Pay Rent or Vacate

Well, fuck shit if it isn't Thursday night already.

I'm going to go in chronological order this time.

Monday night. I had a long wait getting into a cab, but I was pretty busy right off of the bat. I didn't have too many crazy fares, but at least I was making some money. I was still feeling the effects of the cold I came down with earlier, but was doing better.

At some point I picked up the congestive heart disease woman I wrote about in an earlier post. She was the tangerine lady who had tipped me surprisingly well. I picked her up from some shopping at Aldi's. We were close enough to her house that we barely beat the $3 minimum fare, coming in at $3.30. I helped carry all of here groceries into her elderly-smelling apartment. I looked at her newer, bigger Christmas tree that she had purchased the last night I carried her. I was staring at the ceramic puppy under the coffee table when she came up with her money.

"Here's $3, for the fare, and here's $5," handing me a bunch of quarters. I thanked her graciously and headed out. I assumed she meant "and this makes $5" in regards to the quarters, but I later realized that there had been an extra $5 tip in them.

Later that night she called dispatch to see if a Scrabble game had fallen out of one of her bags in the van. I am very careful to check to see that I get everything when I help with groceries, and was confident nothing fell out. I checked again, anyway, to find nothing. I'm not sure how accurate her memory is. I checked a third time when I vacuumed that night. Nothing.

The most entertaining fare I had was a call to Willies at about 11:55. It was two guys, one of whom was pretty toasted. He had a bit of a boy band look to him, though more urban hip than an attempt top make a mutt look at least half interesting. He had a wool cap pulled low on his brow, a well groomed goatee, and some earrings dangling from the lobes peeking from under his cap. He had some minor degree of ethnicity to him. Enough to stand out a bit in the Midwest upon a second glance. The second guy looked more typically Midwestern Caucasian, though he was clad in some urban hipster jeans--the huge, loose ones, though they didn't fall a foot off of his ass. He had on an over-sized flannel shirt and was wearing a pristine baseball cap, of which team I'm not sure. It was one of those monochrome jobs which omits the teams colors.

They weren't readily sure where they were going, but the drunker of the two encouraged me to drive anyway. I waited and tried to get a firm locale from them. The soberer of the two was in town to visit his drunk friend, who was calling the shots, being a native.

"We wanna go to the club. What clubs are still open?"

"Well, it's a Monday night. Most of the bars are still open, until 1 am. "

"Yeah, but we wanna go to a club. What clubs are open late, man?"

"Well...the strip clubs are open until 2 am, but there aren't really any 'clubs' open on Monday night (or any night, for that matter)."

"That's it man, we're going to the strip club."

The soberer of the two wasn't on board. "I don't have enough money to go to the strip club and give it all away." The first guy was emphatic but proved not to have much stamina for argument.

"Take us to Soho Club," said the drunk guy.

"You mean the SoCo Club?" I asked. Again, Columbia's premier gay bar.

"Yeah, man, the SoCo club. That's where we're going."

They didn't seem particularly gay to me. But, it was a good fare, and it was their business. I wasn't going to try to clarify or dissuade, because I figured I would embarrass or insult them regardless of their preferences. If they were straight at least they'd get a good story out of it.

"Wait, that's not a gay bar, is it?" asked the second guy.

"Yes, I believe it is," I replied.

The first guy cracked up. "I'm not going to a gay bar, dude," his buddy told him. The first guy was having fun with everything, and assured his buddy that there must be some straight girls there. He asked me for support.

"Sure, there's gotta be, statistically speaking."

"And they'll be all over us."

"I don't know how they could stop themselves."

The second guy offered a bit of a grumbling acceptance, but was apparently up for a good time. He postured a bit, saying "we're out of there the second a dude hits on me."

I wasn't entirely sure that SoCo was open on Mondays. And, it's about a $12 or $13 ride from downtown. I asked the first guy and he assured me that he had called and that they said they were open. So, we headed that direction, with one stopover at the gas station for cigarettes.

It was a fairly entertaining ride. Along the way I asked the guy two more times if he had really called, fearing they would be closed. He assured me that he had called and that they said they would be open.

SoCo is on the back side of a weird suburban sprawl business complex. I pulled around and up to the bar. There were several neon beer signs lit up in the draped windows. I guessed it was open. I dropped the two guys out and turned around in the parking lot, to head out.

I saw them turn the wrong direction, and go in the door to the adjoining Mexican restaurant. That's when I looked closer and saw that the SoCo signs were off. I turned back around and pulled up on the two as they realized the gay bar had closed without them. The fare out had been $15.05, with wait time and a second passenger. I offered to drop them off at the Legends Sports bar around the corner. They rolled with it. I wondered if they were going to be too rowdy for the regulars. The first guy was well lit and they looked just different enough to raise an eyebrow on a Monday night. They were good natured but I thought the first guy might try to manufacture a scene since he had been unsuccessful in uncovering one. Regardless, I headed back downtown.

Later I had a call to to go back to Legends. I figured it would be the same dudes. But, when I got there, no one came out. I went inside to look around. I recognized a very personable, boisterous black guy I had picked up there once before. I thought he may have been the fare. He recognized me and was pleased to see that I remembered him. He acted like we were old, dear friends. I asked him if he was waiting for a cab. He wasn't, but did do me the unsolicited favor of screaming in an impressive, booming baritone, over the crowd, "which one of y'all motherfuckers called a cab?" I'd be uncertain if I had to testify before Congress as to whether or not he actually cursed. But, his voice was startling, booming and impressive, enough so that you knew his meaning from his tone and the finer details slipped through the syllables.

He moved with a purpose and did not stop until he had worked his way through the crowd and found me my fare. Drunks get lost in their own little worlds, even when they should know they have a cab coming. You often have to peel through three or four layers of people until you find exactly who you're looking for. "No, I didn't call but there was a guy..." "Yeah, I saw a chick in a yellow shirt..." "He must have gone to the bathroom..." "No, she left already..." "He was just right here..." "That's her..." And, finally, "Yeah, I called."

So I found her. She was a server, apparently recently off duty. She seemed involved in something and I told her I'd be waiting outside.

She was slow in coming. When she finally made it outside she was followed by some dude, apparently trying to be reasonable and helpful. He was the classic sensitive (but not too sensitive) guy friend who was trying to salve things a bit, since she was apparently in a rift with her boyfriend. I tried to be noninvasive while conveying some professional sense of urgency. She sat in the front seat of the minivan, holding a cigarette, and trying to comprehend her situation. Dude was saying something of little consequence to her. Dispatch radioed back to see if I had found my fare yet.

I was trying to put off dispatch and assess the situation without being nosy. I heard the dude call the chick Gina.

"Your name's Gina?"

She looked at me for the first time. She had a nice face. Pleasant and attractive, but not Hollywood or synthetic. "Yeah, its Gina."

"That would have been my name if I were a girl." Before she could digest the comment dude was saying something again and boyfriend had finally emerged from the bar. Dispatch radioed again.

Boyfriend was in an alcoholic daze. Not overly boorish, but perhaps a tad neglectful. Dispatch said I had another call just across the parking lot at Hemingway's, Ltd. I told Gina to take a minute and call back if she needed a ride, since it looked like her show of independence worked to get her man's attention and that she likely wouldn't be going anywhere. Before I could get her out of the cab an interloper popped into my window.

It was Jerrod, a guy I've hauled a couple of times before. He is a memorable character, even apart from his generous tipping. Realizing he was my Hemingway's fare, I booted Gina with swift dispatch. I waited for Jerrod to run back inside Hemingway's and tell his party he was leaving.

I had hauled Jerrod twice before, each time after closing time. Once, from Murray's, once, from Club Vogue. On both occasions he was shitfaced. But, he was very affable and entertaining. And he tipped very well. He talked a good deal of money, as if it was all around us, lurking in the shadows just beyond our apprehension, like VC in the jungles of Vietnam. Jerrod knows rich people. He doesn't covet, though, and he is doing well for himself. But, he is nonetheless fascinated by wealth and its ascertainment.

Once, I took him through the McDonald's drive-through at about 3:30 in the morning. He barely broke his nonstop mile-a-minute discourse to order. As I handed him his food and change from the window I sensed impending mischief on his part, since he had become uncharacteristically quiet. I worried he may say something uncouth or condescending to the rough faced black girl pulling graveyard in the window. Before I could make a clean escape he managed to squeeze in "thank you, Sugar Booger."

Tonight, though, Jerrod was subdued. He was surprised that I recognized him and knew his name. I'm sure some of the other drivers recognize him, but for his tips. He said he was very tired and worn out. The fare to his house was $7.30. I wondered how sobriety might affect his spending habits.

"$7.30? Oh, man, you're killing me."

"Yeah, I know, I keep taking all of your money."

He had already got out of the door and taken out his wallet. He handed me a $20 and said "we're even" before I could offer change. He said "Merry Christmas" as he slammed the door and turned away. Good guy, that Jerrod.

I was dispatched back to Legends again, this time to pick up the two dudes from the Soho/SoCo confusion. The bar had been closed for a while, and they were standing at the street corner waiting. I picked them up and headed back downtown. The drunk guy was even drunker. They had had a good time with no mishaps. They took some time deciding firmly where they were going, either to the drunk guy's house or to a friend's. I finally got it out of them that we were going to Amelia, but I wasn't exactly sure of its location and was relying on directions.

The meter was at $12.00 when the guy wanted me to stop so he could walk and save some money. I took note of the meter and told him I would only charge him $12, and run him the rest of the way for free. He had tipped well before, and was pretty drunk. I knew that downtown was pretty dead and I imagined the cops would be bored and listless looking for people to bust. I told him a public intox was highly possible, since he would be walking down College and University. He was gracious and kept giving me directions. He would say "this is good here" and I would start to stop, asking which house. He'd say that he would walk the rest of the way and I'd again offer to drive. I finally dropped him off at his insistence a few blocks from Amelia.

"How much do I owe you?"

"Well, I told you I'd stop charging you at $12, so just give me what you got." He handed me $11.

"How much is that?"

"That's $11."

"What was the fare?"

"We stopped it at $12, but this will work if its all you've got." He handed me a $20 and took back the $11.

"Just give me $5 back." That extra $3 was more than enough to run him the last few blocks, but he was insistent on tipping and walking, because I was "pretty cool." I gave him a card for future reference.

And, as luck would have it, I did drive right past Amelia on the way to my next fare. It was an incredibly cute black girl with Afro-puffs. She was very nice. When I turned back towards downtown I told her we'd likely see the two guys I just dropped off. We somehow missed them, though. She asked about dealing with drunks and I told her their story. She tipped me when we cleared, and I felt guilty thinking she may have thought I told the story to grub for tips.

Things died pretty swiftly after bar rush. At about 2:30 I was dispatched to a house on Paquin. No one came out, even after I honked twice. I had a good parking spot, though, and decided to add up my fares, since no more calls were coming in. I was surprised when someone opened the passenger door. It was my fare, a white early 20 something with a a wool beanie pulled low, thick framed eyeglasses, long chops framing his jawline, and a small gap between his sturdy, firmly set front teeth. Good teeth for a Hollywood grimace in an old western, when someone would deliver a cold-ass Devil-may-care soliloquy.

I usually don't mine too deeply for stories. I just ask a couple of ordinary, pat questions which stir people to talk. Something about this guy struck me, though. I told him he surprised me by sneaking up on me, that I was ordinarily very vigilant. He said something about CIA covert operations. I told him he looked like he had his finger on the pulses of some things and asked him what he knew.

"What's my story? That calls for a cigarette." He lit up and began telling me he was a Marine waiting for his discharge to clear. He had been in Kosovo and, most recently Iraq. This would be the first time I heard anything about the war from someone without an agenda. His wind-up was proportional, I'm sure, to what he had to tell, but, unfortunately, not to our 8 minute cab ride. I didn't get to take much from it, factually.

I did a little more alley/grafitti research in the wee morning hours before bringing it in. Apparently someone named Wally died and is missed.

Tuesday I woke up and was surprised to not be completely choked up with phlegm. My cold was on its way out, and I was thankful. I got to work and was put in #3 again, the minivan. No stereo and a spin-cycle wobble at about 30mph.

My first two calls were cancellations. Bullocks. My third call was at the Parkade Plaza, on the Mo-Ex side. I pulled up in front. Mo-Ex is the first business to the west side of the main entrance. The only other business on the west side is a giant furniture store. Dispatch told me it was a Family Services charge, so I didn't think anyone would be buying a couch or coming back from the airport. I waited in front of the broad glass entryway to the main corridor, which would be the sensible exit for anyone downstairs.

I waited for a good long while. I got out and went inside. I looked downstairs and everywhere I could find. I drove slowly past Mo-Ex and the furniture store. Nada. I radioed dispatch and told them I was leaving, with my third consecutive no-show. As I was leaving I drove towards the east end of the building, away from the 'Mo-Ex' side. That's when I realized that there were Mo-Ex vans parked down there, though the business office and customers were on the opposite end. Sure enough, I found my fare waiting, patiently. Balls.

So, in an hour and a half I had ran one $11 fare. Then dispatch called me in to 'trade cars.' I wondered what kind of bullshit was up. Obviously someone else had a preference, and my time was being wasted so they could have their favorite. Things were slow, though, and it wasn't as if I had a real choice. I brought #3 in. Cool Bill, the first driver I wrote about that I liked, took number 3 and headed out. I hadn't seen him in weeks. I waited for my car. And waited. And waited.

They wasted another 30-40 minutes of my time before #16 came in. I was pissed off but relieved to be finally getting my car. As I took the driver's seat the day driver told me to 'keep an eye on the front tire." Which meant "it's pretty much flat." So, on top of my already considerable delay, I had to go spend $.50 to air up the damn tire in the cold. Bullshit.

After that I picked up Miss Jane. She's the crotchety old regular I have mentioned a couple of times. I took her to Chris McD's.

The calls were barely trickling in. I decided to go to Lowes and buy a new hammer handle and chainsaw file, so I could get tuned up to go bust the shit out of that elm tree in Culito's yard. I radioed dispatch to call me on my cell phone when needed.

A new 36" hickory handle was $9. A complete new 8lb maul with handle was only $18. I considered buying it outright to save time, but an 8lb maul seemed sacrilege. And, I hated to see the 6lb hammer head I had laying rusty in a corner of the garage. I picked up a handle and examined it. It was sprayed with some sort of epoxy/lacquer/shellac that gave it a texture. Not desirable. I considered the possibility of sanding it. But, I would have to wear gloves regardless, since my hands would be virgin and would blister like a son-of-a-bitch. I again considered the 8lb maul. I picked it up to consider its heft. That's when I realized that the handle had shrunk and was loose fitting in the head. Not on my watch, mister.

Though my cold was clearing, my colon had been acting up. I blamed it on the cold, somehow. I decided to give the hammer handle situation a think while I pursued the Lowes facilities.

I found the Lowes bathroom. My colon was pressing. I selected a spacious handicapped stall only to find no TP. Thankfully I had checked. I looked in a couple of more stalls to find no paper. I was getting pissed. "What the fuck is this?" I said aloud to myself. I finally found some toilet paper in the end stall. It was tiny, and poor designed. It was nearly impossible to get inside and close the door without brushing against the toilet bowl. In trying to avoid it I gouged my arm on the latch mechanism on the stall. It hit some magic pressure point and hurt much more than it should have. I was still pissed off and feeling it when I returned to the hammer handle selection.

I chose the least shitty handle and went to get a file. There's something about holding a well-balanced hickory handle that makes you want to strike things. I felt jaunty on my feet and had to restrain myself from whacking the shit out of every little thing in sight. I called my old man to see what size file the old Homelite took. 7/32", as I thought.

After running another call I had another long wait. This time I went home and checked out the messageboard. I was still killing time when I got a call to go to McD's for Miss Jane. I ran her out to Boone Landing. She must have had a bit to drink because she had spent all her cash and had to use her credit card. We probably get at least $250 a week out of Miss Jane. She may be our most regular customer.

Whenever I get a credit card I fill out a form and radio the account information to the dispatcher. The dispatcher runs the card. I check ID, get a signature, and let them go when dispatch tells me it has cleared. That's procedure. Besides ensuring that the card is valid and we're paid, it also ensures that I have copied the info down correctly and that dispatch has understood me correctly.

Miss Jane is presumably rich. I'm not worried about her card bouncing or her beating us out of $15.80. When I called the card in dispatch was on the phone and busy. Miss Jane was cranky and impatient. I have to walk her inside the lobby, where she usually sits and rests before returning to her apartment. I figured I would walk her in and sit her down, and come back out to run the card. That way, I could catch her inside if something did go wrong. I double checked the numbers and led her inside. Then I came back out and read the info to dispatch. He said I was good and I drove off.

After getting a couple of miles away he radioed back and said the card was declined. I assumed he had written the numbers down wrong. I reread it and he reran it, to the same end. He wanted me to go back and get another card from her. Shit balls.

I went back to Boone Landing. Miss Jane was not in the lobby. Apparently you have to know the code to get in. Some old lady came up while I was trying to decide what to do, and told me she would let me in "if you have a good reason."

I didn't want to prowl around in an old folks home after 9 pm. I didn't know where Miss Jane's apartment was, or how 'comfortable' she may have made herself once she got home. The $16 could wait.

Dispatch gave me shit and told me I would have to pay for the fare if she didn't remember next time. I thought about the $20.30 fare that Phyllis made me give away once when dispatch made me late. Fuckers.

While I was seething it seemed as though the Lincoln was pulling to the left. #16 always pulls to the left when braking, so I hadn't really noticed. It was raining pretty steady, and cold. I drove to a gas station and pulled up to the air box. I opened the door, and, sure enough, the tire was 99% flat. And, despite having received $5 in quarters the previous day, I had none on me. I left them at home because they fall out of the pockets of my cargo pants. So, I had to walk across the parking lot in the rain to get change.

The guy at the gas station was cool, though, and turned on the air for free, something I didn't know he could do. It made it a little less shitty when crouching in the cold rain to fill the tire. I tried to listen to see if I could hear the leak, but I had left the car running and the compressor was pretty loud. I drove back downtown and bitched abut it to dispatch. I had some shrimp tacos.

I wasn't making any money. Calls were coming in to me about once an hour. I had made about $20 in 8 hours, $10 of which I spent on shrimp tacos, and $10 more I might have to pay back if Miss Jane doesn't come through for me. I checked the tire again, in the parking garage. It was noticeably low and leaking. I asked dispatch if he would send me home and he did. I made it home by about 11:30.

I figured this was good, because I could get up earlier and work on that tree. I was asleep by 1 am, with 2 whole days off coming up.

I was awake at 3:40 am. Stomach trouble. By 4 I was knelt over the toilet. I looked at the bachelor-pad piss-stained bowl. "Why would I care to clean that?" I thought. "As long as the seat is arguably cleaner than my ass I don't give a fuck." At that point my retarded cat jumped up on the edge of the bowl. I imagined those cute little piss-stained paws traipsing over my lap, my couch, my bed, etc.

One particularly loud wretch and gag woke up my roommate in time to hear me puking in the toilet. After the splashing and gagging had subsided a bit, he opened his door.

"Shrimp tacos."

"Oh, man. That stuff usually takes 24 hours. What did you have to eat last night?"

"Shrimp tacos."

"Oh, yeah. It's probably the shrimp then."

That was the routine until about 7 in the morning. Well, that and spastic diarrhea. You've got to mix it up a little bit. And once, I did both simultaneously. Yup. I shit myself. I had been wearing my favorite boxers. The most painful part of the whole thing was that I was sober, and felt cheated because of that fact.

For the first hour or so I still had a bit of a sense of humor about it. I considered how I might treat it in my blog. I was going to use a nice little US immigration allegory, where the shrimp came to me looking for a better way of life.

Most settled in the Yankee north, while others they went south.
They thought they'd never see again, hunger's gaping mouth.
But in the spring of '61, a fragile peace was shattered.
North and South could not agree, and war was all that mattered.

Anyhoo, the shrimp were going to war it out on my insides like little angry Snorks, and ultimately kill each other all off. My guts were the battlefield.

But the next couple of hours of puking kind of killed my buzz.

I puked upstairs. I puked downstairs. I laid in the floor. I laid on the stairs. I shit with a trash can in my hand. I was able to get to sleep at about 7. I slept until about 5pm. I stretched it until 6 before trying to eat or drink. I was able to keep it down okay, but was pretty beat and dehydrated from the food poisoning. My knees hurt from kneeling over the toilet and my whole body ached.

I picked up some DVDs at the public library. I was looking for Outfoxed, but it was out. Instead I got "The Soul of a Man," by Wim Wenders. It was one of those Scorsese produced Blues movies. It sucked ass. The other movie was Hell's Highway: The True Story of Highway Safety Films. It was a good effort. There's actually a good story behind the films themselves. But, if you're just out for some nostalgic gore, they have 3 complete films on the bonus disc, included at the library. Bonus!

So today I just slept, again. I got some ribs and went back to the public library. I got a documentary: WTC: The First 24 Hours, or some such business. I also picked up a couple of audio CDs, one of Leadbelly and one of Furry Lewis. Noice.

But the big story tonight? I checked my mail and had two letters from the management company that took over my duplex this summer. Apparently I made a mistake on the amount of the check and shorted them $5. I always have to do the math in my head to remember how much the rent went up when they took over. So they sent me a "NOTICE TO PAY RENT OR VACATE" rather than giving me a phone call.

And, the second letter? It complains:

It has come to our attention that the condition of your apartment is not satisfactory. As
stated in the property Rules and Regulations,

Number 10, Item b. Dispose of your garbage and trash regularly as it may attract
rodents and insects.

*trash and debris all over back patio and cat litter box near patio divider! Also trash
scattered all over front of the building. A plastic box is on the front porch.

My rear 'patio' is a broken concrete slab, maybe 8x8'. It is visible to absolutely no one unless they are somewhere they are not supposed to be. Whenever I have a full trash bag but its not close to trash day put the garbage out back. There were a number of small bags with used cat litter in them, piled up in one spot. There were also two small rugs I had thrown out months ago.

As for the front yard, we live at the end of a cul de sac. The way the houses are constructed caused a cyclic effect on windy days, which carries all of the errant trash down the street and deposits it in my front yard. I went out there and found four or five pieces of paper, none of them half as big as a sheet of typing paper, save for one crumpled piece of newsprint. As for the the plastic box, it was a Rubbermaid container that my roommate left out there. Not sure why. Not sure what was in it. I moved it anyway, since he's out of town for the next 10 days or so.

They sent these letters on the 14Th. I got them today, on the 15Th. They're supposed to be here 12/16/05 to 'inspect.' They also made a hand-written note that "if any trash is removed, you will be charged $25 per bag or item. Thank you! (happy face)."

As if my days off couldn't get any more fun, I was busy re-bagging wet cat litter and cat shit in the dark, cold night. I had used shitty cheap plastic bags, and the cat letter had soaked up water from the snow. Thus, the 15lbs of cat litter in each bag weighed more like 40lbs, and the bags ripped and left my hands digging in the putrid filth. I got it all in two large heavy duty bags, and put everything in a 45 gallon plastic trash can. I'll gladly give them $25 to haul that shit off.

Yeah, so high times here for me. I've finally calmed down. Can my week get worse? Let's not tempt fate. Maybe I'll meet a nice lady or something.