See Eloise Go Linin' Track

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I think we might have a problem."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"A jaunt?"

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

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

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

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

"How was your meal tonight?"

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

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

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

I grabbed Light in August.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Merry Christmas
Aunt Sue
+
(Granny Alta)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Truck."

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

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

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

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

"Uh, alright, dude."

"Unno, ooh-ess-aay fag."

"Uh, okay."

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

"USA flag?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You're my favorite!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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