Is that Ben-Gay, or some bizarre variety of schnapps?

Whoa, boy. It's Thursday night and I am sitting down to catch up with my Tuesday night driving the cab. I was off the past two days. I'm still trying to adapt my schedule and regain a perspective of time. I've been sleeping about 11 hours a day.

I woke up today at about 3:30. I hopped in my $250 Chevy Corpsica and motored downtown. It really is a fine car. It's a '92 that I bought with a cracked head. I spent another $150 on it and have been driving the dog snot out of it ever since. I gave up caring about what I drove after being a mechanic for a while. I can express my vanity in enough ways without making a fat car payment every month. And, with cheap-ass cars, you worry less about them breaking down. I also have a '93 Grand Caravan ($300 purchase price), an '89 Blazer, and a '67 International Scout. The Scout is a project car, dismantled in my garage, and the Blazer is for sale. Last fall I bought an '89 Corsica for $50. I put some new brakes on it ($45), changed the oil, and drove it all winter. I took it to Chicago 2 weeks after I got it, with a Finnish chick, a Chinese dude, and some American bloke named Ian. I was a little worried, and took the title with me, planning to sign it and abandon the car if it broke down. We made it back with no drama and I gave the car to my Dad, who still drives it every day. I'm going to upgrade him to the minivan whenever I fix the ignition switch (I broke it after I bought it).

Yeah, so, anyhoo, I went downtown. I have been meaning to get my pocket watch fixed for some time. The battery died. I went to Tucker's Fine Jewelry and they were able to put a new battery in it in less than 5 minutes for $7.25. Quality. I thought I might buy a ring if I sell my Blazer or luck into some cash. I've never worn one.

I hit Buckingham's for a second day in a row for some breakfast at about 4:15. Jumbo turkey sandwich.

And off to the mall. To shop for pants. I really enjoy the freedom and comfort of cargo pants, especially since I am a hoarder/pack rat. I carry with me at all times a wallet, a Swiss army knife, a Blistex lip balm, several car keys, a miniature folding pliers key chain, lots of change, a Sharpie, a ball point pen, and a cell phone. I refuse to wear my cell phone visibly on my belt. Plus, at work, I also handle a good bit of cash, so its good to put it in 2 or 3 pockets in case I'm mugged. I also typically have a digital clock and some business cards when I'm on duty. And, if I take my banjo with me, I can carry the tuner and picks in my cargo pockets without mangling the fit of the fingerpicks. Never mind such additional practical occasional items such as neoprene beer coozies and flyers or leaflets.

But, for work, I'm supposed to have black or dark pants. It took several stores, but I found some comfortable, practical dark grey Levi's cargo pants for $35. The best part was that I also bought 34" waist pants, a first for me in a few years. I had swelled to a 36". It was nice to not only stem the tide but lose some weight as I entered my latest of late 20s. I also bought a new wallet and a pair of bad-ass New Balance running shoes for only $45, tax included. These are nicer than the ones I had to pay $95 for a few years ago. I like New Balance because they cater to narrower feet, which is one of my many afflictions.

Yeah, yeah, so I bought some crap. I also got some pickin' in. I went a 24 hour cycle without any pickin' and I was freaking out a bit. I have the same obsessive compulsion to pick that neurotic middle-age mothers have when they worry if they forgot to turn off the iron on a transcontinental flight. It's a guilt-driven obsession, like I'm cheating myself and delaying any future progress. Which is not to say that it is work or the least bit un-enjoyable. I enjoy it tremendously. I just have to work it back into my new schedule as it congeals into place. I tried to do some pickin' last night. I waited for my roommate, Ely, to go to bed. Both so that he would be spared and I would have access to my favorite pickin' perch, the couch. Unfortunately, the banjo was too loud for him as he tried to go to sleep. I took the resonator off, cut a towel in half, and stuffed it back in there. I began pickin' away at my newly muted 5 string. But, after a few minutes, Ely emerged to sadly inform me that that, also, was too much.

Fucking dog balls. It was too cold to go pick outside. I considered going to the cab dispatch shack and playing by myself in the break room. The only other person would be Virginia, the dispatcher. I was sure that the banjo wouldn't overcome the new country pouring from the radio in her tiny office. But, it was getting late, so I decided to postpone the pickin' and do some blogging. For my adoring throng of loyal compatriots.

So, tonight, I got some pickin' in. Ely came in around 8 and started watching some NBA hoops. I searched out the elusive Drinky Crow cartoon I had quoted numerous times and downloaded it for him to watch.

So, yeah, back to the blogging, Taxi style. Tuesday night.

I spent Tuesday 'morning' writing up the Monday Night in the Maxi Taxi post. I got pretty caught up in it, forgot to eat, forgot to dry my clothes, ran out to go to work and forgot my cell phone. I got to the shack right at 3:45 and ate some Wendy's take out in the thick cloud of Doral cigarette smoke at the break room table. I had packed my banjo, figuring I would break it out and pick some in the wee morning hours when the calls dried up.

Bill was there. He is a fellow night driver, whom introduced himself to me on my first night, one week earlier. He was the only driver to take the time to do so, and seemed to feel it his personal duty to welcome me. He did so as I was walking out with Kyle, the manager, for my first seat time in a cab. He told me to feel free to ask him any questions I might have. As I walked out with Kyle, a big guy of some 350lbs or so, I said "he can start by telling me where he got that hat."

Because Bill wore a hat. Not a cap, but a gentleman's hat, like was the norm a generation or two ago. I can not name the hat because I am a product of this generation, and thus ignorant of such finer points of gentlemanly dress. It was a thick wool hat with a consistent width brim. Bill wore it cocked back a bit with the front of the brim turned slightly up. He had a squirrelly little mustache, like a French waiter, dark black as was his hair--surprisingly so for a gentleman of about 50--and stood all of about 5'4".

I had not seen Bill since that first night, a week earlier. We spent 45 minutes or so conversing. Bill is a fine fellow. He is generally warm, personable, affable. We talked a bit about cars, work, the job, etc. I brought up the banjo in some context, and Bill began to tell me of an uncle of his (technically his grandfather's cousin, so Bill believed) Cope Ashlock, who had been a fiddle maker of some renown. His studio was where the KOPN studios are now, and there had been a bluegrass program named for him at some point. Bill said that Cope Ashlock fiddles fetched a hefty price and that he still received two or three letters a year from collectors searching them out. Bill remembered a tale his mother had often told him of Cope Ashlock giving him and his four brothers cigar box fiddles he had made. Bill didn't remember--but had been told--that he "turned his nose up at it" because it was made from a paltry cigar box. Bill wished he had it back, in the way that old men often wish to have back the cars of their youth, which have since turned into collector's items. In their cases I am quick to point out that if everyone still had them they would not be collectible or valuable, but in Bill's case, I sensed that the importance of the cigar box violin lay deeper than what it may bring on E-bay. Sentimentality, family, and remorse all seemed to play a role.

I was still talking to Bill when Virginia, the dispatcher, came in. She is a large lady, mostly or completely toothless, with breasts the size of 16 lb watermelons, that hang near to her stooped waist. She wears those vague maternity-esque clothes with children's pajama type prints and solid colored knot pants and walks with a cane. She has a week chin, jowls, and somewhat greased streaked hair, the front of which pulled back into something of a high pony tail. Seeing her walked crooked with a cane puts one frighteningly close in mind of the Vogon characters in the movie adaptation of Hitchhiker's guide.

Virginia is incredibly nice and genuinely helpful to me. She sits around the tiny desk in the tiny office with her very industrial cane hung on the wall behind her. When she hit the open back door Bill gracefully broke off from our conversation, greeted her, took her arm and escorted her in a most gentlemanly fashion. He insisted on taking care of the order of making a pot of coffee for her for the long night ahead, shooing her away as he pulled the coffee part and its parts from the dirty sink. As we continued our conversations he took off his hat, piled his long black hair back on top of his head, sealed it down with the hat, and carefully sculpted the brim into its proper upright position. He had on an unbuttoned dress shirt, tinged yellow around the cuffs and collar. We talked of my education and abilities and he chided me not to end up like him, 50 years old and driving a cab. He is a true Quixotic gentleman, displaced in this increasingly disconnected world. He told me to be safe as I walked out the door to my cab.

Sweet 16. The same cab as Monday. While it is no minivan, it is loads better than #5 which Bill was saddled with. I also came with a full tank of gas, which was nice. I have to keep the cab fueled throughout the night, and deduct the expenses from my cash drop at the end of the night. I try to have only $30-40 on me when I show up, so it's nice not to have to put money right into the gas tank. It's supposed to be the responsibility of the driver to refuel before the end of their shift, but it doesn't always happen.

The night started off steady, like Monday night had been. The weather was beautiful, yet again. Most of my first few calls were medical charges. Most drivers hate these because they don't get any cash and rarely any tips. You get the same cut of the fare from charges, but you have to deduct them from your drop at night, meaning you are still cash poor for most of the early evening. The extra cash comes in handy as the night progresses, when you often get bigger fares and need more change on hand. Virginia apologized for hitting me with so many, but I didn't care. I'm sure she's democratic in which calls she sends me on, which is good enough for me.

I picked up a 70 year old from one of the hospitals. We had given him a ride when I was training one week earlier. He didn't have any teeth in and was somewhat hard to understand, especially as my attentions were divided as I tried to navigate the sick Bermuda Triangle traffic of 63 and 70 at 5 pm. I asked him some polite non-invasive questions about how well the doctors were taking care of him. It was your usual old-man-doesn't-get-doctors jibber jabber when he caught me off guard with a comment about one lady doctor that '"always wanted to play with his dick." I guffawed a bit and re-expressed his misunderstanding for her apparent fascination with a 70 year old man's junk.

I said something about it might lead to something and he reassured me that he had asked for a date and been denied. She was 40 and married. Then he was saying something about some woman "sucking [his] dick." At first I thought he meant a doctor, but I realized he was talking about some old lady he knew. He said something to the effect of telling her to "take it easy, I'm a 70 year old man." He also said something about hugging her, and that he guessed he was good at it, since it led to some geriatric fellatio. He then said "I haven't kissed her yet, but I'm going to. I'm gonna plant a good one on her. Maybe even give her a tongue or two." Thanks a lot, Larry, you have a good night.

I also had another Miss Jane call. Miss Jane is some presumably rich old lady who lives in one of the swank retirement homes. She likes to go out to Columbia's finer dining establishments and relies on A*1 to cart her about. She is crotchety, old, and very particular. You have to go inside the restaraunt to get her, take her purse, escort her out, get the door for her, close the door for her, take her inside her retirement home, etc. The radio must be off and the windows must be up. Which, of course, I rarely have 4 working windows.

Miss Jane is pretty old. Even in geological time. She complains often of a bad back. She is also usually liquored up when she calls to go home. How drunk, I don't know. It's hard to gage with old people, because they already smell funky. Is that Ben-Gay, or some bizarre variety of schnapps? When I got to Murray's to pick her up I asked her how she was doing. She said she had been doing fine until she called a cab, as it had taken forever. I apologized and assured her I came as soon as I got the call. She told me that it wasn't my fault.

Miss Jane has some bad-ass old lady pants from the 80s. They're of the stretch-denim variety, and totally stonewashed. Not the really washed-out, faded look, but the dark blue with lightning bolts all over stonewash. They have an old lady cut to them, which is bizarre in itself. And stretch denim seems to have a way of squeezing itself off of an old lady with a round torso and skinny legs, like its making a slow break for the floor. As if a stonewashed snake was in the act of swallowing her, tasted Ben-Gay, realized its mistake, and is trying to make a subtle exit to avoid embarrassment.

And, no, Miss Jane doesn't wear granny panties. They're more of a great-granny panty, their sheer bulk exaggerated by the pants' slow egress. Which is all the more comical when she is chastising you and complaining about every little thing. She's always nice when you get her back to the divan in the lobby of the retirement home. She says "I'm going to plop here, if you could get my cart and put it here for me." Then I put her little wheeled walker with the handbrake and tray/basket combo in front of her, waiting for her to catch her breath, and I'm gone. I'm sure the pair of us make quite the striking combo, as I escort her with her old lady purse dangling daintily from my free arm.

Sometime later I had a call to pick up someone at the ER. It wasn't an ER patient, but some bizarre regular I had not heard of before. He was waiting at a picnic table with several brief-cases, bags, and valises, like an army of corporate stiffs on the way back from a hearing broke camp there for a minute. He was dressed in layers of stiff clothes, with a coat on, zipped to his neck. The clothes had a fresh, starched look, not because they were new, but, more likely, because the man rarely moved, pivoted, or bent at the waist. He was a big in the middle, Midwestern, with a thick mustache and a cap with a billboard face and flat brim. He was a rigid character, and, apparently, completely nuts.

He answered all of my questions with instant, short, official sounding bursts. They sounded very rote, and I wondered if he really even knew what I was asking him about. I asked him if he worked at the hospital and he said no, and something that sounded like "I run a mission in Prathersville." I found the trailer court we were headed for easily enough. Once in it's winding myriad paths his answers became more difficult. He would say 'right,' and, as I veered right he would instantly say, 'I mean left. Sorry." All of the words seemed forced. Like they were squeezed out of him and only coincidentally vibrated over his vocal chords.

We finally made it to the back of the expansive trailer park. I pulled up to a double-wide with a long plywood ramp and a large deck. I carried several heavy bags and stood on the porch as he fumbled for a door key. There was a sign framed in glass, the old institutional variety with the plastic letters that you push into the folds in the black textured cloth. It had his name and the name of his mission. It said something about nondenominational and had a schedule for meals on wheels. There was a cheap light fixture mounted next to the door, fed by a long piece of conduit that snaked up the dirty yellow vinyl exterior and disappeared into the darkness. The light was off. After probably 7 or 8 failed keys, with my arms tiring, he found the right key and opened the door. I sat down the bags and fled, my footsteps rebounding lightly and propelling me faster down the poorly constructed and ill-supported plywood ramp.

I had another Group Home/charge call. It was from some sort of vocational rehab place or something, to Paquin Tower. Paquin Tower was where I picked up the woman Monday with the sick cat. The fare was a giant woman, clutching a 1/2 gallon insulated thermos style 'mug' and eating a chocolate bar. She was very upbeat. I told her about the fare with the cat, and she knew of the woman. I asked how that cat was, and she told me that it was doing well. The cat, Lilly, had had an allergic reaction to an earlier inoculation, as Dr. Garner had predicted. I mentioned that the woman had been rather concerned and seemed closely connected to the cat, and the fare assured me that she was a bit crazy, and further told me that Paquin Tower was a nut house, including herself in that estimation. As we passed a construction crew resurfacing College Avenue she said "my boyfriend can't look at flashing lights." I asked if he was an epileptic and she said that he had seizures. They live together at Paquin Tower. When I dropped her off she seemed quite popular with the many residents sitting outside the building, enjoying the weather, who all waived and welcomed her back for the evening.

Sometime around 10:30 I got my first call to pick someone up at Club Vogue, one of two all-nude strip clubs in Columbia. The fare involved three rednecks from southern Missouri visiting Jefferson City for a Department of Transportation convention, where they were all employed. They had come to Columbia for the nightlife. They were drunk, but obviously well accustomed to the state. Beer drinkers. The kind who maintained the same level of intoxication from beers 5-35, and were quite adept at performing all of life's necessary functions in that state. They were headed back to Jeff City, which is a $60 flat rate ($50 plus $5 for each additional passenger). This was good, because it guaranteed me $20 plus tips for the next hour of work, an hour which would see things slow down considerably with no guarantee of any fares. It was just a 1/2 hour down the highway in a Lincoln with some good-old-boys, and a 1/2 hour coming back all to myself. Sweet.

As I tried to get them corralled and settled down enough to elect a leader and give directions, they were eagerly recounting the lovely ladies of the strip club, commenting on their physiques, their smells, etc. One recounted the DJ saying "she'll be leaving the stage just as soon as she gets her bloomers off that redneck's hat." He was the proud redneck, with a pair of panties on his head.

It seemed the only drawbacks from their Vogue experience was that 1)they couldn't drink their beer in the club, and 2) that pussy was not for sale. One lamented that it was a shame there was no place they could buy a blowjob.

Here's me. I am at a crossroads. Like an inexperienced performer ready to open his mouth and sing for a crowd for the first time--distracted by the lights and the faces, the buzz of the amplifier--I decided to make my first pitch for the 'massage parlor.' I had received some pointers and advice from Psycho Ken, another driver, on where and how to take potential johns. One club in particular was favored, and the working ladies there would give the cab driver a kick-back, a tip, for bringing them business. How much depended on how much the customer spent. I'm the type of guy who gets a little red walking past the mannequins in the Victoria's Secret window at the mall, so pitching the idea of a whore house to three strangers was a bit of a new experience for me.

I said, "well, everything's for sale her. If you guys want to go to the sauna, we can go to the sauna." There previously chaotic and grinning faces became expressionless for a half second. "You mean there's a place we can buy a knob-job here?"

"I reckon you can buy anything you want."

"You're shittin' us? Well put the spurs to this mule, boy, gig this sumbitch! What are you waitin' for"

This went on for a minute, and they seemed game. They had apparently tried to get such insider information from their hotel but were assured that that sort of thing didn't go on around here. I told them that there were 6 or 7 such places running around the clock in Columbia. But, with three drunk guys, I wanted to make sure we had a definite plan of action. 1) I needed to know if they were still going to Jeff City, 2) I wanted to make sure they were all three on board, and, 3) I needed to run the meter to take them there. I ddidn't have a problem waiting for them to make up their minds for a minute if there was money in it for me, but if they couldn't make up their minds quick it would start costing me money. They were all on board for the sauna, and they still needed the ride back to JC.

All I knew about the sauna is what Ken had told me. I asked him about price, and his only advice was "you get what you pay for." I told them that, but they didn't seem to believe me at first that I hadn't been there or that I didn't know any more. We stopped for them to get some beer and headed North.

As I radioed dispatch with the change of plans the operation took on a darker overtone. I started to freak out a bit, as if it were me who was about to pay for sex, to completely step outside of 99.9% of the social norms and mores I had conducted myself within my entire life. I realized that I was, in some way, contributing to the trade of ass. I had gone from neutral observer to willing participant in the sex trade, even if it were just in driving a car. I was some sort of distant relation to the pimp, like the pimp's cousin's boyfriend or some odd combination. If I was going to be in the pimp chain of command, I would have imagined myself more near the top. Head assistant pimp, or some such.

This particular sauna is off the highway, with a narrow gravel driveway and small gravel parking lot, the kind in which it is hard to turn a big Lincoln around in, the kind where you pepper everything with gravel when you peel out to save your skin. The building set off the road, obscured by another small structure. It was a cinder block building with a flat roof and no windows. There are no signs. I had been instructed to leave the johns in the car, introduce myself to the madam, give her my card, and explain that I was the taxi driver. After the gentlemen were done, the madam would call me, and I would return to pick them up, and get tipped out. The door was a large heavy thing, with metal grates over the tiny window. There were large steel lugs bolted into the cinder blocks for barring the door with a 2x2" piece of square steel tubing. It was all painted over with house paint, chipping here and there around the edges. There was a doorbell button with a sign pointing to it. I rang it, stepped back, and looked into the neutral eye of a camera trained on me. The door cracked, and looked into the cleavage of a young Asian woman. I glanced up to her heavily folded eyes.

With all of my anxiety over the situation, I had yet to speculate on the appearance of the ladies. What I knew of prostitution was from watching HBO, and I know that few of the girls from the Bunny Ranch would be worth paying for. Even after a 6 pack they would be a stretch for free on a hard night. But this lady was alarmingly attractive. At least what I spied through the narrow gap in the door before we made eye contact. I didn't have time then to speculate what she was doing in mid-Missouri, what sort of white slavery trade brought her here, or what she might want for herself in the future.

I introduced myself, handed her my card, and explained that I was a taxi driver and that I had three gentleman with me who wanted knob jobs, er, I mean, uh...what is a nice way to tell a prostitute that you brought 3 rednecks who wanted to do dirty things to her? I said they were there for some 'sauna treatment.' She seemed really confused and stepped aside, out of view. The door reopened and I was talking to an older Asian woman in a stylish terry cloth sweatsuit. I told her the same things I told the first girl. She said "for massage?" Yes! That's it! For massage.

"Three too many. Only two." Crap. Now I've got three dudes in the car, worked up, and the whole shithouse is going up in flames. I'm trying to figure out how to make this work. I'm pretty much screwed out of the $12 fare to get there, and any possible tip if I have to abort and head back to town.

"We can't do three?"

"Only two. Three too many."

"That's the only way its gonna work?"

After a few consternating looks on both of our parts she finally said, "okay, 2, and one can rerax."

"What?"

"One rerax" and she gestured to a couch in front of an old big consoled big screen TV behind her inside.

"Sure, relax, sure. That's no problem."

So I offload the guys out of the car. I find out quickly that the beer was a bad idea. The madam is not cool with it. Trying to get drunk rednecks to abandon their beer is nigh on impossible, especially if you factor in a language barrier and the promise of a knob job.

I finally got them out, her cool, and me the fuck out of there. At one point before things worked out the boss of the three was seized by a moment of perspective and said, "wait a minute, we're not gonna go to jail or anything." The possibility hadn't crossed my mind and I had flashbacks to very COPS episode I ever watched with an undercover prostitution sting. "Of course, not," I said.

I tried to run another fare. I was on edge. It was an 11:15 time call at a care center and I was 15 minutes early. The people weren't ready so dispatch told me to forget it. Then she radioed that my guys were ready at the sauna. I went back up there to find two of them outside, They were in fine spirits, and were joking about their boss taking forever and them waiting on them. Then I found out that they hadn't gone yet. They told me that it was my turn, that they'd paid, and they were waiting on me. I told them that I would leave and come back when she called again. I hung out at dispatch, talking about whore house procedure with Virginia, in a very matter-of-fact, day-at-the office demeanor. The sauna called again and I headed back north.

I got all three this time. They got in the car and were still riding their boss about taking too long. Psycho Ken had told me that the girl would come out to the car and tip me. I sat in the car and no one came out. As it turned out, only the boss had gone, so I figured they hadn't spent enough to warrant me a tip. I was debating on pulling out when the madam stepped out and gestured to me. I went up to the door, where she had retreated back inside.

She held up a can of Coke and three Dum-Dum suckers in one hand, and a folded $20 bill in the other. I took the $20 and said "thank you very much, I appreciate it." She cut me off, shushed me, beckoned me to step closer, back inside the door, and gestured for me to put the $20 in my pocket. I obliged. She said "too much drinking" while pantomiming tipping back a cold one to her lips. I apologized, told her I was new, and that it wouldn't happen again. You would think psycho Ken would have filled me in on such important details. Of course he already called dibs on part of my tip for bringing me up on procedure.

So with all of that, we headed south. The three rednecks were going a mile a minute about the boss taking too long, using up all of their money so they couldn't get knob-jobs, having something to hold over him at work, deserving promotions, little Asian women who hated beer, etc. etc. I made the mistake of mentioning that there was another place with American women and they were ready to turn around that instant. It took all I had to dissuade them and head north. I was willing to lose some time for the sake of the experience but I figured we had side-stepped enough trouble that evening. We finally got headed to Jeff City and everything was uneventful. I hammed up the redneck stuff and told them about my Bronco catching fire on the Missouri River Bridge, pointing to the spot as we passed. I dropped them off at the hotel and the tipped me $2. They each took a card and were dead set on having my take them out when they found an excuse to get back to town. I promised I would have shit down cold by then.

I stopped to fuel up in Jeff City and heard some little shit mouthing the old woman inside over the speaker. He called her a bitch and kept running his mouth. I thought about puffing up to make him wilt, or at least taking a shot at knocking his teeth down his throat. I had nearly $200 in cash on me, and thought better of it. The ride back was pretty relaxing.

I had made about $160 to that point (on the meter, I only get 35% plus tips), so I figured I could chill the rest of the evening. I had my banjo in the trunk and was plenty happy. When I got back to town though, I still ran pretty steady. I never broke out the banjo. I was ready to call it a night at about 2:30,with about $198 taken in, as much as I had made the previous 3 nights I had worked. I got one more call, though, at about 3 am. I was supposed to pick up someone at the Best Western Lobby.

Now, the Best Western is not the nicest place, but I figured maybe some people were partying and ready to go back home. Probably drunk college students. I pulled up and waited. Dispatch didn't know where the fare was going. After about 5 minutes a petite black woman came out with a baby. She was very neatly dressed and had short cropped hair and 2 gold teeth. She carried the baby in her arms and didn't have any sort of child carrier or car seat. She told me the name of the street and I was unfamiliar with it. She said she was out of town and didn't really know the directions. I looked it up in my street guide and headed out. I was all the way across town on I70.

I pulled out and hit the highway. It was quiet and desolate. I asked her where she was from and she said New Orleans. She was displaced by the hurricane. The despair and bitterness was obvious in her voice as she talked about her home being washed away and how it could never be the same. Like how losing something seems altogether worse than breaking something or using it up.

We made out way across town and into a weird neighborhood I was unfamiliar with. There were a couple of isolated older brick duplexes, across the the parking lot to some church or something. It was such a random and isolated group of houses that the neighborhood seemed to have no real character of its own. I parked on a steep gravel driveway behind a duplex that seemed like an afterthought. She said she was leaving something and that she had to go in to get money for the fare which was $17.30. She disappeared across the back yard and around a retaining wall into a basement door. Leaving me in a cab with a little black baby girl.

I don't know babies. They are as foreign and alien as anything in the world to me. I sit in the cab and my imagination starts to trot away. The late night delirium has begun to set in. I often worry that the last fare should have been the last fare, that I should have quit while I am ahead. I am in a strange neighborhood which isn't really a neighborhood at all. There's no fast or easy exit. I have to go out backwards over a very steep entrance which will bottom out the car. The interior lights are on so I have very little visibility behind me. There's a flatbed utility trailer parked alongside the driver's side of my car. I think the fix is in, that someone is trying the bait-and-switch on me. I drop off a black girl with a baby, and a big black guy comes out mad, "what's this $17.30 for a cab ride?" The baby is a prop.

My thoughts turn to something brighter. I imagine my new life with my new black baby girl. Raising her and triumphing over racism and bigotry, making her a strong-willed young woman who can persevere. Very sit-com. Before I can ponder names, I catch movement out of the corner of my eye. A thin black man in a wheelchair is wheely-ing down the rough, rutted gravel driveway towards me.

He has cornrows in his hair, and a goatee. Being a white guy from middle America, he looks a bit like Calvin Broadus to me. He has on a light colored sweatshirt and khaki pants. He's leaned way back, balancing the chair so the small front wheels don't stumble in the ruts. He has appeared from around the front of the house, uphill. I have a few seconds to study him as he eases his way skillfully down the terrain and around my side of the car, wedging between the trailer and the Lincoln. My window doesn't work. I open the door.

"Someone call a Taxi?" he asks.

"I just dropped someone off and she went inside to get money to pay me."

"Oh." He backed up and worked his way over to where he could peek over the retaining wall at the basement door. I looked at him looking at the door. He paused for a minute, and then turned around, and worked his way back up the hill and around the corner.

"It's okay baby girl. We're gonna be just fine."

The woman reemerged, and climbed in the back seat. The baby didn't make a sound the entire time. As the mother got in she was muttering something about "ain't even no milk in house" to herself. I was afraid she was setting me up for a hard luck tale to beat the fare. She had an armload of bottles and things spilling into the seat. I watched her lean back and pull a loose wad of folded bills out of the waist of her jeans. She handed me a $20. I asked her if she needed any change and she told me we were heading back to the hotel.

On the way we talked about public transit in the city, the impracticability of getting around in the Midwest without a car, and the location of the nearest Wal-Mart to the hotel. She was exceedingly polite, tipped me well, and called me sir. I helped her with the baby bottles and things. She had dropped a pair of tweezers and a toothbrush. I put them in her goat pocket and tucked a shampoo bottle under her arm as I got the door for her. The shampoo had leaked and I left with a strong but pleasant scent of strawberry in my cab. I ran $238 on the meter, my best night yet.