That whiskey? That's $1.
Teardrops are fallin'
My heartache is callin'
It's old news--
It ain't new
But this post is.
Hola! It's been a while since I rapped at ya! I'm using excessive exclamation points! That's to express my mood! But at least that's better than all caps.
But seriously. I think I'm a bit jacked up. From last night. It's 9 something in the am as I write this. I haven't seen the other side of 5 am in a few weeks. I had last night and tonight off, so I went to see the Asylum Street Spankers at Mojo's, where the whiskey flows like wine. I haven't tied one on in a while, since I've been generally broke and driving the cab, working weekends and nights. So I took the opportunity to tie a couple on, to catch back up.
I had been getting a bit high-minded about booze lately. I cart around drunks every night, watch them stagger and hold each other up, listen to them stammer and ramble, distance myself from their lover's quarrels, and clean their puke off of my cab. It's fun to see the other side, sober. They're all things I have seen, just when I was tanked and couldn't recognize it or put it in perspective.
But last night took care of that, and reaffirmed that I am a drunk. Well, at least someone who drinks their self drunk on occasion, and then well past it. It was an all-bourbon night. From the straw count in my pocket it looks like 7 singles at Mojo's and 2 more at Eastside. And Eastside does not skimp on the well bourbon. In all fairness I did slosh a little bit on my friend Susan's back. But, again, in fairness, she did jump on me. As best as I remember. I'm not sure if her feet left the ground. I thought they did, but I have a recollection of weightlessness, so it's possible she didn't or maybe it was some well good bourbon strength that I harnessed for good. And that good being keeping ladies who jump on me from falling down. Which can be a chore to keep up with.
I also met my nemesis last night. Not a comic book nemesis, but a real online one. I was creeping people out with my bizzaro drunk stalker memory, telling two dudes who used to play with Israel Gripka too many details of brief drunken encounters with them. One was a Dave, who had a George Jones shirt on at a Shack Shakers show, the other was a David who had played a left handed bass with a blond wig for a band opening for Split Lip Rayfield one time last year. This conversation started some time after my friend Susan stuck her foot in David's ass as he stood in front of us, watching an opening band. She said he was her friend and I asked if he played with the Gripka, because I recognized him. She said he did, and I used that as a contextual foundation when we started rapping some time later.
Yeah, so, David is/was my online nemesis. Based on this exchange:
| Re: Dearest Tiger John Cleek, | [ Block Author ] | |
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| Re: Dearest Tiger John Cleek, | [ Block Author ] | |
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| Re: Dearest Tiger John Cleek, | [ Block Author ] | |
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Innocent enough. Hardcorey had made my list with an inaugural post about high-kicking in clubs. Some time later I met Justin Glow, the webmaster for comomusic (or whatever the kids call it these days) and we discussed different personalities from the site. I mentioned my disdain for Hardcorey and the shitstorm he might be in for should our paths cross. Justin told me that he had met Hardcorey, that he was a pretty cool guy, and that his posts were sort of a tongue-in-cheek alter ego. Fair enough. That dampened my ire and I no longer had an active anger for him.
So, I meet Hardcorey, and what do you know? He's from the same shit small town as I am. Turns out Israel Gripka is, too. We talked a bit about dear old Lebanon, Missouri, and some mutual acquaintances we had. He also mentioned a few people from Lebanon who were kicking it around Columbia that I didn't know about. Small world, eh?
I gotta a take a shower. My pants reek of cigarette smoke.
So here I am back, some 10 hours or so later. Ely just plugged in and the cats have fled upstairs and are looking to me for help. Today was not productive. I spent it sitting around hungover. I got a little picking in, and watched some trash TV. I hate nostalgia but can't help watching VH1's Remember the 80s shows. That and Best Week Ever. There's just something about unknown comics making fun of pop culture that cracks my shit up.
I saw a cable van in the neighborhood and realized that my tense reaction and anxiety was not called for, that I do in fact pay for cable now. I was stealing it for a few years there. Paying for cable takes all of the fun out of watching those poorly made "you're going to jail and Hell for stealing cable" commercials that Mediacom runs.
Yeah, so the Asylum Street Spankers show was a bit of a bust. I think I may have met the most annoying woman in the world. Some chick probably pushing 50 who stopped everyone in the bar and asked them if they shopped at Whole Foods. She apparently was a saleswoman who peddled some tofu bullshit to froo froo grocery stores. You know, real rock and roll stuff. I felt sorriest for the bartender. She had shown up early expecting a free show (due to a mistake in the VOX) and sat drinking beer for a good hour or so before accosting every member of the band individually.
I didn't take much away from the Spankers show. The band was a six piece, most of whom were in their 40s. They had some infighting during their soundcheck and didn't seem to be a very cohesive unit. Not the merry band of gypsies I fancy the Hackensaw Boys to be. They did some 'Vaudeville style' parodies, some kids songs, and some bawdy numbers. Mostly a novelty act, sadly. The chick had some great vocal chops, and played a mean hand saw. That was cool. She also played a ukulele, guitar, and banjo--but it was a 4 string plectrum banjo strummed with a flat pick. I found myself laughing a lot, which was no doubt aided by my copious ingestion of Bellows. There would be no merch for me. I talked a bit with their bass player about some of the practical aspects of playing on the road. My only notes from the performance was a reminder not to "listen to songs about whiskey from a man drinking beer--Beck's beer."
Yeah but what about the cab? Enough of this day-in-the-life bullshit.
I haven't written anything about the past 4 nights I drove. So these should be a little less cumbersomely detailed.
Last Friday I woke up with what must have been the early stages of a cold. I blamed the cats for giving me bird flu. I knew 12 hours in a cab with a fever would suck, but I couldn't afford not to work, and I imagined it would probably be nigh on impossible to get the night off, anyway. I sucked it up and went in. Everything I did was a bit off, like my brain was operating on a 2 or 3 second delay.
At least I got a decent car Friday, #10. I decided to christen her 'dies,' as in Spanish for 10. I don't have much in the way of notes about fares from that night. I remembered that they mostly sucked. Everyone seemed to be in a crappy mood for a Friday, no real fun drunks. I did have a couple of calls with some lovely ladies--sorority girls packed in like sardines.
Driving a cab with 6-8 sorority girls crammed in it is a mixed bag. Sadly, the task of driving is so demanding that you can't really enjoy any of the ambiance, if the vibe is in fact good. 6-8 people in a car generate a lot of noise, especially half-drunk girls having fun on the way to a party. Luckily one person will generally assume a leadership role, and provide me with directions and hustle the money out of everyone for the fare. This works best when that person has worked in the service industry and drums up a decent tip. So, in addition to concentrating on driving and following one person's directions, I typically have to deal with two or three other errant conversations. And these are typically with a lady crammed in back seat who I haven't looked at. I sometimes have pretty involved conversations which span the whole ride with someone I never catch a glimpse of until they get out of the car.
The sorority girls like to talk to me. I am the youngest and dare I say best looking cab driver Columbia has to offer. Which isn't necessarily saying much. I am under 40 have all of my hair, most of my teeth, and am not morbidly obese. The sorority girls get a kick out of talking to me in part due to the exhibitionist aspect. They like to engage me in conversations so their friends will joke about them and the cab driver, as if they are politicians pressing the flesh--melding with salt-of-the-earth working class types. They typically address me, a faceless voice from the dark behind me, as 'hey Cab Diver?'
To which I reply, 'hey, college student?'
Then they talk about whatever sorority girls talk about. One girl told me that 'this girl right here, she's up for just about anything.' I asked if that included 'just about anybody,' because 'I only need to get my foot in the door and I am pretty good from there.' We had a fun little diatribe about fluffers in porn films and the Adult Video News award for best anal gang-bang scene. The chick's voice was hoarse, probably always a little husky but especially worn out from a night of most likely never shutting the fuck up. After the front seat passengers got out she asked if she could get in the front seat. I said 'sure,' and her leg narrowly missed my head as she emerged into view for the first time, climbing over the seat. I turned my head, almost into her crotch, quite by mistake. It had been a costume party and she was wearing an authentic Hooters girl outfit. The warm nylon-skinned leg of a sorority girl was an odd but welcome sensation against my arm on that particular evening.
Besides the clatter and distraction of conversation, even 8 of the fittest sorority girls add up to about a half ton. That's a lot of extra weight in any car. Couple that with poor visibility (can't see through all of the bodies) and its a bit nerve wracking to stop, steer, and accelerate, especially in worn-out piece of shit cab. Thus, I never really get an opportunity to soak in the sights
I did have one girl, probably all of twenty, look at me in earnest from the front seat, in response to her friend's comment about having a 'cute cab driver' or something, and say quite assuredly, 'yeah, he is a baby doll.' A baby doll. Whatever works, I guess.
Yeah, but Friday did suck. The culmination came when I had an accident with the cab at about midnight. No, not a puker. No, no one pissed in the cab, which I would have quite preferred. Quite simply, for the first time in my 13 year driving history, I caused a collision with another vehicle. It is humbling and embarrassing to admit. I have always prided myself on being an excellent driver.
If you drive a car 12 hours a day you have plenty of chances to have an accident. I drive more in a month than most people will in a year. It only takes a moment's inattention to fuck up when faced with such ample opportunity for having a wreck. This is compounded by the fact that your attention is split between driving, constantly scanning for flags (people walking who may 'flag' me down), constantly scanning for potential muggers, listening to dispatch on the radio, talking to dispatch on the radio, looking for a street or landmark, and, for me Friday, having a fever and a generally crappy night in the works.
As I was coming up on a red light, at about midnight, I got a call from dispatch. It was for a particularly popular walkway in the projects, where I presume people score drugs. There are no streetlights there and no one ever has on a house or porch light. Going there is a bit stressful. I had just passed the turn when I got the call. My last 4 fares had been shitty cancellations, where I had to drive all across town and wait forever for people who weren't there. I was telling dispatch where I was at and waited for the light to change so I could turn right to double back to the location. I was in the inside, or left, lane. The light turned green and I gunned the cab to my right to make the turn. I glanced in my mirror as I took off, and was trying to talk on the radio at the same time.
As near as I could tell, I think I forgot which lane I was in. Another car had timed the light so she would hit it when it turned green without having to stop. She was in the big Lincoln's considerable blind spot when I glanced in the mirror and turned into her lane.
It was a Subaru wagon, a newer one, and she got me in the passenger's front door pretty good. She was by herself, as was I. It was a fairly minor impact, no air-bags or anything, no stiff necks. Unfortunately, even the most minor of impacts can do some serious financial damage to a newer car.
The other driver couldn't have been more cool about it. She was extremely laid back. She is a violin instructor, and I think maybe piano, too. The cops came by and I got a summons to go to court, two days after my birthday. The most difficult part was dealing with the embarrassment and telling the cab company about it. I finished up that night with a big dent in the passenger's door.
And, I get to pay for it. They had already replaced the door with one off of another junk cab when I came back in some 12 hours later. Same door, same color, stickers already on it. $200. I think its a shitty way to run a company, but its not like I can afford to quit a job over $200. I drop an extra $10 or $20 a night until its paid up. It's yet another expense lost to learning things the hard way and paying for all of my stupidity over the past few years.
It wouldn't have happened with a fare in the car, and it won't happen again. It was a bit of rookie nerves, caught up in the espionage atmosphere of talking in code on the radio and trying to beat out the scavengers from the rival cab companies. Pretty much every other driver has had the same thing happen at least once. In fact, that was the third accident in the week and a half I had been working. I'm sure I'll get to pay for it again when I go to court. At least its on my day off. Adding to the shittiness of the job is the very real possibility I'm going to get stuck working on Thanksgiving and Christmas, as well as my birthday.
But enough about my petty bullshit problems.
I also had my first run to Lynn's, which is a whorehouse north of town. I know that's pretty un-PC, but lets call a spade a spade. It's pretty much straight out of Porky's or Animal House, except maybe for the lack of a swamp or moat. It is a large old farm house shaped like a barn, and painted barn-red, to boot. All the windows are covered. There are no signs or any indication of what type of business Lynn's is. There are tall wooden privacy fences that line the parking lot and take off from the back of the house. The driveway is chat. There were probably six or eight cars parked there, and the driveway extended into a lane that stretched into the darkness.
I went up there to pick up a customer. The dispatcher said to go 'to the back side.' I couldn't see the back side of the house, due to the fence. I didn't know where the lane went or how to drive back around there. It was not lit up and I didn't want to go exploring. I knew by reputation that there are also some trailers behind the house. I needed some more info. I didn't know what kind of shotgun-wielding bouncer with a pit bull in tow would greet me behind any particular door. I radioed dispatch, who said she would ask another driver which door to use. While I sat there a late model Grand Am pulled in, and a late 20 something-early 30 something woman with a short skirt and halter top got out and tottered her way carefully across the gravel lot on her ridiculously tall plastic stilettos and up the steps to a side door.
Getting in didn't seem like a big production, for her. I decided to give that door a try since I hadn't heard back from dispatch. I walked up the wooden steps and came to an ordinary exterior door, of a much newer vintage than the old house. It had windows that looked into a well lit room, apparently a foyer of sorts, which had probably served as a screened porch in days past. I didn't see anyone and cautiously stepped inside.
There were a number of mismatched chairs, probably scavenged at yard sales when their useful lives in the waiting rooms of dentists' and doctors' had faded and expired at the hands of remodeling and more contemporary styling. Every seat showed massive cigarette burns. Not just the-cherry-fell-off-of-a-lit-cigarette-and-burned-a tiny-hole variety, but more like someone passed out and a fresh cigarette slowly burned to extinction, melting a significant recess into the hard textured plastic of some chairs and smoldering large holes in the fabric of others.
Before I could soak up much more ambiance, a working girl came to the door that opened from the foyer into the house. I saw a couple of more girls tottering about. They too were surprisingly attractive, more so than I would have imagined for mid-Missouri whores. They were probably all near my age, though the stripper clothes, make-up, perfume, and cigarette smoke haze lent more gravity to them than my somewhat collegiate, youthful appearance. One was very fair skinned with straight, thin red hair. She may have had a little acne hidden under the makeup, and her hair looked surprisingly natural for a woman in her profession. They all looked very nice, without the phony seductress attitude that strippers adopt under the black light. Very unpretentious and non-assuming.
I asked if anyone was waiting for a cab. After checking with a few people, they concluded that my fare had already left. It seemed like a place I would like to hang out at. Not for the sleaze value or gutter sex, but you have to admit that it is somewhat out of the norm for most of us. I'm sure that barn holds a million fascinating stories, not all of them ending in abortions, beatings, and crystal methamphetamine. But maybe I'm a dreamer.
That was Friday night. As best as I can remember. I wrapped up by giving Virginia a ride to her trailer court north of town. I'd almost forgot what one was like. I imagine it must be stifling, living so close to so many people, coming and going at all hours, in a tin can. Some of her kin were still up at nearly 4 in the morning, smoking cigarettes and talking, leaning against a dead car on the side of the lane.
Saturday found me with a shit car. #15, a new one to me. I figured it was punishment for crashing Dies, which, as I mentioned had already been fixed. Actually, it was a home game day Saturday, with MU playing Baylor and the town full of people. A*1 tried to get every car they had out for the night. I was low man on the totem pole, so I got #15. I had heard Tim complaining about it and swearing he wouldn't drive it anymore.
Tim is a loudmouth, not entirely unlikable. He has an accent reminiscent of Dragline from Cool Hand Luke, though he has lived in Columbia his whole life. He is tall, lanky, with white hair and a limp that hints at some hard living. I think he has a couple of Navy looking, faded service tattoos on his arms. He wears a medium sized white Polo uniform shirt, dark jeans, and white tennis shoes which appear gigantic and exaggerate his lanky proportions. They are too wide for his feet and and can't be laced tight enough.
And 15 was in fact a pile of shit. It is an 88 or 89 Lincoln. The windows were, of course, completely fucked, stuck up. Encouraging when faced with the prospect of hauling around drunken revelers who have been drinking since lunch time. The driver's seat was shredded. This car had a light tan interior, unlike most which are navy or burgundy, so it showed a lot of dirt. The headlights were on a toggle switch. It had a horrible shudder and vibration, caused by the torque converter in the transmission not unlocking. The only way to drive it without the horrible death shudder was to stab it off of the line and keep in the throttle enough that the car wouldn't shift to the next higher gear. It also idled erratically and would often die when stopped.
The turn signals weren't working. I radioed in to see if there was a trick to make them work and was scolded for bringing it up on the radio and told to find a pay phone and call in. I tried to call from my cell phone, but, as dispatch had informed me and then immediately forgot, the phones were all messed up because of the storm. So I couldn't get through. I was pretty pissed that I was stuck with this pile of shit and embarrassed to pick up passengers in it. And I'll be damned if I was going to pay for another ticket for defective equipment. Eventually, dispatch told me that it involved jiggling the key. So, I had to turn the signal on and jiggle the ignition switch until they worked. You had to do the same for the dash lights to stay on. Every time the car died and I restarted it I lost the magic position and had to repeat the ritual. Plus, the shudder was bad enough to rattle the key so the turn signal wouldn't work when I needed it. Then I would have to turn it back on, and commence to jigglin,' now signally a fantasy turn, and thoroughly confusing the drivers behind me.
I had also been hearing non-stop about all of the money there was to be made on game days, and that this was the last one of the season. The other drivers were as eager to get in their cars as kids are to get out of school for the summer. But the phones were down so people weren't getting through to dispatch. And, I think they over-saturated the market with too many drivers. By the end of the night I would have one of my worst nights on the meter to date.
I did have some interesting fares, though. I picked up a very handsome gay Norwegian guy and took him to the Soco Club, Columbia's premier gay bar. I told him about the Finnish chick I had dated last year and we talked about some of the Midwest's finer attractions. I also mentioned that I had gone to college with Aieta Buffet, the master of ceremonies for drag night at the Soco. He asked for a card so he could request me to pick him up later that night. He gave me a $20 for a $9 fare and asked for $9 back. I was caught up in our conversation and gave him $11 back, negating my tip. I realized it after I pulled away. I figured if I picked him up later he would remember, though.
I picked up half of a group of sorority girls at Chris McD's, one of Columbia's better renowned eateries. They had requested Clyde, who would be following in another cab for the rest of the group. Clyde is 50 something, short with a high nasally voice. He was a driver for me once before I started with A*1, and told me about singing in a country and western band before. He told me an anecdote about singing in the wrong key at an audition. Some of the sorority girls look at him like a mascot and request him. He works on an hourly wage, and part time. He can often be found asleep in his cab downtown when things are slow, hanging out of his seat belt, leaning rigidly into the middle of the cab like a dead man.
I took some group photos of the ladies while they assembled their party. There was a guy in his 40s they called Linc who was posing in the pictures with them. I didn't see the connection. It became obvious as we worked our way downtown that these girls had met him that night and latched on to him like a sugar daddy. He had been buying them drinks and was picking up the cab fare. His name was Lincoln. He was a cool guy, who knew more about what was going on than the girls may have thought. They were particularly annoying for sorority girls and not really all-that. Before we could get to the Penguin (Columbia's slightly upscaled piano bar) they were telling Linc how he needed to get them in, that they were underage, and their fake IDs weren't very good. I think their charm had worn off of Lincoln and he was trying to cut them loose as we emptied.
I had another group call, where I was second in line for the back half. I waited for a few minutes, and a rather fat woman of near 30 marshaled a group of fine looking sorority girls out of the bar and into the cab in front of me. Alright. I waited for my turn, as the woman gestured for me to hang on and went back into the bar. It was taking forever, and I wasn't running wait time, which meant I was not making any money. I was still in a crappy mood from the bad Friday night and a little sick. But, it was nothing a load of hot chicks couldn't help out with.
But what I got was the piggish 30 year old and two fat gay guys in their 30s. Dog balls. At least I hoped it would turn into a good fare. Turns out they were only going about 6 blocks, barely enough to make the $3 minimum. I dropped the first guy off one block away. He gave me $2. I headed the last 5 blocks with the two remaining passengers singing two different songs, loudly, poorly ad-libbing words about Columbia and taxis into two different show tunes. I laughed with them and thanked them for their gracious effort. The woman gave me $2 more while the second guy fumbled for money. He handed me a $20. I told him that I already had $4, and the fare was $4.80. He told me to keep the change. Sweet.
Right after that I headed back to the Penguin to pick up. A couple of dudes started yelling 'hey, Tim!" into the cab while I was trying to get through the intersection at 10Th and Broadway. I gestured across the street where I would be parking. They beat me there and kept yelling for Tim. I told them I wasn't Tim. They were pretty obnoxious, and said they had ridden in 'this same piece of shit cab' with a driver named Tim the night before. That's great, guys. As my fare came up to the cab--two wasted dudes, not very hip and somewhat out of place in this MTV-landscape of pretty people--the other guys told them that my cab was a piece of shit and that it would break down and strand them a block away.
Then they made fun of my fares. 'You guys must be pimps. You're looking good tonight.' I was embarrassed for them, but they couldn't have handled it better. I would have probably ran my mouth and let them goad me into their testosterone frenzy, but these guys were pros. The smaller guy said something to the effect of 'I don't know why high rollers like those guys don't just take their limos, cabs are are obviously beneath them.' The two guys were shit-hammered, celebrating their birthdays. They tipped me $12 on an $8 fare and requested my card for future use. The one guy managed a bar in one of the bigger local hotels and said he used A*1 a lot. I thanked him for the tip, and he told me that he appreciated a safe ride.
A little later I had a call to pick up a guy at 6Th and Broadway, at the Municipal Building. While there are a couple of bars near there, I didn't know why anyone would leave the bar to wait there for a cab in the cold. The dispatcher said the guy was persistent, and kept calling. I went to the intersection but didn't see anyone who looked like they were waiting on a cab. I checked the other side of Broadway and parked the car. I got out and saw a pissed off looking Mexican guy pacing back and forth. He was across 6Th street from me. I was about to go over to him when another guy with a take-out box caught my eye. I asked him if he was waiting for a can and then I realized he was a crazy homeless guy. I quickly crossed the street to the short, pissed off Mexican.
I asked him if he had called a cab, and was ready for an ass-chewing I didn't deserve. Instead, he asked for $5. It caught me off guard. The panhandlers were out in full effect, but this wasn't a professional. I think he was on one of those drugs they make after-school specials about, you know--the one where Helen Hunt jumps out of a window in a drug-fueled rage. His pupils were fucked up, and he was pissed. He didn't smell like anything. I told him he'd have better luck up on 9Th, where everyone was at. He said that there wasn't anyone up there and that he needed $2. He was very demanding.
I carry about $40 in my front shirt pocket, because its easiest for making change. Whenever I get a break I thin it out and put the money I'm taking in --lotsa $20s on Friday or Saturday--in my wallet. I had been busy and probably had about $100 there, right at his eye level. I brought my hand up and put it over my pocket, which sharpened his focus there. I freaked out a bit, thinking the phantom caller may have been part of a set-up. I went back and got in my cab, trying to keep and eye on the little Mexican while I radioed dispatch.
The guy was still calling, but now he said he was at the DeJa Vu. I drove around the corner to the parking lot and still didn't see anyone looking for me. After 5 minutes and a few more phone calls, he came out of no where from up the street and got in the cab. He may have been barely 21, and was shitfaced drunk. He was a young thin guy, and his forehead had obviously contacted some concrete sometime on the preceding few minutes. A lot of skin was peeled off his forehead and it looked like a bruise was coming up on his cheek. It wasn't anything serious, but I imagine it would sting for a bit, when the booze wore off.
He seemed pretty scattered and talked in bursts. I figured he'd just got his ass kicked and was trying to hide out while waiting for a cab. He said he needed to go to a hotel. I discussed his options and we headed north. I gave him a minute to calm down. I apologized for running late and told him about the Mexican, and my paranoia that I may have been set up. He joked that I was set up and that he was there to rob me. I know he didn't mean anything by it, and he was pretty drunk, but its not a subject I have a sense of humor about.
I asked him if he had got into it with someone. He quickly said no, and, in reference to his head, he said "I'm pretty drunk. I probably just fell down." He asked me how bad it was and I told him he's have some scabs for a while but no scars. I told him there was a mirror on the visor and turned on the dome light. He was afraid to look. I turned off the light and he changed his mind. He took a look. "Oh. No. That's not that bad." I turned the light off and he wanted to take a second look.
On the way to the hotel his cell phone rang. He answered it with an exaggeratedly chipper "Toni, baby! Talk to me." Apparently it was his girlfriend, freaking out about his whereabouts. He told her he was going to a hotel. In explanation all he would offer was "I just need to relax."
I dropped him off at the Best Value Inn, which is a bit of a dive and crack whore haven. He said he didn't have much money. It is next to the Country Kitchen, which is open 24 hours. I was worried he'd get mugged. He fumbled through the contents of his pockets to pay me. He had a couple of condoms. I imagined his evening had not gone as planned. I watched him go to the door, to make sure they weren't full, since it was a game day--though most people in town for the game have enough disposable income that they steer clear of the Best Value. He pushed on it, and gestured to the desk clerk to unlock the door. The desk clerk gestured back, without much patience. The door was unlocked, but opened outward. I got the fuck out of there ASAP.
Friday was pretty much the first night I got to deal with any flags. I picked up one drunk college guy who was going from Shiloh to Generic, a new dance club some 6 or 7 blocks away. He didn't know where it was. Turns out I didn't either. I circled the block looking for it, dispatch was no help. What should have been a $3 minimum fare was climbing close to $4 on the meter. I apologized and told him I'd just charge $3. The second time around the block, with no further luck, I told him it was free, since he could have walked there faster. I let him out and erroneously pointed him down the ramp to the Sapphire Lounge. We passed right buy Generic 3 times.
Dispatch radioed to head to MCGinty's Pub at closing time. She started to give me directions before I told her it was my favorite haunt. I pulled up in front to a crowd of 8 or 10 milling about in the parking lot, formulating a game plan. They were having some crude discussion about oral sex and apparently didn't hear me when I asked if anyone called a cab. I went inside to use the bathroom. I came out and asked the bartender if anyone had called a cab, figuring it was another no-show. But, he said yes, and pointed to some pleasantly normal looking late 20somethings sitting at a table in conversation. 3 chicks and one dude.
I walked up and recognized the guy as a friend of mine from law school, before he even looked up at me. I started cussing him and he looked up up and put me in focus. He was drunk, but I saw the memory come back to him. I took me a second to summon his name, since I rarely reflect on law school. I hadn't seen him in 3 years.
The fate of Garner Sutterfield is something of an enigma to people I went to law school with. I didn't know anyone for most of my first year. I had a girlfiend out of town, didn't drink, and enjoyed time to myself in my new apartment with central air and cable television. I didn't go to mixers or happy hours, didn't join any groups, and only studied late at night in the library where no one saw me. I was somewhat underdressed at all times. People knew I wasn't from Kansas City or St. Louis.
After year one I emerged ranked #6 in our class. I was seen as something of a phenom, because no one ever saw me at the library, and I never took notes. I spent most of class on the front row, flying under the professor's radar. I had taken up drinking, which I did with much fervor and often led to wrestling. I was newly single and going out. People took more interest in me and my hillbilly origins. Corporate law firms recruited me, and I felt like a double agent dressed in a suit fucking with interviewers to shake their psychological interviewing strategies.
Or at least that's how I remember things. I shared a lot of mutual friends with this guy, and I always thought he was shagging the girls I was failing with. There was nothing effeminate about him, but it seemed all the ladies wanted him, he dressed nice, and had an out of town girlfriend most people hadn't seen.
Or at least that's how I remember it.
And, there's what happened at the end of law school, or what didn't happen, that no one's quite sure of. And that is what the fuck happened to Garner Sutterfield. He quit going to class. He didn't have a job offer. He walked across the stage at commencement and attended the bar review. Intermittently. For a while.
Then nothing. No word. I admit that I always enjoyed what I saw as a bit of a shroud of secrecy. It's mostly just from lack of communication. It's stuff I never enjoyed talking about, and a subject that people are too polite to bring up. Every six months or so I will pepper the Internet with vague e-mail with a brief, bizarre sounding synopsis of my goings on, which I imagine is circulated and morphed from one law firm to the other all across the country.
I think they're living the life, they think I'm living the life, or at least that's how I see it. They think my burn-out was some savage, heroic act of punk defiance and individuality. It wasn't. Sadly, it wasn't anything. Just laziness, apprehension, and indecision, with ample measure of bad timing, some apathy thrown in, and just a sprinkle of bad luck.
But, anyway, here I stand, the mythical Garner, now adorned with large f-hole tattoos alone in a bar at closing time. While we exchanged a rapid what-are-you-doing-now discourse a lovely young lady, drunk, with fair skin and dark hair, and delicate features reached for my taxi license/ID badge clipped to my shirt. While I talked to Brian I looked down to see it in her slender fingers, her poring over it with inebriated brain cells. I asked Brian if they had called a cab. He said yes, and that that's what they were waiting on. Then I clarified that I, myself, was his cab driver. Shock wave #2.
I tried my best to organize them and herd them into the cab, while being polite and carrying on at least two different conversations at all times. There was a matter of a pizza they were waiting on, using the restroom, and paying the tab. It took some doing. I was enjoying myself but had a serious sense of urgency, because I was very busy. The attractive Olive Oil-esque young lady had transitioned seamlessly from the ID badge to my tattoos, which Brian had pointed out. She told me that she had played the violin in high school, and began a drunk tangent about her family not being able to afford private lessons and it was a matter of some to-do that she had been good enough to play in the upper-middle-class school band despite her proud but humble means.
Which is somewhat lost on a redneck hillbilly cracker motherfucker from Laclede County who grew up in a cramped 10x50' trailer that cost my family $1950 in 1986. Not that there's anything wrong with her feeling the way she feels. We all have our crosses to bear. My life would seem rich and aristocratic to many.
Yeah, so, she's digging my tattoos. Because it reflects my passion. And I was passionate enough to do something that bold, so she says. And I'm the nicest looking banjoist taxi driver she knows of. And now she's touching them freely. And she wants to ride up front. It occurs to me that she never bothered to ask how I knew Brian. Now I'm the sexiest taxi driver she knows of. Brian asks if I am into really drunk chicks. I said I take what I can get he he said, "there she is, fuck her brains out."
But, as I have stated before, I am very much the gentleman. And this lady is intoxicated. And, though stunning I may be, I realize her perceptions may be slightly askew. Plus I can't look like a predator hitting on a drunk chick in front of 3 of her friends. And I don't know where she lives. And, though I'm 99.9% sure Brian was fucking with me, he did tell me that she was his fiance after urging me to have carnal relations with her. It was at this point that Brian said, from the backseat, "so when are you going to tell me that you're dead inside?"
"What?" I asked, laughing.
"I keep waiting for you to tell me that you're dead inside."
I didn't get anything more out of him on the subject. I'm still not sure what he meant--if he was trying to be ironic, funny, or serious. I had some naive fleeting hope that they would stay up and call me so I could drop by after I got off work. But that didn't work out. I dropped them off at peak drunk time, about 1:45. Downtown was crawling with people trying to flag me down. But dispatch had me running calls.
After that I had a couple of fares who were very pissed off that it had taken so long to get a taxi. Probably 20 of the 24 hours a day we run slow as molasses. Everyone wants a cab right at 1 am. You're just going to have to wait. I also think that some other drivers were picking up flags instead of running their calls, because they don't have to worry about wasting time on a potential cancellation. So, I ended up picking up two groups who had been waiting for nearly an hour because the other taxi dispatched to them hadn't shown up. And they were cranky. I let them calm down and explained to them how stuff worked, which was some consolation. They assured me that they didn't think it was my fault and thanked me for being courteous. Meanwhile, because I was cleaning up someone else's mess, my big gay Norwegian guy was waiting on me at Soco.
He kept calling dispatch, but I had been rerouted way up north of town. I figured the only reason he waited for me instead of taking another cab is because he wanted to give me back my $2, which he did bring up when I finally picked him up at about 2:30. I felt pretty bad about it, but there's only so much you can do.
So that was mi loco fin de semana.
Monday was fairly slow. I had one fare to Jefferson City and back. It's kind of a weird deal. It's a Chinese guy who rides up to Jeff City, meets someone in the parking lot of 'his' Chinese restaurant, picks up his 'wife' on a side street in the middle of nowhere, and then returns to Columbia. To the parking lot I picked him up at. Where he gets in his car and leaves. He smokes a lot, and talks incessantly on his cell phone. I don't know mandarin, but he always sounds like he's yelling at someone. He has long bangs and is missing a bottom front tooth. He was wearing a gray sweatsuit, which was very dirty about the knees. He had a bad habit of waiting until I was past an exit to tell me to turn.
I figure he's running some money back and forth. I speculated that maybe he doesn't have a driver's license and wants to avoid the highway. Maybe he uses it to establish an alibi or for his safety. I had ideas of being gunned down by the Chinese Mafia. I left him at his restaurant parking lot--he didn't want to drive up to the actual building--while I went and gassed up the cab. I came back and we waited for a while in the cab. He got a phone call and we left. He sent me down a dark residential side street where a woman stood on the edge of the road with a large garbage bag and another grocery bag stuffed full and apparently very heavy. I stopped and he hurried her in and yelled for me to "go, go, go" even before she could shut her door. He doesn't speak much English at all, and though apparently always in a hurry, is very polite. My paranoia was that we would hit a deer on highway 63. I imagined trying to explain to him in English that, even though I am a redneck, I don't know how to field dress a deer for a Chinese buffet.
Later, at the gas station, Psycho Ken asked me about the Chinese guy. Ken claims that he always requests him personally and tips well. Ken is convinced their is a conspiracy among the dispatchers to screw him.
Tuesday was remarkably busy. I ran steady all night. I wasn't able to take a break to eat until 12 am. They were mostly small fares, but I ran 32 of them versus only 15 on Monday.
One of my first calls was the 70 year old with no teeth who told me about his love life the last time. He's pretty fucking cool. I love to watch the precision he lends to writing his name in very regular cursive script. Mine is a stylized scrawl that hasn't seen all 17 characters in better than a decade.
I also had one fare from the University Hospital who was going home after a double hernia operation. He was a baseball fan. He was pretty cool and tipped me a few bucks. It's not every day you meet an articulate fan of the game of baseball.
Probably the most noteworthy fare I ran Tuesday was the lamest. A big group of accounting grad students in town for a conference. I had 8 of them in the minivan, and, let me tell, you, they don't know how to party. L-A-M-E. They were leaving the hotel bar because it closed at 12. It was 11 when I picked up the first 8. They wanted to go to the DeJa Vu. No prob. Their leader was an annoying biotch with an ass nearly 3 feet wide. Strutting her stuff. It was the usual sardine group ride, but the double entendres were incredibly lame. I don't know how you can make a conversation about KY Warming Jelly so fucking lame. Lame seems to be the key word here.
So we got to the Vu, which was closed. So now I'm trying to tell some crazy Accountant Girls Gone Wild about the Tuesday night life in sleepy little Columbia. They want to dance. Virginia, the dispatcher, suggests Hoot-N-Anny's. I checked out a couple of places --Generic, Tonic, but nothing was open. Then their enthusiasm drained out and it seemed like the girl farthest from the door--which had decided to jam, might in fact puke. This brought the mood down in the van. I took them back to their hotel. The girl, who never actually puked, was pissed off and embarrassed, not speaking to anyone. The fare was $27 and change, for a half hour of driving around Columbia in a packed minivan. By the time I got everyone out of the car the fat bitch had bolted and there was $28 on the dashboard. No one said thanks. Pricks.
I also picked up a mentally disbaled (is that PC?) gentleman for the second time, from the sheltered workshop. He's a big overgrown kid with a thick neck. His head doesn't set on top of it, but is part of the same mass. He moves with a slow lumber. He is fond of sweat pants, which aren't completely up to the task of covering his ass crack. He wears those buckskin/suade shoes that the Verve helped bring back a few years ago. He speaks slowly, in a high tone that sounds like its been altered to protect his identity. He's probably well into his thirties. He had a well-worn photo from the 70s in his meat hand when I picked him up. It was on the old photo paper, square with rounded corners. The image was fading away, but was of him in front of the door of a big yellow 70s Ford school bus. I asked him what it was of. "It's a school bus," he replied. In my mind I contrasted his affection for the school bus with that of Bob Log 111's. I imagine he would fancy Bob Log's school bus belt buckle, if his sweat pants had belt loops.
Well, put that in your pipes and smoke it. Tomorrow's Friday, so maybe I'll see some good groups of drunks and maybe some repeat customers. I'm gonna snag the fucked up door off of #10 and put it in my living room, when I finish paying off the $200.
Wish me luck, kids. Oh, and those of you who bit on the male-ass teaser, it was just some dude's ass against the window for his friends (outside of the window), but it does kind of count for first nudity.
posted by Garner at 3:25 AM
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