in the 300s. I checked the book. There was an Alpine Ridge in a subdivision north of town. I asked dispatch to double check. They were of no help, but gave me the guy's phone number. I called him, drunk at a party. He reaffirmed that he was on Alpine and not Alpine Ridge. Then I asked him how he got there. Bullocks.

So, I radioed dispatch and headed north to Alpine Ridge. I found it easier than expected, and began looking for 5602. It didn't exist. The numbers were difficult to read and the roads in the subdivision were very slick. After passing the same block 5 times I called the guy again. "Yeah, I just saw you drive by." I picked him up at 5004 Alpine Ridge and headed back downtown.

My last call was a girl who flagged me in front of Sycamore. I asked her if she had called and she said she had had two cabs scavenged by other people and had been waiting in the cold. She was only going a few blocks, not even far enough to hit the $3 minimum. When we got to her house she had to go in to get her debit card. I told her about the $3 minimum fare and the $2 service charge for the card. She didn't care, and tipped me $3. She said that she was a server and "kissed ass for tips. I don't actually do anything." I wasn't sure if that meant that she gave me the money freely because she didn't work hard for it, or if she appreciated my service because I actually did something useful and thankless, and earned it. I like to think it was the latter.

There were a bunch of drivers still at the shack when I finished up my paperwork. Another driver, Mark, told me that the ladies from Cody's were really pissed off at me, because I promised I'd be there for them at 1. I asked him what time he picked them up. He looked at his sheet and said "1:40."

"They show you their tits?"

"No."

"They were supposed to show me their tits. Were they really that mad?"

"Yes."

Then Mark said someone in his cab asked about me and my blog. I freaked out a bit, because the owner was right around the corner. I told him I was trying to keep it on the DL, since I talked about the group home people and some other drivers in detail, and bitched about the cabs and mismanagement in general. He said that was cool and that he didn't think they'd know what he meant when he said 'blog.'

Mark is pretty cool, but we haven't had much time to talk. He was crafty enough to realize that his Sony car CD player would work in the same DIN sleeve as the old, shitty, busted radio in #3. No one else likes number 3, in part because it doesn't have a radio. Mark brings his own and jams out to CDs all night. Then, presto-chango, replaces it with the junk unit. He told me this when he drove me downtown one night. I told him that I had pulled out the old CD player to check the fuse and wiring. He had suspected it, since he had seen a bit of the foam sheath which had torn off of the antenna when I pulled the radio out. And that is after I had vacuumed it. Good eye, Mark.

So, yeah, the word was out. Whoever mentioned it to Mark had apparently not read it, but heard about it from a friend. I told Mark I would send him a link, and went home.

Saturday I woke up feeling even shittier. When I got to work I learned that one of the cars was down. I volunteered to be sent home if needed. All of the drivers were there again. One of the other night drivers, JW, had got a noticeable haircut. I complemented him on it, and he joked, "I figure if people are going to mistake me for you we should at least look alike." Someone had asked JW if he was me, apparently in reference to the blog. I think it confused JW, since he is on the other side of 40 and 300lbs, give or take, with a big goatee and no glasses. I guess I can't expect you guys to read every word, though.

I sat next to Mark, but he avoided the subject of the blog. Terry the Hustler asked him why he was being so quiet, and he manufactured some conversation about the business with the concert. Psycho Ken showed us his new knife and simulated the motion of stabbing over his shoulder and behind him. "And don't think I don't rehearse that."

Phyllis, the owner, called me in her office. MUPD had called to complain about me, saying I had made a u-turn in the street and almost hit some pedestrians. Which is silly, because that's a bit of an indictment on the sorry shape of your police department if you watch someone break the law and endanger human life but don't bother to stop them or issue a ticket. Rather, what actually happened, was that a 'police cadet' directing traffic as the overflow washed out of Mizzou Arena watched me pull into the mouth of a parking lot, and turn back into the street. There were tons of pedestrians, and a couple had to wait for me to pull out, rather than walk around me in the street. There was no crosswalk, I didn't break any laws, and I didn't come close to anybody. Fuckers.

Phyllis wasn't all that pissed, but did remind me to be careful and that the PD was always watching, ready to bitch about something.

As I left the Principal's office Psycho Ken wanted to know what happened. I explained it to him. Phyllis called me back in and told me I could go home if I wanted. It was 4:45. I talked to Mark a bit more before I left. JW asked for a link to "that thing" of mine.

Other than that I haven't done much. I re-rented Cannibal! The Musical after bringing it up in my last post. They have a pretty good director's commentary, where they just get shitfaced while watching the movie. They made it for $125,000 on spring break while they were students at Colorado University. So now I'm trying to figure out where I can come up with $125K. Let me know if you have any leads on that one.