Elvis Parsley With A Bee Pollen Body Booster

How can I be so thirsty today, when I had so much to drink last night?

Comin' atcha. Sunday Night. Okay, Monday morning, about 3:41am.

In keeping with recent tradition, I've accomplished nothing on my day off. I slept until 6pm. Feels good to slack, when you have no real pressing obligations.

I had intended to go see Yonder Mountain String Band at the Blue Note. I didn't. It sold out. I had just dressed and was collecting my bearings when JW called to tell me. I had told him I had planned to attend, and was going to request him for round trip cab rides. He heard from his girlfriend that it had sold out and called to let me know.

I wasn't terribly upset. I had never really listened to the band, and was a little put off by the idea of a 'jam band' playing on strings. I knew there would be entirely too many hippies to drown out whatever may be desirable in the music. But, I hadn't been to a show since mid-November, after my second week of cab driving. Okay, it may have been the third week of November, but I'm not going to bother to check. Okay, I checked, but that post was relocated to my blog from the old blog, and the date was superseded. Okay, I checked the old blog and the memory came back to me. The last two concerts were Jason Ringenberg on November 14, and the Asylum Street Spankers on the 21st. I had omitted the Spankers show because it was utterly unfulfilling.

Yeah, so it had been a long time. I figured I'd rather go to a show I'd probably only half-enjoy than to not. And concerts seem to be my A #1 venue for meeting chicks.

But, it was cancelled. I debated on what to do. Either way, I needed to eat. I went to Smokin' Chicks BBQ. I had my usual, except for an unusually attractive waitress. I averted my eyes, mostly, because she was so attractive. She was wearing a denim mini, the kind fashioned to look as if they were made from a pair of discarded jeans, with the seam flattened out in the back, and a frayed cuff. She was wearing running shoes with socks, and had a partially zipped sweatshirt over what appeared to be a boy's thrift store baseball T-shirt. It was blue, and I only saw the top part of the Optimist Club logo. Very tall, and leggy. She was attractive enough to ruin the fanciful waitress/customer flirtation mystique, like when the white trash character in the movie has perfect teeth and healthy proportions, and impairs your ability to suspend disbelief. I'd have preferred a 7.5 or 8.

After eating, I headed downtown, and went to 9Th Street Video. I figured I could use a little visual fodder. I didn't look long before I remembered their box set of The Trailer Park Boys. I rented the second and third discs from the 3 disc set, which covers seasons 1 and 2. The first disc was checked out.

I had only ever seen one episode previously, at my buddy's house in Fayetteville. He had built it up quite a bit. It is a charming series, whose brilliant moments outweigh its realistic flat spots. My absolute favorite part was an episode where Bubbles was stealing shopping carts from the mall Ricky had taken a job at, as a security guard. They do a good job of not overexposing Bubbles' character, and always leaving you wanting more.

I consumed another 6 pack of Pyramid Apricot Weizen while I watched both discs straight through with Peat. It is a show best watched a couple of cold ones down. Also a nice show for heterosexual cat lovers.

So, that took me up to about 1 am. I was a little beer-tired, so I decided to take a little beer nap and wake up to bring you some blogging. That is now going as planned.

Cab!

I showed up Friday and was issued #7 and a call as soon as I hit the door. It was to pick up food at the Main Squeeze, and deliver it to the dialysis lab at the University Med Center. I hate to be a stereotypical Midwestern caveman, but, what a fucking racket. There must be some big money in pretentious vegan and tofu bullshit. This is good though, as this is what makes us different, and variety is the spice of life. Diversity is truly a wonderful thing. Feel free to express the same disgust in my unhealthy delight for smoked hog ribs.

But, I enjoy not being a vegan. I also delight in not wanting to ever live in that Republican-stronghold-new-L.A.-fucking-Colorado. Beautiful scenery? Fucking keep it. I'd much rather live in Salt Lake City. Mormans are fucking awesome. I hope every rich white person with money hurries up and moves to Colorado. You can build 10 Wal-Marts in my back yard in exchange.

Yeah, but, I went to the Main Squeeze. Compulsory, job-related. Don't even try to tell me anything about smoothies. Keep those, too. I parked on Cherry and went inside to pick up the order. There was an unhealthy/healthy unnatural/'wholesome' odor about the place. It made the chemicals and preservatives that have set up camp in my body and are busy implementing their long-term cancer operation want to vomit in revulsion. Sorry, Main Squeeze, I am already otherwise affiliated. I will tell you this--I'd sooner believe that the girl behind the counter got her pleasant curvy figure and good palor from some BBQ than I would from vegan food.

I worked my way through the hospital carrying the not-right warm-smelling bag of food up and down hallways and on crowded elevators (2 or more parties constitute a crowd on an elevator in the Midwest, especially when two are making politely trite nonhumorous comments about stealing the delivery man's food). The 'organic' food seemed even further out of place in the fluorescent and sanitary-chemical-smelling haven of western medicine. I found the dialysis lab and the doctors who had ordered the food.

As uncomfortable as I had been walking into the Main Squeeze, it was even more awkward standing in a big, open room where three sick and old people were hooked up to giant whirring and buzzing machines filtering their blood. While a woman doctor fetched money a guy propped on a bed receiving treatment fretted with alarm that he was hot and his neck was going numb. Being confronted with sickness and mortality in the same setting where a froo-froo doctor was eager to consume an Elvis Parsley with a bee pollen body booster was most unsettling. I had worn my typical thermal underwear top with my heavy knit cab shirt over it. I was perspiring. My face was flush. It was also daylight, and an unseasonal 60 degrees or so.

The order had been pre-paid. The fare, with wait time, was $7.55. The doctor gave me $12.55. A $5 tip is giant at 4pm, even if you earn it by not being reimbursed for the time it takes to find them in the hospital. I took another sweaty, uncomfortable ride down on the elevator and returned to #7. I drove into the parking garage next to the hospital and got out of my cab. I peeled off my shirt and ditched the sweaty undergarment. I unbuckled my belt and unzipped my pants to tuck my ridiculously long uniform shirt back in. Even though I was standing inside the open door of my cab with my back turned at 4pm, I half-expected the woman who pulled in and walked behind me to scream rape at the clinking of my belt buckle. She didn't.

I went home and changed shirts. It felt like a Monday or Tuesday. It was staring slow, and I didn't expect to make much money on the night. I don't think I had another call after the Main Squeeze incident until a 6pm time call. It was on Sanford, which is pretty much in the hood. I knew where it was, because the last lady I 'dated' lived there, and, if I remembered correctly, this was probably her neighbor. Or maybe her.

I would have been more tense if I hadn't have e-mailed her a couple of times in the previous couple of weeks after two months of silence. We had lost contact for a while, and I thought she may be seeing someone with a beard. I hate that, since I can't compete on that level. Ours had been an odd if not informal relationship. We got along great. She was the only cool chick I had ever met that impressed me with a level of useless knowledge that approached my own.

Perhaps the biggest stumbling block to a 'relationship' I saw with this chick was her apparent sanity. I kept waiting for a glimpse at some baggage or daddy issues. Bad habits. Insecurity. Bipolarism. OCD. Something. Where could it be hiding, so deftly?

As far as I know, she is still completely sane, and, dare I say, 'normal' and 'stable.' These qualities were in extreme opposition to all of my notions of femininity, and frightened the hell out of me, since I couldn't' really see myself with a woman without having a built-in escape clause. Plus, I have a real crazy-girl fetish. I have some irrational need to have .5% of my mind consumed with the thought, that, at any instant, my lady friend might actually kill me.

Maybe in my sleep. Maybe give me a nudge when I'm looking out over a rocky outcrop some place like Ha Ha Tonka State Park. Who knows, maybe cut my brake lines? It's the myriad number of possibilities that fuels the excitement. It adds a whole new dimension to lovers' quarrels and is one extra, critical factor to weigh when figuring out just how far you can push her or just how much you can fuck with her before she goes Lorena Bobbitt on you. What's life without a little risk?

So, I never got the vibe that this chick would get worked up enough over some jackass as to actually kill him. Which is a good thing. Or, she was so good at masking her insanity that she would actually kill you, without you ever recognizing the possibility or provoking her. Which is a bad thing.

All of this just adds up to the fact that we quit seeing each other. It played out like apathy, and was probably at least influenced by my drastic change in hours when I took the taxi job, and my incessant bitching about my old job, and my renewed bitching in those early days over the cab. I think we only saw each other one time after I started driving a cab, and that was after I had worked exactly one night.

Anyhoo, it wasn't her that called for a taxi, it was, in fact, her neighbor. It was forty-ish grandma, with, I'm assuming, a teenage granddaughter and a 4 year-old grandson or great grandson, not sure. Either way, we were going round-trip to KFC on Worley. The round-trip was a welcome surprise, since it would turn a $6 cab ride into a $10 cab ride, plus any additional wait time. Fares were hard to come by Friday, and this wasn't likely a tipper, demographically speaking.

On the way there I talked about how a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken had been the centerpiece of a family Friday night in Lebanon, Missouri, in the late 70s/early 80s. This was when my dad still left the house for something besides work but before he spent his Friday nights in a bar room. Four of us, smelling like soap, would cram into the seat of a pickup, smelling like sawdust, sweat and motor oil. We'd go to the drive-through of the Kentucky Fried (pre-KFC bullshit), me dodging the big 4speed shifter with my knobby bare knees and staring at the racks of glistening chicken through the window behind the cashier. I'd eat chicken laying on the hardwood floor of a $75 dollar-a-month company rental house, smashing up Hot Wheels while watching The Dukes of Hazzard. The theme song for Dallas meant 9pm and bed time.

So here, now, 25 years later, a tattooed skinheaded white guy pilots a fragmented black family in a Crown Victoria taxi for the same purpose.

I ran wait time while they went in. As the fare climbed some $10 in wait time I expected friction over the fare upon their return. They got back in, with no complaint of the meter. Apparently KFC was getting slammed, and they were running out of a lot of stuff. They got some substitutions and extra food, and weren't too upset about it. She noted the fare and said that she would gladly pay for a taxi rather than deal with thugs on the bus, especially with kids in tow. I mentioned I knew her neighbor, and that we had dated for a time. She said that she talked real nice. The fare came to $20.30, which she paid, graciously, exactly.

I figured it would be another hour or so waiting on the next call. I felt lucky for the $5 tip earlier, and the $20 round-trip fare, instead of a $6 drop-off. I backed out and pulled in the neighboring driveway. My ex-somewhat-lady-friend's car was in the driveway, and there was a TV on. I tried her phone but got no answer, after only four rings. I backed out and drove across town to the gas station.

She rang back before I got there. She had been on the other line. She said she thought she saw a car pull in but assumed she had been mistaken when no one came to the door. We had a very enjoyable chat about nothing. She's a lot of fun to talk to. I left an open (platonic?) invitation to ride around in the cab drinking beer some time.

I had also talked to my old buddy Brandon in Fayetteville and my old buddy Andy in Springfield between my first two calls. I had been enjoying my down time. I got a call to pick up at the University Med Center, on a social pass. These are rarely worth much, and there's never a tip involved, since they are basically reserved for indigents, though you do get the occasional long-distance ones, which can be nice on the meter.

The chick came out and got in. She was going to a shelter on North 10Th, about a $5 fare. Crap. She asked if we could go by Walgreens, to get her prescriptions filled. I told her I could only do that if the pass authorized it. It made no mention. She went back in to ask her doctor. Cool. It may turn into a $15 call.

She came back with an addendum from her doctor, authorizing the wait time. We rolled out. She said she had fallen on some stairs at the shelter. She struck me as a bit of a hypochondriac and an injury pity/drama queen, and seemed to be stifling excitement over the prospect of drugs. I dropped her at Walgreens and went in for a diet soda. I returned to the Crown Vic to wait.

There were two other cars waiting on people to come out. After a few minutes, they had left and I had made it up to the door. With wait time running, the meter had grown from about $3.55 to about $12 or $13. I saw Dan, the new driver I mentioned, walk out of Walgreens. He waived and came over to my window. I knew from looking at the schedule that he was off Fridays.

"You not working tonight?" I asked him how things were going on the job and we exchanged stories, talking about his first couple of weeks on the job. He had pissed off Miss Jean when he didn't know where Chris McD's was. I tried to tell him as many of the little tips and tricks I had learned, and referred him to my blog. He's a fine arts student, recent graduate, from Columbia College. I think he's working towards an MFA. As we talked the wait time kept running. It was well over $20. I told him that I thought that a lot of the homeless people in shelters seemed to get hurt a lot, since they could get free meds. It makes sense, since they have no money and can't drink at the shelters. They can also barter and trade pharmaceuticals for other stuff.

A homeless guy came up to us and stood, waiting to be addressed. I never broke from my conversation, to make him have to interrupt. He asked for $.50.

"What can a man buy for $.50 these days?" I asked. The guy shrugged something, and I added, "I guess you can't buy much of anything for $.50, can you?" He said he could use all he could get. Dan dug in his pocket.

"Here's $.09, if you want it." The man took it, thanked him, and left.

I was still talking to Dan when the chick came back out to smoke a cigarette. She said it should only be a few minutes more. She was wearing terry cloth house slippers and had greasy, stringy hair. She finished her cigarette and went back inside. Dan rode off on his bicycle. She came back out and I took her over to North 10Th. The fare ran $37.80. It was hard to feel too bad about it, since that was money in my pocket on a night where it would be hard to come by. I also hated reporting it, because some people would look at an example of abuse of the system and further hate and condemn people for being poor and/or needy. Regardless, that's how it happened.

So, I had only had three fares in 3 hours, but they were good ones. I got another call, to go out off of Rice Road, out off of Ballenger. That's at least a $16 fare to anywhere near downtown,and people that live out there have cars and usually only use cabs when they're going out boozing or have lost their licenses. They usually have some money. Sweet.

I boogeyed out there and found the spot, a duplex at the end of a cul de sac. I pulled in and waited. A Siamese cat walked by. I rolled down my window and said, "hey, cat." It stopped and meowed at me. The door to the duplex opened and a chick walked out. She had on a half-shirt, barely covering her rack, and was shaking out her long, dark hair with her hand, as if she had just rushed to finish drying it. She was dressed cheap, like a stripper, in jeans and a T-shirt, not classy-slutty like all of the college girls out downtown. The exposure isn't much different, but the implications sure are.

She had a mouthful of teeth, like your typical second-tier mid-Missouri stripper, the one with the nice body but rough face. The one who sweeps up tips from the Mexican truck drivers and dirty old men after the hotter chicks leave the stage. The one who would be the classy-slutty college chick downtown on a Friday night if her family had had any money and taken her to the orthodontist.

She got in, and seemed like she was stressed, in a hurry. "Where are we headed?"

"I need to go to Club Vogue, but I have to go to Gatehouse Apartments first, and grab some stuff."

"You know we charge wait time, right? It's about $1 a minute."

"That's cool. I'll hurry. I'll only be like 5 or 10 minutes, I've got to be at work by 9." It was about 8:30.

"That's a pretty cool cat out there." She didn't have anything to say, except to ask if she could smoke. The fare to Gatehouse was about $20. I started wait time. I amused myself for 10 minutes or so, wondering (but not looking) at what might be in the plastic bag she left to show she was coming back. And what it might smell like. She came back out, wearing the same stuff, at least on the outside. I ran her to Club Vogue. Again, she was quiet, except to ask that I take the highway. She had an impressive knowledge of streets and directions, for a stripper. Or for a chick, for that matter.

I opened up the Vic on the highway, where I could. "You want me to get off at Providence, or Rangeline?" Rangeline was faster, though, technically, maybe a hair farther.

"Rangeline," she said, almost before I could get it out. I got her there at 8:56. The fare was $43.80. I heard her shuffling bills in the back as we took the Rangeline exit and neared the Business Loop. I was curious how she might tip. Strippers are great at making money, and love to spend it. Most of them are cunts, though, and won't tip, and would rather try to hustle you, acting naive and flirting, promising. But, this chick seemed to go about her business, almost resigned.

She handed me several bills, folded, promptly upon stopping, said thanks, and exited in efficient fashion. I took them without counting and thanked her. After she was inside I looked at the money. $52. 3 $10s, 4 $5s, and only 2 $1s. Good girl. The extra $2 shows how hard she tries. Strippers make 'tips,' but its not like a 'gratuity,' meaning it's payment in and of itself (though not technically 'set') and not a percentage reward for a fixed monetary amount, like a cab fare. Besides the social conscience to tip, she also possessed the faculties to do the math, the courtesy to do so, and gave me the extra $2 on an already pricey fare, rather than rounding off at $50, like a business man might have.

So, here I've only ran 4 calls on the meter, in 5 hours, and I've still managed to take in $110 on the meter, with $13 and change in tips. And, still a few hours before bar rush. Any other night 4 fares in the first 5 hours would have translated into about $30-$40, and no tips.

My next call was a couple heading to the Outback Steakhouse. It was a white girl, local, past 30, big enough, and a nice black guy, an over-the-road trucker, from Maryland. He hadn't seen the chick in some time. They were in good spirits, tipped, and asked for a card to request me later.

Next, I had a call to pick up on Zinnia. If you recall, I had a hell-night experience finding it the first time. I had this to say about it, "Zinnia is 3 streets from a street 6 streets from 5 streets from a street you never heard of in the middle of fucking nowhere." It took me an hour to find it, after several frustrating wrong turns and vague directions. This time, it was a time call, due in 7 minutes from when they gave it to me.

Well, let's just say I'm a pretty fucking fantastic cab driver. Despite all odds, I made it on time. I picked up two guys and brought them to a house near downtown for some drinking.

My next call was at a house near where I cleared. Dispatch was doing a good job of handing me calls that were originating near where I cleared, especially considering how few calls they had to choose from. Luck seemed to be on my side. I grabbed the call, a drunk group of 6. The ringleader (drunkest, most boisterous guy--homeowner) thought I was hooking them up by taking all 6 at once, but that's pretty standard. He sat up front, noticed the mandolin, and talked my ear off the whole way. He wanted to hear some pickin'. I took them to the Penguin. They took cards to request me back, but only a marginal tip resulted (~$2).

It was about 11 o'clock. The cab company and all of the drivers had been dead. Likewise, I had few calls, but they were all money calls, especially the back-to-back $40 ones. I went to Hardees and grabbed a chicken sandwich. I was trying to eat it when dispatch interrupted with a call. It was near Harrisburg, several miles up Route E, North of town. This sounded dicey for a number of reasons.

1) Out of town calls near bar time can really suck. You only have one chance at a tip, versus the 4-5 you might be able to pull in the same amount of time. Odds are good that 1 in 5 drunks will throw some cash at you. People spending $50 on a cab ride are usually too annoyed (and broke) to give you much of a tip. 2) There's the very real possibility of a cancellation, especially with drunk people late at night. If I drive 4 miles out south and I get a cancellation, I'm a little annoyed, but have only lost 15 minutes or so. If I drive a half hour north I'm going to lose at least an hour, and near bar time. 3) I'm out of my element. I don't have maps for the woods. I don't know where anything's at in these little towns. It may take me a half-hour to find the place. I can't expect dispatch to be much help, either. If I'm late, it increased the chances of cancellation and decreases the chance for a tip. 4) Highway driving poses bigger risks. Namely, in Missouri, they come on four cloven hooves and have white tails. The hood on a Crown Vic is low enough to clip a deer's legs out from under them and long enough to get them spinning good so they can come through the windshield and thrash at you, injured and crazed. People die like this every year in Missouri. At the very least, I bang up the car and catch hell from the owner, taking out a good car and landing me back in #8 or a shitty Lincoln. And, 5) I was trying to eat my damned chicken sandwich.

It's with all of these shitty scenarios flooding my mind that I gunned #7 North on Route E, which is one twisty, narrow, dangerous, rural motherfucker. I drove 60-70 when the speed limit was 45-55 and the corners were marked 25-35. I wanted to get there as soon as possible, in any case. It worried me that I was going someplace rural, rather than, say, Jeff City. What was this redneck going to do in Columbia that he couldn't do at home? Also, my directions were to go 6 miles north of some other road whose location I was equally ignorant of. Then I was to turn right and look for house number 5711. House numbers are hard enough to find in Columbia subdivisions, much less on houses set way back in the woods with no lights on, housing people who don't want to be bothered.

I found the right road without mishap. I turned on it. Dirt. Great. I've been doing a good job of avoiding washing the cab since it has been so cold, but I 'll have to regardless of temperature if it's covered in mud. So, now I'm racing down an even twistier, narrower, darker dirt road. Luckily, house numbers were easy to read on mailboxes, but the houses were pretty far spread out, and I had no idea how far I was going. The houses started at about 7000 and were descending. The lone pleasing aspect was the serious Dukes of Hazzard shit I was pulling in a retired cop car.

I probably went at least 5 or 6 miles down the dirt road, which became increasingly bad and backwoods. I kept my foot in it. On one tight blind corner a narrow two-track shot straight off, through an open stock gate and into a muddy field. "That can't be it," I thought, yanking #7 to the right and gunning it. The road stopped. Abruptly. Dead-ended with no sign or warning into thick brush and woods. The last number I had passed was 5800something. Shit.

I backed up, and re-evaluated the field entrance. Fuck, gotta try it, I guess.

I idled cautiously through the open gate. The lane turned into a path which curved back to the West. There was a newer, spartan, double wide trailer, with some lights on. It was 11:25. I passed a couple of dead lawnmowers, a tractor, a trailer, and a late-model Chevy work-truck, about a $30K affair, maybe an '00 or '01. The front end was smashed up, and the driver's side front sat on some cinder blocks. There was another, even newer, sporty shortbed 4x4 Chevy in the driveway. It had nice aftermarket wheels, tires, and exhaust. There was a tiny deck with no railing on it. A dude walked out, looking at me, confused.

I opened my door and got out. "I guess you know I have no idea where the hell I'm at, right?" The guy was squinting at me. He didn't look as mad as I expected. "Is this 5711?" I asked, not expecting it was until then.

"Come on in." I wouldn't have normally, but I had already got out of the car and I did have to use the bathroom pretty badly. The guy was wasted. He was in his early 30s, lanky, 6'1" or 6'2". He had short-cropped hair with a tiny curtain of bangs, cut square across his forehead. His jug-handle ears jutted forward, making him look boyish, though his face was riddled with tiny rash-like scars. He wore a plain blue long-sleeved T-shirt, tucked into some plain blue jeans, pulled over some lace-up western style boots.

I walked in the trailer, which was bachelor-messy. I asked to use his bathroom and he pointed me down the hall. I had to kick some pants out of my way to get the door closed. There were kid's bath toys and a potty-chair booster seat next to the toilet. I went back to the kitchen, where he had resumed drinking beer. He acted like we were new friends.

Drunks like this rarely have any sense of urgency. I tried to get him in the right mindset to leave. He had offered me a beer, and pointed to two or three opened boxes of domestic beer. He tried to say something about having had some people come by earlier. He wasn't slurring badly, but was fairly disjointed. He may have said something about his wife leaving him. I tried to steer the conversation towards leaving. I mentioned that I needed to get the $50 up front.

He said something about paying me. I told him I trusted him, but I at least needed to see some green. He opened a bank envelope he took from his wallet and showed me a couple of $100 bills. He started to take one out, and I told him I had plenty of change. He reconsidered, and produced 2 $20s and a $10. He grabbed 3 Bud Lite bottles for the road. I had him in the car and on our way by 11:31.

I asked him how he had been doing. Apparently, in addition to his somewhat recent split with his old lady, he had 1) been fired, 2) by his father, 3) sent to MidMo Mental Health, and 4) been sentenced to some jail time, all since Tuesday. I guess he was going to live it up before having to go to jail to begin his sentence. I would be taking him to Stephanie's Cabaret, by way of an ATM. He also said he would probably be there about an hour, and then need a ride up to Lynn's (whorehouse) before going back home.

He thought I was a good dude. I yokeled it up a bit for him. We made it to Columbia without incident. With all of the talking he only managed about 2/3 of a beer before we hit the ATM. After watching him fumble at it a while, I got out to help. I walked him through it, and he took out another $200. I made sure he got his card back, and got him in the car. I had been holding his open beer the whole time. He was a bit embarrassed over his struggles with it, and I said they were hard enough to operate sober when standing up, because they were hard to read and I always hit the wrong buttons.

I dropped him off at the cabaret. He had some sort of membership card there. He looked intently at every bar we passed, and I believe he had been kicked out of them all, which is why he preferred drinking alone. He also had issues with local law enforcement, who knew him on a first name basis. He said he was ornery a number of times. His neighbors had got him in trouble for shooting his gun at 3am--even way the fuck out in the middle of nowhere. I'm guessing he was going to jail after a ton of DWIs. He took his remaining two beers with him. I had offered to dispose of the empty for him, but he had insisted at throwing it a concrete underpass. "I know how these cops is--you don't want that in your car."

I asked dispatch, but he never called back that night. He may have saved himself some time and just gone to jail from the cabaret.

I had one call after bar closing, at the Med Center ER. I was mildly annoyed to get called out of bar rush to pick up there assuming it would be another social work pass. I pulled up and no one came out. After a couple of minutes, I got out and went in. The woman at the desk didn't know of anyone waiting for a cab. I went around the corner to a waiting room. I was in the process of asking the scattered weirdos if anyone called a cab when a nice looking blond girl who I thought was asleep in a chair got up and came over to me. She followed me out to the cab.

At least it was a cash call. She didn't look like anything was wrong with her, though she looked upset. I figured she had been out with friends drinking and maybe there was a car wreck or something. I hate to ask people stuff like that. "I'm guessing this isn't how you wanted your night ended up?"

It turned out that she hadn't been at the hospital at all. She had some sort of mild drama out downtown with her friends, and took off walking. She was visiting from out of town, and thought she'd find a gas station to call from. Instead, she had been walking across campus and went into the hospital to wait, thinking it would be an easy place for the cab to find her. And it was warm. She tipped $3 on an $11.80 fare.

As I was clearing with that chick, dispatch radioed that I had a request at the Martini bar. I hadn't taken anyone there and was curious who it might be. It was right around the corner from where I was at. I got there quick, and went in. It was the couple I dropped off at the Outback. They were pretty drunk. I told them I would be outside, and saw an old friend, Zeke, from when I worked at Mr. Tranny. He was friends with the guy who owned the business next door, and was often at the shop. He bought and sold some cheap cars and motorcycles. He does security at the Martini bar, something I wasn't aware of.

We had stepped outside and were talking when the drunk dude came outside and said he didn't need a cab. The chick had called her brother, who was picking them up. It was my only cancellation all night, so I didn't mind much. Plus, I was enjoying talking with Zeke. But, the guy went the extra step and gave me $10 for showing up. Fuckin' sweet! They could all cancel, if that were going to be the case. Shit, that would be preferable, actually.

Then I couriered some more bloodwork. I think it was for drug testing purposes, but they said STAT. I picked it up at Columbia Regional and took it back to the University Med Center. It was raining a bit. I went in through the ER. Some drunk college student had come in after falling on some stairs. He was holding a mostly-melted 10lb ice bag on his elbow. I found the lab and dropped off the specimen.

The people from Zinnia called back and requested me, too. Lots of people say they will, but few actually do. I set a new personal-best time getting them there.

I had one more call at the Diner before calling it a night. It was two dudes who had seen the Schwag at the Blue Note. They weren't too hippie-fied, though. They tipped $3 on a $6.80 fare.

So that was Friday night. I only ran 15 calls, but set a new personal best at $283 on the meter. My take-home from that was $99, along with $60 or so in tips. Awesome. That certainly beats the shit out of most nights. It was especially good for only 15 calls--I usually average a little more than 20 on a good night. It averaged $18.90 per fare, compared to an average of $7 per fare on Monday, and about $10 per fare on Tuesday. None of the other drivers got close to that, it was all luck. I was the only one who didn't get hammered with tons of cancellations, and the personal requests helped, too. But, those three big fares ($37.80, $43.80, and $50) were monumental. Some days its good to be the cab driver.

Take Away My Sin And Give Me Grace

Ah hell yeah fuck shit balls.

What is this? Wednesday night?

I slept until about 4pm. I got up and went to the Shell station, the UltraMart, Arena Liquor, at Green Meadows and Providence. I purchased a sixer of Bell's Cherry Stout, a sixer of Pyramid Apricot Weizen, and a sixer of Pony Express Gold beer. Then I grabbed an 8-piece bucket of KFC chicken, along with some macaroni-and-cheese, some mashed potatoes (no gravy) and 4 biscuits.

I wish I liked gravy. It is a good white-bread staple. Scott Biram has an original, in which he sings "your love's a lot like gravy, won't you come over here and save me." I shall never know such love.

Bobby Bare Jr. used to do a number, a love song tribute, where he sang "I'll make you biscuits and clean the kitchen." Likewise, I have never made biscuits. Except the Pillsbury instant kind.

Anyhoo, I ate some damned chicken. I love to shred me some poultry, but it had been a while since I had had any fried. The nice thing about fried chicken is that it brings you as close to the source of your meat as about any food. You're given a fried carcass, and you have to fight through the skin to pull the meat off of bones, ligaments, and tendons. Very visceral. Not removed like a lot of processed foods.

I like the contempt that comes with carnivorism. "Fuck you, bird, I'm ripping off your fried flesh. Take it and like it." I also like pork ribs, for the same reason. Fuck an animal. I am the top of the food chain. I don't even have to work for it. All I's have to do is drive my mechanechanized motor-vehicle through a window, and present some linen paper money. And, boo-ya, fried fuckin' bird. That is what I'm talkin' about.

So, I ate some fried dead bird. I found it disgusting. Nasty, fatty shit. I ripped away a little white meat. Even the tators and mac'n'cheese was a little lackluster. I peppered the tators. Damn, this is making me hungry again.

At this point I went downstairs and ate some more chicken. I also drank some more Cherry Stout. And, I did not return to blogging.

So now I'm back. I drank too much stout last night. That stuff carries quite a cock-punch, especially for someone out of practice. Now I'm drinking Pyramid Apricot Weizen. Quite tasty.

So yeah, I got nothing much done last night. I accomplished equally little today. I had thought about riding my bike and definitely planned on finishing up the Eastside sign, but, I didn't. I drank apricot beer and tried to clean my house.

The appy partment has become increasingly un-fung shui. Peat's shit has been taking over. My living room has consitantly shrank in usable space and the couch has steadily receded from the television. It hasn't bothered me, mostly because I never utilized the living room much anymore, due to my hours. Non-communal shit has cramped the living space. I'm talking a half-stack, speaker cabinet, two guitar cases, and the usual giant table of houseplants, a cabinet of insect specimens, a cooler, a rubbermade tub, a package of potting soil, the giant cardboard box the half-stack came in, 5 kitchen chairs, some weird cabinet, two empty metal plant stands, two glass aquariums, etcetera, etcetera. I couldn't see the fireplace anymore. The couch was a mile away from the TV. The dining table had crept into the living room.

I shuffled some shit around, but its still pretty fucking far from cozy. I'm all about having instruments at hand, and my banjo is readily available on the couch. Likewise, my RC-51 sits ready on a stand by the fireplace. So does Peat's acoustic. But, we also have the Warlock and the speaker stuff. Plugging in. Sheesh.

At least I don't have any neighbors yet. The other half of the duplex has sat vacant since the end of July. I know Homkor blames me. I think only white-trash types have even checked it out. I like to think that, after peeping my barn-fresh '67 Scout in the driveway, they peek in the window to see a banjo and a Warlock metal guitar. That should keep them out for a while. I wish I had some life-sized cardboard cutouts of myself, ala Big Pants, that I could put in the window as a solemn warning to would-be tenants.

The wind blew like stupid-crazy a couple of days this week, and riddled my yard with tons of errant trash from all the way up the street. One particularly impressive piece is some gigantor subway poster, of some purported teen idol or some such bullshit, on some celluloid film, blown up to my front door. Homkor visited sometime in the past couple of days, and no doubt they saw all of the shit. I know they were here because they doubled their leasing efforts, pulling up the 'for lease' sign and restabbing it more directly in front of the house. I'm bad enough about cleaning up my own trash, so I haven't exactly had a fire under my ass to pick up all of the shit that was deposited in my yard by that bitch Mother Nature.

But enough about that shit. Cab, you say?

Monday night. I showed up at the cab shack and waited for a car. I had been off for a week. There was a new guy. Some fresh-faced kid, maybe 25. His name is Dan, and he has some shaggy hipster hair, and was bedecked in Birkenstock closed-toe slip-ons, and some corduroy pants. He carried a outdoorsy-style water bottle, decorated with some scotch-taped-on postcards. One said simply "Son Volt," the other was some press release stock for a Japanese sculptor. In the bottle was, I am presuming, tea. Green tea?

So, I was immediately suspicious. My first thought was that he may have been a low-lying comoer, but I don't think that's the case. Some hipster's trying to cut in on my "not-creepy cab driver" angle. We'll see how things turn out. He introduced himself, and I asked if he was going to be a cab driver. "I have been, for two weeks now." Well, I was off for a week, so I can see how he slipped under my radar.

So, I waited for a car. New Guy Dan got #5. Hmm. I was the last to get a car, some 40 minutes later, an hour after I had shown up. I got number 8.

#8 was Psycho Ken's steady girl. It is a '96 or so Crown Vic, but it mucho worse for wear. Lowlights: exterior: aesthetically, it has a number of dents. It's subtle, but it has been jacked pretty hard in the rear, and the car is buckled ever-so-slightly, so that the doors don't fit tight. It has mismatched tires/wheels. Interior: this car has a tan/beige interior, instead of the more utilitarian blues/grays. Thus, it shows stains and dirt worse. I had never driven #8 before. They had tried to put me in it the previous Monday, when it refused to run properly. Well, at least it was running good, this time.

But that's about the last good thing you could say about it. 1) no radio. At all. Instead, a black plastic knock-out filling the hole. 2) the cop spotlight is gone, and there is wadded paper shoved into the empty hole it had passed through. 3) the steering wheel is upside down. Completely, 180 degrees out. This is very awkward, and a pain in the ass. The center of the steering wheel houses the air bag, and it is set low so that it does not interfere with your hands around the rim of the wheel during normal driving. But, turn it upside down, and the air bag is in the damn way. 3) #8 smokes like a chimney. It is ridiculous, bad enough to get you pulled over. One side of the exhaust pours thick, rich black exhaust smoke, and it reeks of burning oil. If you are parked the wrong way the wind will pull the exhaust smoke to the front of the car where the fresh-air intake sucks it in, and the car is filled with noxious fumes. I looked in vain for an idle police car. I was going to ask the officer to write me a warning ticket for the exhaust so that I could use it as an excuse to never drive #8 again. 4) the turn signals/hazard lights don't flash. Rather, you are expected to cycle the switch on and off to create the blinking effect while you're in the act of turning. Like you need one more distraction while driving a cab. 5) One side of the domelight was inoperable. 6) the rear end is well-past worn out, and screams like a banshee. A number of customers asked me if the car was going to make it. It sounded like a Formula race car, going 200mph, and you couldn't drown it out with the non-existent radio. Actually, this was my favorite thing about #8. 7) the heater blower motor was mounted on a toggle switch, and had one speed. High. This made modulating the heat very difficult.

But that's just me complaining.

While I was waiting for a car, Jason the dispatcher/driver walked through. We were talking a bit, and I mentioned something about the van from the previous Monday night.

"Oh, you were the one driving when the woman fell out of her chair."

"No, she popped a bit of a wheelie, but she didn't fall out of the chair." I told him in more detail.

"Well JW said she was crying when he got there." Turns out that after the fiasco I had with the wheelchair van, another driver picked up the same woman and didn't put any straps at all on the front of her wheelchair. She did a complete endo, fell out of her chair, and hit her head. The driver managed to pick her up and put her in one of the van's seats, before JW got there to help. Together, they were able to get her in her wheelchair and take her home. Ouch. And I felt bad for making her pop a wheelie. Poor, legless, bad-kidney lady.

So, yeah, I had been off of work for a week. Which meant I was broke. I like to have $30-40 in change to start out with. I went to the ATM and only had $37 in my account, with a couple of items likely outstanding. Crap. I took out $20, and still had to eat. I hoped to make enough money to deposit that night so that I did not overdraw my account the next day. After eating I had $17 to start the night on. I figured I'd be okay, since you don't get hit with too many twenties that early in the evening.

So, for my first call, after waiting an hour for a shitty car, was to pick up a group home regular. "How much cash do you have on you?" Kelly asked.

"Not much, barely $20." She then proceeded to tell me that I had to reimburse the fare for another cab ride she had taken a few days earlier. I was thinking maybe $5 or so. She was a group home charge, so I wouldn't be taking any money in, just giving it out.

Well, I'll be damned if I didn't have to give her $8.80. That left me with $8 on me. Crap. I saw that JW's Blazer was in his driveway when I drove by. I hoped he might have $100 for me, since I didn't see him on Saturday night, since I was at home sick. It was still there when I came back by, and I actually caught him in it, getting ready to leave. Luckily, he had $97 on him, which he gave me. Thanks, JW. Now I had some money to work on, and a little extra to put in my bank account.

I picked up one of my regulars. An older blind guy who is a student at the university. He's good for conversation, and we had a nice chat about the prospects of the 2006 Cardinals club.

I picked up one of my group home regulars, the one who makes choking, shitting noises the whole time. He's a giant fat black guy, a bit microcephalic, with the requisite magenta sweatpants pulled up past the equator. I hadn't carried him in a while, and couldn't think of his last name. Lets say its Conrad. I asked him what it was. "Dondahrd," very matter-of-factly.

"Donner?"

"Dohndrad."

"How do you spell that?"

"J-O-A-N." Again, very matter of factly. I just wrote his first name down and had him sign it. He wrote it, fairly neatly, C-O-N-R-A-D. He spent much of the ride telling me about what his mamma was making for supper, I think. He also said he'd be needing a ride the next day at 6pm. His rides are all set-up in advance by his case worker. I'm pretty sure his mamma was making greenbeans and cornbread.

I picked up Miss Jean, my regular. She was at the Olive Garden this time, a first for me. She usually only eats at Columbia's classier places, and never anything franchised. She was really fond of #10, because it had grab handles in the back which made it easier for her to get in and out of it. I expected her to fuss over #8. I purposely shut it off before going in to get her, since I was loading her on the side that smoked terribly. The passenger's side rear door apparently wasn't opening from the inside.

I went in and found her, sitting in the foyer. I greeted her warmly, asking her how her evening was going. She surprised me by being quite chipper and cheerful, which apparently also surprised the wait staff and hostess. She typically gives them hell. I noted that she had a different cane. I always check for her cane, since she has a habit of forgetting it. "I see you have a new cane. Did you get tired of your old one, or did it get misplaced?"

"I misplaced it."

I told her I didn't have #10, but that didn't phase her a bit. I took her home and escorted her in, receiving my standard $2 tip. Actually $1.70 this time, since the meter clicked over to $16.30.

I picked up Roberta, another group home regular, at the workshop. She's the one who told me of her half-Hispanic daughter, in foster care. We were riding along quietly when she said "my daughter called me, and she told me that this guy I used to go with was divorced, and that I should call him." She added that it had been some 20 years since they dated. She said she took down his number, and thought she would call him. You go, girl.

I picked up two people from the University Med Center at the same time, going separate places. One was a very congenial black woman, going to the Harbor House, a homeless shelter. The other was a 40something white guy, going out to the Lake of the Woods. Apparently he had made some suicidal threats, or something, and called 911. A sheriff's deputy had brought him into the hospital. He was miffed that they brought him in and he had no way home. He was discharged with a social work pass. He was lost in his own mind when I dropped off the homeless woman. She leaned over the seat and wished him better. He was oblivious to what she said, so she touched his shoulder and told him to get better. He roused and thanked her. It was a very warm human gesture. Apparently the two had chatted while waiting for the cab.

I couriered some blood between hospitals. It was frozen bag of it. I always feel like I am going to drop it or something. That would be awkward.

At one point, I picked up a woman from the Boone ER. She was suffering from some sinus problems and lead poisoning. She said she was poisoned by a rental house she was living in, with lead paint. I labored under the supposition that the passenger's side rear door wouldn't open from the inside for most of the night. But, one guy tugged hard and it opened. So, when it didn't open when I dropped the woman at Walgreens, I told her to just pull harder. She did, and broke #8's inner door handle off in her hand.

After 1 am I had a call to Ruby Tuesday's. It's not a huge drunkard's bar, but there was an American Indian from Montana who had ridden his bicycle there and got soused. The bartender insisted he take a cab back home. I told him we could put his bike in the trunk, and he was cool with it. The guy was drunk, but a lot of fun. It was a short ride, though, so I didn't get much of a story out of him.

I picked up 4 guys, a flag, outside of the Vogue. Cash calls had been hard to come by. We were really slow Monday, and I was running lots of group home charges. This was a tidy score. Unfortunately, though, they were only going as far as the Ramada. But, there were 4 of them, and they tipped $3 on the $7.05 fare. They were a little riled up. The three in the back were huge grizzled rednecks from Poplar Bluff, Missouri. The guy in front was lean and less rural, and was apparently from St. Louis. I'm not sure of their connection, but I imagine they all worked together. Along the way the guy in front wanted a cigarette and they wouldn't give him one. I think it was for his own benefit, like they were trying to keep him from slipping on his New Year's Resolution or something.

The guy in front was talking like he was mad, and threatening to kick some ass when we got to the hotel. I knew it was mostly all in fun, but they were some good ol' rowdy boys. Sure enough, they broke into a bit of a wrasslin' match as soon as they spilled out of the cab, taking out a trash can in front of the Ramada. He was horribly outweighed, and being tossed around like a rag-doll by the burly redneck. The other two rednecks were urging the third to stop before he broke the guy's arm when I rolled out.

My last call was to pick up at Club Shattered. I was pretty close when I got the call, and was pulling up to a group of girls on the sidewalk when dispatch radioed to see if I was getting anyone. Apparently they were on the phone trying to cancel as I pulled up. Dispatch guilted them into the ride, and I picked up two of them. They were only going as far as Jones Hall on campus, and talked among themselves the whole way. I didn't expect much of a tip, as in they were undergrads, had tried to cancel, and only gone a mile and a half. The fare was $4.30, plus $1 for the second passenger ($5.30). The girl handed me a $20 and asked for $7 back. I thought she must have meant to pay $7 ($1.70 tip) and get $13 back. I asked, to clarify, and, again, she asked for $7 back. Sweet! A $7.70 tip on a $5.30 fare.

On the night, I did $145 on the meter ($50 take-home) and made right at $20 in tips. So, $70 for 12 hours worth of work, which is less than $6 an hour.

At least I got called in a little early, at 2:45. I figured this was a reward for having been sent out last and in a shitty car, which made up a little for the new guy getting in #5 right away. But, I pulled up to see that I was the last one called in, on top of everything else. Bollocks.

So that was my shitty Monday.

So Tuesday I rolled in, and was put in #6. #6 may be our flagship cab. If #5 and #7 are dueling hot sisters, #6 is their Rachel-Hunter-aging-supermodel mom. Sweet. #6 is a '98 or '99 Crown Victoria Police Interceptor, and, aside from the paintjob, is the same as CPD's cruisers. It has the newer front end and black plastic honeycomb grill. #6 has a few more miles than #7 (154K vs 104K) and a few extra holes in her headliner, from cop stuff. There are also three brackets adhered to the windshield where cop stuff was mounted. It has black-tinted windows, and no hubcaps. Just raw, black-painted steelies. Pretty stealth, actually.

#6 was just fuckin' fun to drive. A regular-ass cop car. There's one spot on North Anne where you can do the Hill Street Blues/Sabotage video cop-car jump. It is fun. Plain-ass fun.

My first call cancelled. Apparently she had waited over an hour. My second call was on the South side, at the Walgreens on Forum and Nifong. The guy got in and dispatch apologized over the radio for his wait. I asked him how long it had been and he said and hour and a half. He pretty much didn't care. He had learned to expect it, and set things up so he wasn't in any hurry.

He was fun to talk to. We talked about medical procedures, surgeries, and teeth-pulling. He mentioned something or other about having a procedure done on his testicle, where they left the sac open. He said every time he went to the doctor they would rip the bandage off and it was like getting kicked in the nuts. I can only imagine. He tipped well.

My next fare was the Conrad kid from the sheltered workshop. I asked him how supper had been. I'm not sure, but I'm guessing it was good.

I picked up another group-home regular from where he works as a janitor. I've mentioned him before, briefly. He is stooped at the waist, pretty bright, older, and may have Tourette's. He got hosed once before when dispatch had me double up with him and a lady waiting at the grocery store, and he was 45 minutes late to work. On the way to the call, dispatch mentioned I would be picking up two people there, which was a first. I hoped (not assumed) that the second fare was on Bill's way, since he had got hosed so badly that one time before.

Bill has a new coworker, a high school kid named Tim. Poor old Tim is as dumb as a post. Or, he would be if he were any smarter. In his advantage, he is just slow enough to be considered developmentally slow, and not simply dumb. That's probably not very politically correct, but it is a fine line.

And, of course, Tim lived way out of Bill's way. Bend over for screwing number two, Bill. The cab company doesn't give a fuck about you. I apologized to him, and said I would take up his cause with the cab company. I tried to tell him that it must have been an oversight on their part, but neither of us believed that.

So, we had a long ride. The Tim kid sat up front. He said "this is an old cop car, isn't it? You know how I can tell, it's got that...light...in it." He was referencing the A-pillar spotlight. "Does it still work?"

"I don't know. I haven't tried it yet." It didn't. He noticed the tattoos on my forearms and asked what they meant. I told him something or other.

"I'm into body art," he said.

"Yeah, well, it's not for everyone," I said.

"You know what else isn't for everyone?"

"What's that?"

"Bull riding." Tim went on to mention that this was a field he wanted to get in to. I told him that I never met a bullrider with all of his teeth. He said that was a price he was willing to pay. "Maybe I'll just get dentures and I can take them out to ride." Good thinking, Tim.

Tim mentioned being in high school. I asked if he went to Rock Bridge or Hickman. He said Rock Bridge. I mentioned that I would rather be a Bruin than a Kewpie. "Me too. It's a naked baby."

After that I had to pick up some videos at Hollywood Video and take them to the daughter of one of our drivers, Beverly; some old, tootles, morbidly obese day driver, god bless her heart. I dropped by the video store, and purposely didn't run wait time to go in, an act of professional courtesy.

Of course I got screwed. There were two K-Mart cowboys trying to settle up with the video store over some video games that had been long overdue. There was also some GQ wannabe motherfucker acting all annoyed with his girlfriend, next in line. Fuck you all, I'm the one losing money here.

I was still waiting when Guy, another day driver, walked in. He was there to rent a videogame. Guy is probably around 50, with a nice furry white goatee, and a shaved bald head. He has some rather noticeable debilitating gimp limp in one rigid, locked leg. He is cool as shit. I had caught him on Monday afternoon, and he mentioned he was going crappie fishing at the Lake of the Ozarks on Tuesday. I asked him how the fishing went.

I finally got through the line and picked up 3 DVDs. One was Flight Plan, another was Red Eye, and the third was The Fog, or some such shit. I paid for them and took them to Beverly's daughter's old man's place. I got a $2 tip. I had saved them about $12 or $13 in wait time.

After that I picked up at the Boone County ER. I rarely ever get people who had accidents, it's usually just sick people. But, in this case, it was a trucker with his arm in a sling, zipped up inside his jacket. I asked him what had happened. He had been in the act of tarping a load on his tractor trailer, when the high winds had caught the tarp and yanked him off of the top of the load. He fell onto the headache rack on the back of his tractor, bruising his ribs pretty badly. I was taking him back north of town to the Eagle Pipe yard, where his tractor was. He was going to try to sleep a few hours before driving his load into Texas on Wednesday, and returning to his home in Iowa. Ouch. Banged-up ribs are no fun. He winced at every bump the Vic hit.

After that I grabbed my buddy Alex. He is a possible co-conspirator for my documentary project. I told him that the screenwriter dude had called about a brainstorming session, but that it was when I had pink eye.

The I had a handful. A drunk mother-daughter combo, straight out of the projects. It took me a while to find them. I had two different people trying to give me directions over the radio at the same time, with no reference to where I was actually at. I finally found the mom and picked up the daughter at the end of the parking lot, at the mailboxes.

They were going to Wal-Mart, the regular-ass hood Wal-Mart. Mamma had got a credit card and sister had just got out of county. She had drank three beers and had a good buzz going, since she had been in forced sobriety for eighteen days. They were all fired up because mamma had $302 on her credit card. The planned on paying for the cab with the card. This made me a bit nervous.

It was a bit of a ride to the Wal-Mart. Mother and daughter were exchanging jail stories, the food, the guards, etc. The didn't have a tooth between them. Daughter was about 260lbs, mamma maybe 90lbs. At one point mamma said something about "straighten up, and act like you know something."

Daughter said "She ain't put together for shit, but she's mean."

We got there and I took the card. The daughter had already asked how I would know if it were good or not. I told her that I radioed it in to my dispatcher, who ran it on the card machine. They assured me innumerable times that it was good, that there was $289 on it, that they had used it that day, that they had called and checked on the balance, etc., etc. And it better had be good, otherwise they couldn't pay me until Wednesday, etc., etc. It was declined.

Crap. Now I had them at the Wal-Mart. Dispatch had smelled something from the get-go, since we had so many problems finding them, and they were drinking. I knew the daughter had just got out of county, and she had mentioned a few times that she didn't have "no warrants or nothing," but she flinched and freaked out every time we saw a police cruiser. "It's just that every time a cop sees me they find something to arrest me for." The fare was $9.80.

I had already given up on getting any money. I just didn't want to deal with dispatch, since they would want me to get the police involved. I didn't want to deal with any cops, especially since I would be losing only about $3.50, and I would likely lose an hour dealing with the cops, where I wouldn't be making any money. Fuck all that. And, I would be expected to somehow keep them in the car while I waited on the cops. No, sir.

I reread the numbers, but they were all right. I was trying to talk to them and dispatch kept radioing. "Do we have a problem 6? I'm not getting an answer, 6."

To my surprise, mamma produced 2 $5 bills. They were wet. Creepy. But, money. They wanted to go back home. If the card was bad, they couldn't do any shopping. I was muoy surprised that they produced the cash, and didn't believe they were trying to hustle me. They wanted to charge a ride home until Wednesday. I told dispatch they came up with cash and got him off of my back. I told them I would take them back home if they were cool. I figured I had plenty of time before my next call.

I hadn't even made it out of the parking lot before dispatch radioed, and told me to pick up at the employee entrance at the Holiday Inn Select. There's a regular there, and he only goes about a half of a mile to some nearby apartments. I told them to be cool, that we'd drop this guy off, and then I'd run them home.

As I rolled up to the Holiday Inn, I immediately recognized that it was not my regular. It was a young guy with a bag. He came up and opened one of the back doors (tinted windows). He was surprised to find two drunk, black, toothless women in his cab. He got in front. He was going to the bus station.

The ride there was very entertaining. I couldn't apologize to the guy for the women without being condescending and insulting. They were all riled up. I got him to the bus station with no major incident. The fare was $11.05. He opened his wallet and the daughter said "Damn. Look at all that money, he's loaded."

"Yeah, and I'm going to take it all from him," I joked. He was cool, and tipped me $3 or $4. I got them home.

On the way, the daughter said, "Can we put the radio on 106.1 or something? This white-boy music is killing me." I was listening to BXR, adult contemporary.

The mom interrupted, scolding her, "I like some country music." She also added, "I bet he likes some of our people's music, too."

"Do you like rhythm and blues?" the daughter asked. I pulled the copy of "You See Me Laughin'" out of my cargo pocket.

"I'm a big fan of the blues. Look here, 'You See Me Laughin', the last of the hill country bluesmen.'"

"Oh yeah, they do bring it. They's good." The daughter started singing. She was making the mother laugh. She was mildly incontinent. And had to pee. The daughter antagonized her more. I didn't want the poor old lady pissing herself or my cab. The damp money in my shirt pocket was all the more suspect.

We made it back okay. I had told them twice that I didn't want anything for bringing them back, but they asked for my card and swore they would pay me Wednesday. I am starting to turn blue.

My next fare was a dude about my age, perhaps an aging hipster. He had thick rimmed glasses, longish wavy hair, and a goatee. He was drunk. I had got out to find him, and left the radio louder than normal. We got back in to a Cold Play song. I started to turn it down, apologetically. Then I looked at him. "You're not a Cold Play fan, are you?" I knew he was.

We talked a bit about British accents in songs. He brought up AC/DC. It was a bit discomforting.

After 12 am I picked up my Indian buddies from the Shell Station/UltraMart/Arena Liquor. I take the first out South for the first fare, then restart the meter for the second guy when we pass the gas station heading back towards his apartment, near East campus. So, I get about 45 minutes with the second guy, who is closer to my age and speaks better English. The guy works a shit-load, and is an engineering student. I admire that.

After that, I grabbed three girls from Willies, heading back South. The were pretty pleasant. The all three requested cards. As they were deciding who was paying, I heard the two in back whispering. The one in front called them out, making fun of them for doing the math. "What is 20%..."

"Oh, we already figured out what 20% is, but we want to give him more, because he was cool." I got a $4 tip, on a $12.80 or $13.80 fare. And perhaps some new regulars.

At around 2am, I picked someone up from a party on East campus. He was a scrawny white college student, trying to pull off some Jimiriqui Eurotrash look. Silly hat. He bitched a bit about the $2 service charge for using a credit card. His fare was only $5.05. He tipped $2 cash.

After 2am I grabbed a guy from an apartment downtown, and ran him way out off of Scott Boulevard. He had got shut down by some lady-type he was after. He had been mildly bent about it, before securing the key to some other chick's house from her roommate. That's where I was taking him. He was drunk, cool. A Columbia native, poli-sci student. The fare was $17.30, $4 tip. Mama's credit card.

My last call was after 3am at one of Columbia's finer eateries. It was the head chef/general manager, leaving after a long, long day at work. He was drunk. One of my more incredulous Columbia stories involved his boss (the owner/namesake of said restaurant), a wasted kid named Tripiano with a broken sandal, a beer bottle to the neck, 30some stitches in a thumb, and me telling two of Columbia's finest to "just get back in your car and leave." I told him a brief version of the story. And he was a talker, too. He wanted to fill me in on a regular of mine who had had a bowel/incontinence problem and had been banned by the restaurant for shitting herself (regularly) during lunch and dinner.

I let him keep talking, even after we got to his house. He was drunk, and hadn't paid yet. Dispatch had already told me to clean it up and bring it in when I was done with him. I figured indulging him would translate into a big tip. He told a couple of intertwined stories before I could get rid of him.

"You like to party?"

"Well, I do what I can. It's kind of hard to do much with the hours I keep."

"You like to party, wild?"

"I do a little drinkin', but that's a bout it. I try to keep it clean. I change jobs a lot, and that helps." Mostly bullshit.

He paid me, and gave me a basic tip. "Are you sure you don't party?"

"No, but thanks for asking."

I ended up running $231 on the meter, with a take home of $80 before tips. Much better than Monday, and pretty good for a Tuesday. I ran solid most of the night, and didn't have time to get bored. It was a good night to stretch #6 out, too.

I stood around talking to Derek, the dispatcher, and Lorette, the day driver, for most of an hour before going home.

So, since then, I have accomplished little. I did get my living room/downstairs bathroom a bit cleaner. And, I did some pickin'. A good coupla hours with the banjar, and some time thrown in with the mando and the gitfiddle. I also drank 5 Cherry Stouts (9% alcohol by volume), 6 or 7 or 9 Apricot Weizens, a Pony Express Gold Beer, and ate an 8 piece family bucket-o-chicken. I got You See Me Laughin' from the public library on Tuesday night. I watched it 3 or 4 times. I had it on a loop while housecleaning. I owned it before that thieving selfish ex-stripper ex-'girlfriend' of mine kyped it. I did officially give up on ever getting any of my stuff back, though, and did the spiritually cleansing act of officially deleting her phone number from my mobile. The movie rules. Brings tears to my eyes and makes me feel alive. Cuts right through the bullshit. T-Model is my brother.

So, yeah, my lack of accomplishment does benefit you, my faithful reader, with a timely blog update. I can't say why (or won't), but my heart's just not in it the way it used to be. We'll see how things keep up. If shit goes my way (and when doesn't it?) I'm going to have a knock-down, drag-out brawl of a party at mi casa real soon, with lost of free booze. You will all be invited. I look forward to seeing you all, and you better get used to the idea of listening to Bloodshot and Fat Possum artists.

The Bloody Tenant Truth Peace

Woo-hoo, It's Sunday night and I am clear-eyed! Great day in the morning!

Let's see here. Not to much cab content to throw at you. As many of you may know, I've been off of work for a while, thanks to my old friend, Pink Eye. Pink eye sucks. I'll recap any way.

When I last wrote I was finishing up my post (last Monday) when I got a call from the cab company telling me not to come in. This was good, because 1) I don't like to work if I don't have to, and 2) it gave me plenty of time to edit my post. I wrapped up my editing and was deciding what to do with my unexpected evening off. First of all, I needed to eat. I hadn't had anything since breakfast. It was about 4:30 and I also wanted to try to get to Linweld before 5pm so I could get a new bottle of gas (CO2/Argon mix) for my welder.

I took the regulator off of the gas bottle on my welder and threw it in Corpsy's back seat. A truck would be nice. I had only got a couple of minutes away from my house when the cab company called back. I pretty much knew answering it would mean having to go to work, but I did anyway. I hadn't made up my mind what I was going to do and figured I could use the money, anyway. Sure enough, they wanted me to come in and work. There was a men's basketball homegame, against archrival Kansas, an ESPN Big Monday kickoff. They had just realized this and were panicking because they only had 3 drivers on the road.

You may wonder how I could drive if they had just told me they were a car short, but that would be using your brain, and that would be defeating cab company logic. So stop it, goddamnit.

I told them it would take me a little while to get there. They said it would be cool if I were there by 5:30. No problem. I still had to eat, shower, and get dressed. I made it to the cab shack by 5:35.

Phyllis handed me the keys to #8, and told me it was out back. She also mentioned that they had just picked it up from Schilby's Tire and Wheel after they called me the first time. Apparently they hadn't anticipated them having it done in time, but somehow they had finished it. She added, though, that something wasn't quite right and that I'd have to drive it two-footed, since it had "wanted to die a few times on the way over."

Hmm. If the cab company tells you something's a little bad, it generally means its fucking terrible. That's usually when they only begin to take notice of something. And, let me go on the record, to officially unendorse Schilby's Tire and Wheel. If you want to buy tires or wheels, go crazy. But, having been a mechanic in Columbia and having seen their handiwork, I would tell you to stay pretty fucking far away from there if you ever have any mechanical problems whatsoever.

Example: when I worked at Mr. Transmission, Schilby's referred a customer to us for a driveline vibration problem. The truck, a lifted early 90's Chevrolet pickup, came directly from their shop to ours, and arrived with no brakes. Apparently the stainless steel aftermarket brake hose had got caught on something when they hoisted the truck, and snapped it. They either didn't notice brake fluid squirting everywhere, or didn't care. They had also lifted the truck and 'inspected' it due to handling complaints by the owner. They sent them away (they had installed the lift kit some time earlier) assuring them nothing was wrong.

I could tell from across the parking lot that the truck's front end was fucked. Sure enough, when I got it on the lift, there were 4 or 5 joints in the front end worn dangerously past tolerances. All four tie-rod ends were junk, as was the idler arm bushings. The alignment was a mile off. Besides the brake problem, the tie-rods were so loose on one side that I told the management to tell the customers that I wouldn't even drive it around the block without fixing it first.

So, it was little surprise, when I got into #8, that it wouldn't run for shit. Not at all. I had thought from Phyllis's comments that it may have just needed the throttle set screw adjusted, but it had a grievous vacuum leak somewhere. I guess they had had the heads and intake off. My cursory inspection (in the dark with a flashlight) revealed a number of missing fasteners. I tried to keep it running. I had a 5:50 time call waiting on me. It was apparent that this was wishful thinking, as the car was downright dangerous to operate, since you could only keep it idling with one foot buried in the accelerator, the other in the brake.

I tried backing it out of its parking space and there was no power steering fluid in it. Phyllis had told me it had been checked out and topped off before I got in it. I parked it and told her it was a losing effort. She agreed (evidence that it was really, really bad). "You wouldn't drive a van, would you?"

"Sure I would. I'll drive whatever you got."

What I got was #15, an extended Dodge 1-ton passenger van, with a hydraulic wheelchair lift and raised roof. Boo-ya.

When it came in I asked the day driver what I needed to know about it. He said "nothing." He told me that the interior lights didn't work and that I'd need a flashlight. He showed me how to work the school-bus style passenger's door. Want in? I'm in control, bitch. He also said it needed gas badly. I asked about the wheelchair lift and he was adamant that I wouldn't need to know how to use it.

With all of this, I tore off for my 5:50 timecall. Driving impressions: wow. This is one big fucker. There is no passenger's seat, since it has the school-bus door and that is how you climb in, standing, due to the raised roof. The wheelchair lift is behind the two side passenger's doors, and folds up vertically. Most of the floor is open, with grids laid in the floor to allow ratcheting straps to fasten easy, to secure wheelchairs. There are 3 rows of seats on both sides, in the very back, some 10' behind me. They are those funky molded plastic individual seats, like on city buses or subways or something.

The driver's seat is perched very high, giving you a commanding view. I found the seat belt buckle end curled up on the floor. When I went to fasten it it reached most of the way across my waist. Buckled, this put the latch in my sternum. Not doable. I wrapped the buckle end around the vertical pole behind my seat to shorten it to an appropriate length The van responded and accelerated well enough, and the big side mirrors gave me decent visibility. However, an empty one ton van rides pretty rough, and the wheelchair lift rattled and clanged vociferously. Add to this the giant open space and it resonated very loudly. One big rattly echo chamber. From Hell. On wheels.

It was already 5:50 when I left the shack. I hoped I had enough gas to pick up the fare and get to the arena. I listened to the broadcast of the game on the radio. They were tipping-off when I pulled up to the Holiday Inn Select. I figured that with a 5:50 time call they were trying to miss the rush, anyway. I didn't know if the raised roof would fit under the awning thing in front of the lobby, and was craning my neck to look up out of the windshield, to try to assess the possibilities. Before I could reach a decision, though, the passengers came out and up to the van.

They opened one of the side passenger's doors before I could remember to open the school-bus style front door. I looked at them through the mesh network of wheelchair lift parts and remembered the front door. They climbed in. I apologized for being late (it was right at 6pm) but they didn't care. They weren't even going to the damn game.

They filed to the back (2 dudes) and some jackass honked his horn for me to move. I guessed, correctly, that I was low enough and drove under the awning, since the aforementioned assjack was blocking me in from behind.

The passengers commented that they weren't quite expecting a giant empty van with a wheelchair lift, and I told them it was just as weird for me. I had to talk very loudly, to be heard over the van, and for my voice to reach them, way in the back. I was in the process of telling them I had never driven the van before as I turned left onto Bernadette. In midsentence, as if to punctuate the thought, the passenger door flew wide open.

Whenever you close the door there is a big rod that goes from the handle to the inside of the door panel. It is like a cam-buckle, and you have to pull hard to break over the cam angle to lock the handle in position. The inner door flexes enough to do so, and it is held tight once locked shut. I had not pushed hard enough, and the cam wasn't broken completely over. There is also and adjustment on the linkage, and it could stand to be adjusted a little looser. Anyhoo, the damn door flew wide open into traffic.

"It's a good thing I didn't have a handicapped passenger there. He'd have been more-disabled."

The dudes were from Illinois, and were presumably in town for business. They were going to CC's City Broiler, on recommendation from someone at the hotel. "Does Columbia have any topless bars?"

"We don't have any topless bars per se, but there are two all-nude clubs." I proceeded to give them a run down on the downtown bar scene. I dropped them off at the Broiler and went and got some gas. I expected there to be steady calls, but there weren't. When I was fueled up, dispatch told me I would have to pick up at the Plaza III Medical Center, at Boone County Hospital, at 6:50. It was a damn wheelchair.

What the fuck. I had just asked them about operating the damn thing, and they assured me that I wouldn't have to and not to worry about it. And here I was, with a wheelchair for my second call. Damn damn damn.

Dispatch quickly added that he would send another driver over to show me how to operate it. This was the least of my worries. What really pissed me off was that I knew that once they knew I could operate it, they wouldn't hesitate to send me out in the van on any given night. But, the van is not for me. Don't like. Big, loud, and uncomfortable, and you can't talk to people. Medical charges that don't tip. Time wasted strapping people in and unloading them. Weird smells. I prefer the close confines of the Crown Vics.

So, I waited for my time call at Plaza III. I had never picked up there before, much less a wheelchair patient. I rolled in some 20 minutes early and navigated the big van into a parking space. A handicapped space, that is. Felt good.

I picked at my mandolin for a good while. I radioed dispatch to make sure I was on the right side of the building (I was in front), but got no answer. I kept on picking. I finally saw another A*1 cab pull in at about 6:55. It was Creepy Clyde. Flippin' great. I've never told you guys about Creepy Clyde, and let's just say its because he's too fucking creepy. I'll address it later, but he's off-putting.

So Clyde's here to show me how to use the lift. I told him I didn't know if I was on the right side of the building or not, and that I hadn't seen anyone. He said he'd drive around and check. And, of course, he didn't come back. Dispatch finally radioed and sent me around back. It was about 7pm, already 10 minutes late.

I pulled around back, and did a fine job of pulling the van in so the ramp would fold down exactly where I wanted it. Clyde was out there, though, telling me I'd have to turn it around. I maneuvered the van according to his bizarre instructions until he thought it was just right. Then he went to open the back doors, and realized the lift was in the side. Dipshit. He'd never used this van before. I had to move it again, back to where I had it in the first place.

After that, I realized quickly that he didn't have any more idea of how to operate it than I did. Once you open the van's doors, the lift folds down. Clyde said just to pull on it. It did nothing. There's a latch that holds it upright. I found it and released it. Then there's simply an up/down button. It did nothing. I remember seeing a power control module for the lift on the dash, and had made sure it was on. It was. It was cold, and the van lights didn't work, so I was prowling around with my MagLite.

I finally got Clyde out of the way and found a label that said the parking brake had to be set. I did that and the lift worked. I got it lowered to the ground. Hmm. No handicapper. I had hoped for someone in a power chair to just zoom in, and, bang, I'd be done. Hmm.

I went inside with Clyde. It was a dialysis lab. There in a manual wheelchair was one of the oldest, and definitely the blackest woman I had ever seen. I mean the blackest person, ever. Like blacker than African black. Blacker than Ghana black. Blacker than anyone in any Tarzan movie or in any issue of National Geographic black. She absorbed light. She was as dark as the inside of a cow.

So, yeah, she was very black, and had no legs. They were removed somewhere high on her thigh, and her stubs were folded up in a blanket. Something was up with one side of her jaw, like some missing teeth or something, and her mouth would grimace farther to that side than otherwise normally humanly possible. After fucking around with the lift I was now about 25 minutes late.

I rolled her outside and onto the lift. The lift is pretty cold and mechanical, and barely wide enough for a wheelchair. Once I got her on the lift, I hoisted her up, and climbed back inside the van. I had to wheel her over the threshold from the lift into the van. You'd think they'd have made the transition a bit smoother. It was like trying to get a refrigerator on a dolly over the threshold into your house, only it was an old, impatient black woman with no legs and bad kidneys. I thought it might end worse than a nick in the drywall if I jounced her too hard.

It took most of my strength to get her popped up over the threshold, and all of my restraint to stop her there and roll smoothly off of it. Now I had her in the van. Great. Now I had to strap her in. Hmm.

As I have mentioned, there were no working interior lights in the van. I crawled around her on my hands and knees with my MagLite, still frozen from the cold, the side door still open, Clyde still giving me useless directions. There were a number of straps which could be latched into slots in the floor, then strapped to the wheelchair and then ratcheted tight. I put two straps on opposite corners and ratcheted her down tight. I set the brakes on her chair and closed up the van's doors. It was now about 7:30.

I motored ever so carefully around the building and headed up to pull onto Broadway. Broadway is very steep there, and the driveway for the Plaza III is ridiculously pitched uphill, as you exit. I creeped slowly uphill in the van, trying to be as seamless as possible. When the van had pretty much reached the peak angle of the driveway I heard a bit of a distressed exclamation from my passenger. I turned behind me to see her riding a wheelie.

If the van was already pitched at a 30+ degree angle, she was pitched back another 45 degrees, making her roughly 75-80 degrees back of the true horizon, and fairly fucking stressed about it. I hadn't buckled the front strap properly (zero training) and it had loosened. Luckily it caught when it did, preventing her from going ass-over-tea-kettle. As careful as I thought I had been pulling out, I was even more careful backing down, braced for the inevitable possibility that she should topple backwards. Remember, she didn't even have legs for ballast.

Luckily, she didn't topple backwards, though she did bottom out rather harshly when she came over center and landed her wheelie. I got the straps tight, for real this time, and took her home. By the time I got her there, it was about 8pm. I drove past her house and had to turn around, but that was actually helpful since it put the ramp on the proper side, though you wouldn't have known it from her reaction. All in all, that call wasted about an hour and a half of my time. What, no tip?

So, yeah, Monday was sucking. Balls. On top of all this, my eyes were irritated. At first I thought it was just from staring at the computer monitor, blogging for 6-7 hours. But, it continually got worse, mostly in my right eye. It was watering, only it was some slimy slugtrail stuff. Not cool. I thought I might have got a flying piece of steel in there, a spark thrown from my grinder when working in my garage. This has happened to me twice, with pretty much identical symptoms. I kept rubbing it, and it was swelling. I couldn't look at it in the mirror, since the van's lights didn't work.

Calls were barely trickling in. MU was doing a good job of losing their game. At the end of regulation I was across town on a call, kind of glad to avoid the traffic shitstorm at the Mizzou Arena. But, most improbably, MU came back from being down 7 points with 34 seconds left, and tied the game. So, with nothing better to do, I decided to post-up over at the arena and try to snag some people coming out after the end of overtime. I figured with the giant van I could stack 2 or 3 downtown fares and make some decent coin.

I trucked right over and pulled in with my giant Dodge. I went up to the side of the arena, and decided to turn around and park in front. The street was empty, with cop cars parked everywhere. I was swinging the land yacht around, backing perpendicular to the curb to make a 3 point turn. "I'm cool, all I have to do is miss that no parking sign, and its brother...where is that other no-parking--(insert grating, twisting metal sound)."

Great, 8 out of every 10 cops in Columbia are within a couple of hundred yards of me and I just plowed down a no parking sign with my back bumper. I did a quick scan, and, save for a handful of curious smokers inside the Arena's foyer, no one saw me, except maybe for the KOMU8 news van who had to slow up for me to complete the turn-around. I thought that was pretty sweet, but wasn't about to press my luck by parking in front of the arena. I drove a ways down Mick Deaver and pulled into the mouth of a parking lot that was roped off.

I sat there listening to the game, and picking at my mandolin. I saw a parking dude with his orange vest and flashlight wand saunter slowly in my direction. He had a radio, but I figured he was just going to roust me and tell me I couldn't park there. He was some old dude, and not a cub cadet. He worked his way very slowly towards me, but I was determined to make him make me leave. He finally rolled up to my window. I rolled it down.

"Are you listening to the game?" I told him yes, and turned it up so he could hear it. We listened to the last couple of minutes of it and he thanked me, before returning to his post. Sweet.

Then I sat and watched a few thousand people stream past me. Attendance had been 15,061. Apparently none of them were into cabs. It doesn't help that the giant wheelchair van isn't what most people think of when they think taxi. After about 15 minutes two people got in. They were the same couple I hauled early on New Year's Eve. That had been there first Columbia taxi ride, this was their second. The chick went to the back and asked if I had been picking a ukelele or a mandolin. I told her mandolin, and she commented that "those 8 strings are tough."

They were cool, and said I could wait for another fare if I wanted. I told them I had already watch a few thousand people stroll by, and didn't think I'd be missing much. We talked about the van and I told them story about the black legless woman. "Do you ever waste time on the internet?" Since they seemed to enjoy my story, I gave them my blog address.

I picked up one girl, apparently a server at the Bistro, at about 1:30. "They didn't have to send such a big van for just me." She lived on Churchill, which I visit often. I started in on my usual route. She wanted to go a different way. I let her call the shots and it was about $4 more expensive than it would have been my way. You'd think she'd give me the benefit of the doubt. I was in no mood for argument. When we were on old Nifong she asked me if I knew where we were. I live off of old Nifong.

So that was about it on Monday. I had one annoying group of drunk college kids. I really hate it when people cut me off and say "just go" when I'm trying to tell them about the fare or something. Fuck you, you can spare another 30 seconds. My eye kept hurting worse and worse. My vision started getting cloudy. Headlights were glaring badly. I phoned dispatch and told them I was done. I left at about 2am.

I came home and went to sleep at 3am. I was wide awake at 5am, in pain. I called a cab and waited downstairs, in the dark. Ted (Peat's houseguest) was asleep on the couch. Tim the day driver picked me up and took me to Boone ER.

I told the nurse that I had been feeling like I was beginning to get sick for about a week, and that I might have a piece of steel in my eye. They numbed the eyes, and dabbed some yellow dye in there. The blacklight didn't reveal any debris or scratches. The doctor told me it was a bad case of pink eye, and gave me a prescription for antibiotics, just in case it was bacterial and not viral.

I had never had pink eye.

I took another cab to Walgreens. This time it was Steve, the day driver. He asked me about the seats in number 5, and we had a bitch session about it. I got my prescription filled and took a third cab, this time with Jeff the day driver, home. It was about 7am. I had spent $40 on cab fare and tips, which was all I had made on Monday night. At least I've got health insurance.

Pink eye sucks.

I left a note on both toilets, each said "Yo. I have pink eye. Highly contagious. Wash hands frequently. Sorry, Garner." Then I went to sleep.

Tuesday I had pink eye. It sucked.

Wednesday I had pink eye. It sucked.

Thursday I had pink eye. It was better. It sucked less.

Friday I was mostly over my pink eye, but I had been sick the whole time with a sore throat. I never had any energy and slept a lot. The pink eye hit the right eye hardest first, then slacked up on concentrated on the left eye for a couple of days. I couldn't really drive much. I woke up Tuesday with one eye matted shut. As I was getting out of bed a little pus dyke broke loose and a warm backlog of tears ran down my cheek.

The whites of my eyes were pink. All the pink stuff (inner eyelids, etc.) was blood red. Not cool. I kept thinking it especially ironic that I had been trying to get the catchphrase "that's pink" to catch on. Because pink was supposed to be the new cool. But there's nothing cool about pink eye.

I hated to go out, since, besides impaired, painful vision and suspect driving ability, I was contagious. Jeff the day driver had me drop my $20 in the seat of the cab so he could handle it safely and wash it without touching it. I went to get some carry-out from Smokin' Chicks, since I didn't have any food in the house. My eyes were blood red and badly swollen. I tried not to look at anyone.

I ordered my usual, large smoked turkey sandwich, fries, diet Dr. Pepper. Another waitress asked "do you ever get anything different?"

"Well, not in a while. I like to stick with what works. Besides, I really hate turkeys and want to eliminate them one by one by eating their breasts sliced and smoked with tangy barbeque sauce." She said she didn't like turkeys either. Or geese. "How 'bout swans? They're like the chief-president-geese-assholes." She'd never been close enough to swans to form an opinion.

"But ducks are cool. They're cute."

"Oh yeah, I could hang out with a duck. Ducks are cool. They're probably my favorite waterfowl." And wouldn't you know it, but a fucking duck walked right up?

No, really. There's a big pond on John Garry Drive and there are ducks that live there. This one was mostly white, with one of those red plastic-looking Darth Maul faces. I guess its a Muscovy duck. Yeah, so it walked right up. And the chick opened the door and we went outside. It was practically tame. We went back in and it stood outside the glass door, staring at me. Well, okay, maybe I couldn't hang out with this duck.

I also ventured out to 9th Street Video to get the DVD box set of The Trailer Park Boys. I asked them if they had it months ago and they didn't. I saw it the last time I was in, but it was checked out. I saw that it was there, and it didn't have an 'out' tag on it, but I'll be damned if it wasn't gone. Of all the shit you know. And I put $.15 in the meter.

But, as my eyes got better and I got more energy, I started spending some more time in the garage. Friday I felt legitimately bad, but I could have worked Saturday if I really wanted to. But, I was peeved about not getting to work on my project on my days off, since I was sick, and I thought I would make it a cool 6 days off in a row and stayed home. Thus, I got a lot done Saturday and Sunday, but have no cab content to report to you, except for the one story on Monday. But, hey, things are tough all over.

I did finally get a package from Slim Cessna's Auto Club. I ordered 2 shirts and a CD back in mid-November. Apparently they had ran out of the shirts on tour, and hadn't planned on replacing them. But, they hadn't updated their site when I ordered. To make up for the really long wait time they threw in 2 extra free T-shirts, some stickers, a hand-written note of apology, and 3 silk screened posters. So, I got to enjoy my new Slim Cessna CD while working in the garage. It's actually one I already had, but lost sometime last summer, before the rest of my CDs were stolen.

Yeah, so that's about it for me. I got in a lot of good pickin', too. I forgot how 'short' an eight hour workday is, since I'm used to twelves. Man, I gotta get a new job, if I'm ever going to get good enough to make my 2008 show dates.

So, I guess I have to go back to work tomorrow, which sucks. But, at least I don't have pink eye anymore. I'll be sure to bring you all of the lurid details. Maybe I can really wreck a paraplegic's day this time. Wish me luck.

Tarrying

Not Van Hagar

Show Me Off Like A New Tattoo

Holy shit, it's Monday morning.

My appy polly loggies for missing two updates in a row. It's been weighing heavily on my conscience.

And why, do you ask, have I been missing updates?

The big reason is that my sleep schedule has been consistently zany. I think my body is either rebelling against my synthetic patterns, or perhaps thinks it may be spring since it has been nice and sunny on many mornings. Regardless, I have been sleeping nights and staying awake days.

Almost all of my blogging, when I was steady-rolling, was conducted overnight, from maybe 9-12 until 4-8 am. It was in part a product of social deprivation and about the only interesting activity I had to choose from to pass that time. It was just me, a glowing screen, two sleeping cats, Bukka White turned down low, and a night of raw possibility.

But, since my schedule has been shaken, I have been sleeping from about 10-12 at night until 6-9 in the morning. Since the weather has been decent, and I hated to burn daylight, I tarried in my garage most days, cleaning and organizing it a bit. This, along with Cully's Honda restoration efforts got me jonesing a bit to fabricate something. So, I started on a little project last week. It's been going swimmingly, and is something I think we may all be able to enjoy in a couple of short weeks.

So, being awake and working all day left me tired early, so I would sleep nights, and not blog. This was also compounded by the fact that I had some genuine human social interaction a few nights, talking to Cully, Peat, Ted (the houseguest), and JW, the fellow cab driver. I also hung out with my old buddy and new daddy Chris last night.

I made a real effort, though, to get back into the blog swing of things. I stayed up until 7am Sunday morning, so I could sleep all day and write all night. Indeed, I did sleep until 5pm yesterday. Then I hung out with Chris until upwards of 9pm. After that, I bullshat with Peat and Ted until 12. I have also been laboring a bit with the early onset of a headcold. I drank some Theraflu last night and it put me right out. I went to sleep at 12, thinking I would be up by 2am, and would write all night, since I had only been awake some 7 hours. But, sadly, I slept until after 9 am this morning.

I also let my welder run out of gas so I wouldn't be able to work in the garage today. I had started to write a new update last Friday night, though I was very tired, when I had some technical snafus with my compy and gave up for the night, going to bed instead.

But, enough excuses. I owe you some taxi blog.

Let's flash way back one week to last Monday night, shall we?

I was glad to get my good girl #5 on Monday night. Glad, that is, until I went to get inside it. The day driver had just pulled in and was getting her stuff out of it. The seats were different. I rechecked the fender to see that, yes, it was number 5. In place of the original utilitarian police cruiser seats--buckets in front, were some well used civilian seats trimmed in a soft, light-blue-gray velour.

It was a what-the-fuck moment for me. If you recall, I had praised #5 in part for her seats, noting that the back seat was brand new and that the driver's seat, though a little torn from entry/egress, was full of foam, and, dare I say, comfortable. I also liked the little well left between the front buckets, which gave me a tidy place to stash my guide book, flashlight, jacket, and, now, mandolin.

In place of the old seats were some very used ones, presumably from another dead Crown Vic out back. One nice thing about the old #5 seats was that they were made from a sturdy broad-weave tweed, which was of such a shape and pattern as to not show dirt and to disguise and camouflage cigarette burns. Not the new seats. In addition to being a rather unsightly light blue-gray, they came pre-dirtied, faded, stained, and full of cigarette pits. What are they doing to my girl?

As I looked at the ugly new appointments all I could think was that maybe they replaced the seats because the new front seat was a split bench and could theoretically seat a third front seat passenger 'more' comfortably. The truth is, though, that whenever there are enough people to warrant three people in front there are usually 5 in back and they're all drunk, and no one's going to be 'comfortable' anyway. And, if that was the logic behind replacing the front buckets, why not leave the pristine rear seat in place? I guess so it would match the ugly new front seat.

But, aesthetics aside, how did they work? Fucking terrible! I got into the front seat and there was something bulging in between my shoulder blades. I thought that there must have been some adjustment available, though, and went ahead and tried to organize my shit before trying to adjust it. But, now there was no good place for my mando. And, when I tried to slide my guide book under the seat--like I always did in the Lincolns, it wouldn't fit.

I looked for some adjustment for my seatback. There was none. It was a civilian power seat, and, of course, whoever installed it had not hooked up the power controls. It was, however, bolted to the original cruiser's seat rails, so I had forward/aft adjustment, though the adjuster now stuck out ridiculously far from the front of the seat. But, this shit in my back was terrible! It was like riding the school bus with some little shit behind you having his legs locked into the back of your seat, pushing right on your 7-9 vertebrae (I'm guessing at the numbers).

I mean, shit, my shoulders didn't even touch the seat. It was oppressive. And not something you could get used to. Since my shoulders weren't touching anything my upper body swung like a pendulum every time I cornered. There are reasons why car seats have side bolsters. It sucked all night. There was also a pile of leftover bolts in the rear floorboard, further evidence of the cab company's attention to detail and craftsmanship. Sure, #5 is still light-years ahead of the old Lincolns, but I just can't understand why someone would fuck up something that was so perfectly useful, especially when the time and effort could have been focused on more pertinent things, like the non-working horn. Which is still non-working.

So, yeah, that was my greeting Monday night. I rolled next door to Greyhound. I had two reservations getting off of the bus. I had 15 minutes or so, so I grabbed the mando and started trying to pick out the g-scale. Billy, the Greyhound grunt, walked over to my window.

Billy loads and unloads luggage on the Greyhounds for tips. If you've ever seen Greyhound clientel, they're not big tippers, and most of them only have carry-on bags, anyway. If they had money they wouldn't be on the Greyhound. So, I don't think Billy's career choice is too lucrative.

But, luckily for Billy, I expect his living expenses are minimal. By that, I mean he's homeless. Or at least that is my suspicion. Billy is a blond white guy, of average height and build. I have never seen him without his giant worn, faded orange wool hat, from under which peeks long unkempt hair the texture of old barn hay. He is also always wearing a coat and some khaki Carhart-type coveralls. Billy rides his bike to and from Greyhound, and tapes his pantsleg cuffs tightly around his ankles, to avoid catching them in the chain. Which is a bit peculiar in a sense, since only the right leg is readily capable of tangling with the chain. Regardless, he does so, as of late with ordinary Scotch office tape.

This is also some evidence that Billy is homeless, in that he doesn't change his clothes. Apparently he wears the coveralls 24/7, because they are pretty filthy, and the dirt goes over the tape, and you would notice marks from the tape if he were to remove and re-apply it. Billy also has some sun-dried leather skin and no front teeth. Everything between the incisors is missing on top, but that doesn't stop him from having an award-winning smile. Billy is always happy and sociable. The sun-thickened skin piles in crows-feet wrinkles around the corners of his eyes.

His bicycle is a cheap old Wal-Mart mountain bike, which has been painted flat-black at some point. It has makeshift cardboard fenders affixed to it with duct tape, and is decorated with discarded CDs. They are zip-tied in the spokes of the wheels and here-and-there on the rest of it.

Billy whiles away his free time playing 1999 Golden Tee video golf in our breakroom. He is, apparently, quite good, and his scores are the target of the other cab drivers, who are constantly trying to beat him. The last time he came in he ran out of quarters, just as he felt he was poised to break his old record(s). "If I can make $1.50 in tips by the time we close I'll have to come back and play this thing some more."

So this is Billy. And now he's approaching my window, me with a mandolin in my lap. I rolled down the window.

"Play me something."

I told him I had just got it and didn't know how.

"Play me what you know."

Embarrassed and caught off-guard by his insitsance, I picked at it, clumsily.

"Let me see it." I cringed a bit as he took it through the window. "What is this--a ukelele, no, wait, this is a mandolin, right?" His fingernails were thick and yellowed, untrimmed, and thoroughly choked with dirt. He held the mando for a half second, pondering, before hitting it with the pick, and, dare I say, playing the shit out of it. Motherfucker, am I the only person alive that can't play a mandolin?

I was more than impressed, as Billy was presenting himself as quite a quandary. "Are you a guitar player, or something?"

Billy handed me back the mando, and held his finger up for me to hold the thought. He walked into the Greyhound station and reemerged with a ridiculous-looking lime/electric green acoustic guitar. It was a most-inorganic green color, painted all up the neck, including the headstock. Where the binding would be on the edges of the body it was air-brushed white. It was the kind of guitar you would see in the window of a Mexican pawn shop, or, apparently, around the neck of a toothless homeless guy at the Greyhound station.

Billy walked back up to my window. I was completely rapt and wondered what kind of schitzo music he would produce. As he pulled the strap over his head the bus rolled in. Crap. He showed only minor disappointment, with his trademark toothless smile and damn-the-luck attitude, and took the guitar back inside before assuming his position at the hatching belly of the bus.

Monday night was fairly quiet. I picked up one mom with her asthmatic daughter at a specialist's office over off of Forum. They were on a Medicaid pass, and were going to Boone Hospital. The girl was sick, and they were trying to figure out if she had pneumonia. I carried a cardboard box with a new nebulizer in it. The mom was way-too hopped up on coffee. She rambled on excitedly about the girl's father needing to take off of work some, too, to help look after her.

I hauled BJ, my group home regular (grandma voice and dentures, Rams jacket), and Roberta (half-Hispanic daughter in foster care) together. The knew each other from when BJ also worked at the same sheltered workshop. BJ was sporting some particularly pungent and offensive BO. I thought my eyes were going to water. He was sitting up front. Roberta was in back, wheezing most of the way, winded from her walk to the car.

As we headed down Old 63, BJ noted some Christmas lights that were still up. He said, quietly, but not entirely to himself, "Take down your Christmas light, People, Christmas is over already." Roberta commented that she liked seeing them.

Not long after that I picked up another of my regulars. I haven't mentioned him in any detail, but he is one of the more 'normal' group home regulars, and I think his disability was caused by severe drug use. He was complaining about that his case manager ("guardian") wouldn't let him get his own place (he's staying in a group home). He said he had written the judge a few times, but that no one was listening.

On another occasion, I carried him and one other employee from the workshop. He talked about some of his previous jobs, and mentioned losing his temper at one and hitting his supervisor.

"That's the only time I ever lost a job from hitting my supervisor." He mentioned that his temper had improved. "I haven't thrown a temper in...its been a year and a half or so." This guy is pretty good sized. The supervisor had been a woman. He also talked a bit about being bullied and getting in fights when he was in high school.

This guy asks to stop to get a soda sometimes, or cigarettes, and I will if I'm not too busy. He also buys scratch-off lottery tickets. On Monday he said "I don't even have any money for a soda, if we did go to a gas station." He said he had a friend that would give him some money, though. I wished him luck with it.

Sometime around 11 I got a call to go to the Black and Gold, which is, by rights, a redneck bar. It is a tiny bar with no windows where carving on the wood-paneled walls is encouraged. You have to be a pretty big prick to get kicked out of there, and my fare certainly was.

Before he came out, dispatch had told me it was a $25 flat rate, going out of town, and that I needed to get the money up front. The door to the Black and Gold is a heavy-duty commercial-type steel entry door, with one narrow window in it, maybe 6" by 18", vertical. The female bartender made sure the dude was leaving. He was not a big guy, sparsely built, and was sporting the Chuck Norris Walker-Texas-Ranger look--closely groomed graying red beard and closely shorn mini-mullet. One look and I knew best not to fuck with him. That was sarcasm.

He got in the front seat of #5, and, like most people booted out of the bar well before closing time, he was pissed off and blaming everything on someone else. I couldn't get any info out of him because he was busy making faces and flipping off the bar patrons through the tiny window in the front door. When I did tell him I needed to see $25 up front he turned his anger towards me. He acted like the $25 was news, and that there was no way it cost that much to get to his house. I knew the dispatcher had to have told him it was $25, and I (correctly) surmised he was full of shit.

He was going to the Millersburg exit off of I-70. I told him that the $25 was almost always cheaper than the meter when we went out of town, and offered to run the meter to show him, and charge him whichever one was cheaper. He still wasn't done bitching when I reminded him I needed to see some money. After some posturing, to further impress me, he opened his wallet to show me 2 $100 bills. I had maybe $40 cash on me. He said he didn't have anything smaller, or a credit/debit card. I said we could stop somewhere and he could try to get change, and, if he couldn't, I would take some money out of my account at an ATM so I could change his $100.

We hit 70, with the intent of stopping at the Lake of the Woods exit for change. I pulled up to the gas station, and he got out and went in. After a couple of minutes he came back with a 20oz bottle of 7-Up. "Did you get any change?"

He looked baffled, like he couldn't make out the nonsense I was spewing. "You were going to get change, for your $100?" Again, indignant ignorance to my question. "I need $25 before I can take you home?"

Again, he started in on the $25. The meter was already at $9.30, and I wasn't charging wait time. He said it was only $15 to his house, which was, of course, bullshit. He acted, again, like the $25 was news to him and sheer unadulterated robbery.

"Look buddy, I'm not going to argue with you about this. I made it plain as day that it was $25 to get you home. This is not a negotiation. You either give me $25 and I take you home, or you get out right here." He bitched some more, and I shut him down. "You think I'm getting rich off of this? Look, buddy, I'm trying to do my job, and you're fucking it up for me. You're wasting my time and money. You either give me $25, or you get out. Now."

He didn't have the change. When he finally agreed to the $25 I pulled across the lot to the ATM, and withdrew some cash, eating the $2 transaction fee. We got back on the highway.

He bitched the rest of the way. He claimed to have worked in/for the KC Mafia, under a guy named Tony Castillo or something. He said he had been a dispatcher for A*1 for Henry (the old owner), who hired him right out of prison. He was trying to paint some portrait of a Mafia tough guy, probably mostly for his own benefit. I think he was trying to talk about what tough really was, or something. He would say the name of someone or something that pissed him off, then make a crude gun gesture with his fingers, and go "pbthhbt," you know, the raspberry sound. Not too threatening.

He was still spouting shit when I got him to the exit. There's a big undeveloped lot there, some construction equipment, and a 'model home.' Its one of those empty display homes for some construction company or something. There was a Bobcat skid tractor sitting there. I got the money out of him. It was another chore to get him out of the car. He ranted for a while, then opened the door. Then he ranted for a while with the door open. Then he got out, and stood in the open door, ranting. Then he started getting emotional, and was on the verge of crying. He noticed the rumpled floor mat on the passenger's side, and knelt on the chat lot and smoothed it carefully with his hands, as he spoke, with all of the attention of a child making his bed perfectly. He patted it for emphasis once it was perfectly flat. I finally got him to close the door and I got the fuck out of there. He was pissing on the Bobcat when I pulled away. The meter had ran $27 and change.

I asked the dispatcher about him later, and she said that he had been in prison and that he was a dispatcher, for about 2 weeks. "And he wasn't much of a dispatcher."

At around 1am I had a call to go to the Campus Bar. I thought that it was closed for remodeling. When I pulled up I saw two guys and a girl on the street corner opposite the bar. The girl was sitting down, her head in her hands between her knees. One guy was talking to her, touching her shoulders, the other guy on his cell phone. He saw me and gestured wildly. He came across the street and got in. He said she was pretty drunk and that they were trying to make her throw up. I pulled across the street and the other guy got her up.

They put her by the window. She was communicative, and fairly chipper, given her condition. They didn't think she would puke. Still, I warned them of our $50 charge for getting sick in the cab. They wanted to argue this point. I didn't. Apparently, they thought $50 was too high. I explained to them that I would lose money if someone puked, because it would generally be near bar rush, I'd have to stop and try to clean it, and that I couldn't pick up people in a pukey cab. "Yeah, but $50 is too much."

"Well, how much money would it take to make you feel glad to clean up someone else's puke?"

I got them home. She didn't puke. They tipped, some. They liked me, some.

Around 3am I had a call over in the hood. These always make me nervous. I found the house. I black woman with crazy hair came out. I had my high-beams on. She made some irritated gesture, which I thought was in reference to the blinding lights. I dimmed them. She went back in, and came back out with a big thermos-style plastic mug and her coat. She came and got into the cab.

"You're not Jason." Well, neither are you, bitch. "Are you new?" I told her I'd been driving a couple of months. She asked my name. "I'm LiLi." What, are you part giant panda?

I was getting ready to put the car in gear when she thought of something else, and said to wait. She opened the door and balanced her mug in the floor. "That's my soda. I'll be right back." She got out and walked to the corner of the house, where she pulled a black plastic garbage bag out of the plastic trash can. She came back and got in with it. "I can't throw that man's clothes out. That just ain't right."

I took her up north, out of town. Along the way she'd ask random questions at random intervals, as if cab drivers were suitable substitutes for Wikipedia.

"Do you know what's good for cold sores?" I thought she was going to tell me.

"What's that?"

"Do you know what's good for cold sores?" I told her I didn't. Then, later, "Do you know anyone that does carpet?"

"You mean install it?"

"Yeah."

"No."

"What was your name again?"

"Garner."

"Gawrner? That's a pretty name." Thanks, LiLi.

Dispatch also told me that the Tasha girl from the Saturday before had came in for her cell phone, and had been highly complementary of my performance as a cab driver. Thank you, Tasha.

Tuesday night.

My first call was to pick up a driver at the Kenworth shop just north of town. I had some trouble finding him, but got him, and headed south to the airport. His truck had broken down on him and he was heading to the airport to rent a car to drive back to St. Louis, where he lived. His name was Azimer and he was Russian or something eastern European. You know, classic, stereotypical trucker.

He spied my mandolin right off. He asked what it was (was in the gig bag). I told him it was a mandolin and that I had just got it. He asked what kind of music I wanted to play and I tried to explain that I was learning traditional bluegrass but that I wanted to make untraditional, contemporary music with traditional, acoustic instruments. I told him I had bought the mando largely for its portability so I could practice in the cab. He said that he played keyboards and was looking for a portable set-up to take in his truck with him. He also mentioned that he had played some professionally. He paid by credit card, and I asked him if he wanted to put a tip on the card. "I wish I could buddy, but..."

"That's cool, man. I just have to ask that."

After it got good and dark I had a call to pick up on Worley. It was a black couple, going to Ryan's Steakhouse. When they said Ryan's I had a hunch they were the same couple I picked up at The Sharp End, the hood's only bar. The woman remembered the night when I mentioned it, and the guy was impressed. I think he was most impressed because I had treated them like normal human beings that night, and not like I was afraid I was going to get my throat cut, though, in fairness, I am always apprehensive. I also was able to distinguish them from every other anonymous black face in the hood, a feat most white guys are incapable of, apparently. He said they'd be needing a ride when they were done eating and I gave them a card.

They called and requested me. This is nice, but its also kind of a mixed bag, since they only take short rides and don't really tip. But, I felt like I had struck a blow for race relations, and chalked it up in the positive column.

At 8pm I had a call to go to Buffalo Wild Wings, on the south side of town. This was my first ever call there. People on the south side rarely ever cab. They just drive drunk. I pulled in and a guy of about 22 or 24 came out, still clutching a tall plastic cup with about 2" of beer in the bottom of it. He had short hair and minor goatee under his chin. He was wearing a Sherwin-Williams hooded sweatshirt and clean painter's pants.

He got in in a huff. He was pissed at the bar, because they had cleaned off his table when he had gone to the bathroom. This would have been because he was fucking wasted, and it was just 8pm. "Where are we headed?"

"Go to Clark Lane."

"You got an address there, so I can write it on my sheet?"

"4-4...4-4...4-4-0...just go to Clark Lane."

He talked some on the way, but it was just all bitching. I ignored him. I drove to Clark Lane, some 6 or 7 miles from BWW. I asked if I was going right on Clark Lane and he confirmed it. "Are we going to house or a business?"

"It's a...it's a...it's a...house."

"Well let me know when we're close so I don't pass it." After about a mile Clark Lane turns North and becomes Ballenger. I noted the meter at the corner. It was at $20.30. After another minute or two, I asked how much further it was. No answer. I looked in the rear-view mirror. No head. Crap.

I turned off on the next side street. The guy had been talking only a minute before. I thought he'd wake up when I turned or stopped, but he didn't. I turned on the dome light. Nothing. I rolled down his window. Nothing. "Hey, Buddy. Hey. Hey, Buddy, wake up." I thought I was going to have to shake him, but he came to.

"Where are we," he asked, confused, straightening himself some and looking around.

"You passed out. I'm guessing I passed it. Do you live on Clark or do we have to turn somewhere?"

"Ria. It's 4407 Ria." Well, shit. I knew exactly where Ria was at, and would have driven right there if he had told me that in the first fucking place. I turned around and headed back to Ria. I turned onto Ria, at about the 5100 block. I was sure I was going the right direction, but had forgot the number already.

"What's that number again?" Nothing. The fucker had passed out again. I yelled at him and he woke up.

"Oh, man...I just..." Then nothing. I hoped he hadn't pissed himself. I knew he hadn't puked. I hoped he had just spilled his beer. "It's 4407...you're going the wrong way." I was sure I was going the right way, but turned around anyway. Nope, that was the end of Ria, and I had to turn around again. "No, wait, you're right..." He rolled down his window and tossed the cup in the street.

I got him to 4407, actually pulling in the neighboring driveway. He asked what he owed me. The meter was at $26.30. It would have been $20 if he hadn't passed out. He gave me $26 without complaining, and got out. I waited to hear the door close. Instead, I heard two crunches as he bounced off of the car. I looked in my rear-view. Nothing. I looked in my side mirror, but only saw his open door. I got out, and closed the back door. Nothing. Was he under the fucking car?

As I walked around the back corner he popped up. "I'm fine, I'm fine." I got back in the car and watched him make it to his front door. At least his pants were dry. Turns out he spilled most of the beer on himself, and some in the middle of the back seat, on the fold-down armrest. Before I could mess with it I had another call, to pick up a regular at the VA hospital. He always sits in front, so I figured I would wait until after I dropped him off to try to soak up the beer.

Of course this would be the one night in 2 and a 1/2 months this guy had another passenger with him. It was some wasted-drunk guy with a giant duffel. He had a voice that made Tom Waits' seem soft and cherubic. I told him to be careful of the beer, but it didn't phase him. He sat his bag right on it. After I dropped them off I stopped at the gas station. Turns out he didn't need to worry much about the bag, since it had been covered with mud from sitting it down somewhere. So, in addition to the weak flat stale draft beer soaked into the seat, there were little bits of dirt everywhere. At least the mud had been cold and dry enough it swept up okay, like sawdust or something. I blotted at the beer with layers of blue paper towels from the windshield washer stations by the gas pumps. Someone looked at me funny while I did it.

It felt just a little damp, but I know from experience that the weight of an ass will squeeze out what's left in the cushion and leave the person with a wet ass. I got a call to go to the airport. Waiting at the airport was a dude from Argentina, an Asian mother/daughter combo, and a very Jewish-Jersey/Florida-Dade-County-disenfranchised-electorate-butterfly-ballot-Pat-Buchanan-by-mistake-grandmother.

I got the two Asian women and the Argentinean. I laid my cab jacket over the damp spot, and explained to the two women to not sit there, because the seat was a little wet. They eagerly nodded in agreement, then put the jacket in the back deck, mom planting her ass right in the wet spot. I figured she would soak up the rest of it for me. I told the Jewish lady I was sending another cab for her, because I was out of room. That was $25 I left standing there, but I would be getting $55 for the 2 fares I already had, and there was simply no room. I had to load and unload all of the heavy bags 3-4 times in the cold to get them to all fit. It was some sick 3-D spatial relationship puzzle. I found the right balance and got the deck lid latched. Off to Columbia, my international friends.

I decided to drop off the Asian women first, at the Regency. They couldn't really pronounce it, saying something akin to "Legacy" and pointing at a printout with the Regency name and logo on it. When we got there, they wanted to pay by credit card. It wasn't easy to understand them. They were saying "card okay?" and pointing to the card logos on the taxi window. Then I had to explain the $2 service charge to them. After all of that I told them, again, $30, and they decided to pay cash. Then they wanted to set up a time call for Friday, to go to the airport to pick up a brother who was flying in. It was a difficult and convoluted process that took several minutes, with the Argentinean crammed against the window in back. At least he wasn't in the wet spot.

After all of that, they didn't tip, and I had to take every bag out of the trunk to get to theirs (the only way it would fit). The Argentinean was moving to Columbia for good, so his bags weighed a shit-ton, and I had to re-load them yet again. I thanked him for being patient and he said no problem. I took him to the Campus Inn, pointing out campus and telling him what I knew about the bus lines. He was very gracious and gave me a $1 tip. I unloaded his heavy-ass bags for the last time and sped off.

Sometime just before 1am it started snowing very hard. It had been going at it for about 20 minutes when I picked a guy up from the Tiger Club, heading south towards Pierpont. He was drunk but very congenial. He was amazed by the snow. It was blowing right into my windshield on 63 south, and was very disorienting. I was only going about 50 mph, and the blowing snow really bent my perspective. It felt like I was sitting still or going backwards. I could barely see. I got the guy home and experienced nearly the same thing coming back into town. He had tipped me $7 on a $26 fare. I began to feel some vertigo-like sensation and started freaking myself out. It had slacked a bit when I reached the Broadway exit. There was about 1" on the ground.

As I turned off of the off-ramp onto Broadway, the Crown Vic's rear tires started to break loose. I eased up on the throttle and she eased back into her tracks. I decided to test the traction, and pulsed firmly into the throttle, allowing the back end to begin to fish tail, then letting it straighten out. I did this three times before I was on the actual overpass. I was driving normally, then, when my ass-end decided to pass me. There was no one on the road, so I just let her go, and did a big, long, lazy pirouette across the overpass. Once I had mostly stopped I was facing the opposite direction, and buried the throttle to spin her back around straight. It was 1:30am. Dispatch said I could go home early because of the snow, so I did.

All of the snow melted off overnight. On Wednesday I worked in the garage. I did some general cleaning and rearranging. I built a sawhorse out of some surplus 2x4s. I made it the same height as my new work bench, and spanned the two with a long piece of plywood, making myself a nice make-shift work area. The nice thing is that the sawhorse is collapsible for easy tear-down and storage. I began work on my little project.

Wednesday again found me in the garage, working on my project. At about 2pm I saw the femaleman deliver the mail. I received my package from Bloodshot Records. I got For A Decade of Sin: 11 Years of Bloodshot, Scroat Belly's one-and-only 1996 release Daddy's Farm, a free sampler, and a white Bloodshot logo-T. Choice. This gave me some fresh tunes to jam out to while working in the gayrage. I worked more on my project, until 6 or 7pm.

I cleaned up, grabbed my new T-shirt, still in its padded envelope, and drove to the public library. I asked the girl at the information desk where the copy machine was. She pointed to one, 10' way. "That's a good place for it," I said.

I went over to it and someone had left $.70 credit on it ($.10 a copy). Bonus. I had to ask for some help to resize it, but I made photocopies of the banjo-cow skull logo at 100%, 105%, and 110%. I thanked the lady for her help and went to Hollywood Rebels. I got the 110% logo emblazoned on my left arm, near the biceps area. Pete did it. At one point the CD changed and Duran Duran's Rio came on. I started laughing. Pete paused, and chuckled. I laughed again. "Not quite what you expect to hear in a tattoo studio, is it," he said. At last, people are getting honest.

I'm pretty impressed with the product. It's healing better than any of the other tattoos I've got in the past.

I was supposed to work Friday, but woke up feeling a bit sick. I didn't like the prospects of driving a cab all night, so I called in to see if they would sit me out for the night, since I thought they were still a car short. I got a call back later saying I had the night off. Bonus. I worked in the garage all that day. Cully came over around 4 something and I showed him my progress. He worked on his bikes while I steady-fabricated. We listed to John Doe with Jim & Jennie and the Pinetops singing about stomping on baby chickens. Good times.

After that we knocked off and had a few cold ones. I was sapped. I resisted the urge to go out drinking. I tried to blog some, but lost the first paragraph of a rough post and went to bed at 10pm. I got up Saturday and did some more work in the garage. I ran the welder out of gas and cleaned up for work.

I went in and got a car right away. It was #5's hotter sister, #7. Technically she's a year newer, so I guess that makes her a hotter younger sister, which is even dirtier. Whatever works. At least #7 still has her kick-ass bucket seats. I loaded up and started driving.

There was an MU mens basketball homegame Saturday. Right out of the gate I was busy shuttling people to the arena. And, right away, the MUPD cubby cadet cops were pissing me off. First of all, they wouldn't let me drive up to the building with a disabled passenger. Fuckers. Then, I had one standing right in front of my car, oblivious that there was a bright blue 4500lb beast bearing down on him/her (okay, it was a female, but very butch/Pat). She finally noticed, and, a little embarrassed, stepped out of my way and motioned for me to go.

Something really weird was happening Saturday night. People were tipping. Early, and often. Even the curmudgeon old ladies from the Supercenter threw me a buck or two. I kept waiting for the trend to die out, but, to my amazement, it only continued. I had reaped over $45 in straight cash tips in the first four hours, besides the meter. Fuckin' pink.

I was busy for the first couple of hours, while people were gearing up for the game. It died off just a bit, and I ran some other calls. I couriered some lab samples between hospitals. Rode on elevators with strange families. I had a call at the Coliseum Bistro at about 6pm. I waited but no one came out. I went in. As I entered the foyer I saw two drunk guys. "Did you guys call for a cab?"

"No, but we could probably use one."

"Well, I've got someone waiting inside, let me see where they are going and I may be able to take you guys, too." I opened the inner door to a smiling hostess. "Do you have anyone waiting for a cab?"

"Yeah, he just wal--staggered out the door. A short guy in a black leather jacket." That was the fucker I just talked to. I caught them outside, on the sidewalk. The little guy was wasted, could barely stand up. A chick came out, she had called the cab for him. The three of us couldn't persuade him not to drive. The chick took his wallet out of his pants to get his address off of his driver's license. The other dude said that was his old address; that he'd moved. I told him I ultimately didn't care, but I couldn't wait around all night for him to make up his mind. The chick apologized for him and said she'd give me some money for my efforts. The guy staggered backwards, almost falling into a bush.

"That's a bush, buddy." Eventually, the chick talked the guy into riding home with her. She apologized again, and offered me some money. She handed me a few bills. I thought my time was worth $2 or $3, but she handed me a $5 and 3 $1s. Nice. I felt a little bad for taking it, but that faded quickly enough.

I picked up three women in their 40s from the Hampton Inn, heading downtown, somewhere around 7pm. The were from St. Louis, and classy enough. I flattered them just a bit, but more-or-less genuinely. They were in town because one of the women's daughter's was celebrating her 21st birthday at the Penguin. I made some suggestions as to some good eateries and drinkeries downtown. One of them asked if there were any biker bars downtown. I told her no, and asked her what she was looking for in particular. I ended up suggesting Eastside, since, beyond Lou's Palace, its about the only non-'college bar' downtown. They were impressed with my veritable wealth of information and courteous demeanor, and tipped me about $10. "You ladies are too kind to me."

After the game I avoided the Mizzou Arena push. Dispatch had me running other calls while people were over there fishing for flags. That was fine by me. Traffic sucks over there and the cubby cop cadets piss me off. I mentioned earlier that after the Big-N-Rich concert they called the cab company and said that I had made an illegal u-turn in the street and almost hit some pedestrians, which was all bullshit. But, apparenlty MUPD had called a cab for someone, and I was supposed to pick them up by the building, where they were waiting. Apparently some of the event staff told the guy to park in the wrong space and his truck was towed. When I got to the arena, the stupid cubbies (baby bears) wouldn't let me through to the location the damn MUPD themselves had requested the cab at. Bitches. I was about to give up when the fare saw me and came running.

I took him up to the tow lot. He was cool about it, though obviously annoyed at the hassle and expense. I let him hang out in the warm cab until the towing guy showed up, since I didn't have any other calls at that moment. He tipped me $3.

Around 8pm I was dispatched to pick up a regular on Park, which is quasi-hood/project housing. I was picking at the mando when she came out and startled me. "What was that, a little guitar or something?"

After that dispatch gave me a call on Switzler, which is really hood/projectsville. He said that it was a weird call, some kids, and that I better get the money up front. He also said I would want make one sit up front and lock the doors so they couldn't all three run on me when I got them to Columbia Square Apartments. He apologized for giving me the call, though, and said he would leave me in the rotation. So, my reward for taking it was that it would basically be a bonus if they paid, in exchange for me dealing with them and taking the risk.

He said the were being squirrelly, and had "asked if they could listen to the radio in the cab. I told them that was up to the driver. So when they ask, you should tell them 'no,' and start preaching about God and shit. I think that would be funny." Good to know. That is kind of funny.

I pulled up and honked the horn. Nothing. I gave it a couple of minutes and tried again. After the third time someone peeked out of the blinds. After a minute three black teens game out, two guys, one girl. One was carrying a portable DVD player. They all three got in the back. I asked the first one in where we were going.

"7--I mean 6B. 6B." Remember the old bait-n-switch at the trailer park? And of course they had to go in to get the money when we got there.

The one with the DVD player asked what kind of music I listened to. I told them a bunch of different stuff. "Do you listen to rap?" I told them not much anymore. "You like Laffy Taffy?" He asked if he could play the CD or whatever on his DVD player. I said it wouldn't hurt my feelings. They thought it was all pretty funny.

I got them to Columbia Square. When I pulled in I asked for the number again, to see if they remembered what they told me. They said 6B again. The fare was $6.30, plus $2 for the extra passengers. When I parked the first guy said he was going to get out and get the money. It was well lit and the door was only 20' away. "You're not going to shoot me in my back and make my blood come out, are you?"

"I wouldn't do you like that, man." He got out and headed for the apartment. An angry fat black woman opened the door and was already yelling at him about something.

The guy in back said "you better lock these doors so we don't run on you or something."

I turned and looked at him. "You wouldn't do me like that, would you? You guys look trustworthy." The woman finally handed the first guy some money and the other two got out. The first kid came back and gave me $9. They were Norleans Fugees. Everybody wins.

I was hungry. I went by Fazolis but they were closed. I remembered my 1/2 sister had sent me a Sonic card for Christmas. It had $5 written on the front of it with magic marker. I ordered a chicken sandwich combo with a Route 44 soda, which should have been around $6. I scanned the Sonic card and it showed a $10 balance. The must have under-charged me, since the food was only $4.82. Again, sweet. I hadn't even got my food before I got another call. I put the bag behind the seat and headed north. It was Alex, one of my potential collaborators for my documentary project. I took him downtown, and had another call to pick up at Forum Theatres before I could eat my food. As soon as that cleared I had another one, on East campus, off of Bouchelle. This one was a no-show, so I ate my food while waiting in their driveway.

I had another weird no-show, way the fuck out in the country. It was a real address, but, after honking 3 times and waiting in the driveway, no one came out. I was getting ready to throw my Sonic trash in their yard when the door opened. The guy said he didn't call a cab. Odd. I raced back into town to pick up at the Stoney Creek Inn.

The guy's first taxi had been scavenged. He's a regular and a good tipper. I apologized for being late and took him to the bar. The fare was $11.55 and he gave me $20. Sweet. I picked up 2 seconds later 2 doors down. I ran that guy all the way south on Rock Quarry. He was drunk, had been playing cards. He didn't seem to want to talk much, and we rode in silence. Twice he broke out in insane giggles. The first time I let it go, the second time I asked what was so funny. "You're brakes are squealing, tee-hee." Okay, dude. He tipped me $3.70 on a $16.30 fare.

I had a call to pick up at the Courtyard Apartments. Dispatch tried the phone number but got voice mail. I got out and ran up to knock on the door. It was a college-aged kid on crutches. He had torn his ACL and had surgery. He was going round-trip to the gas station to get beer. I ran him to the Petro Mart, not even a 1/4 mile away. I offered to run in and get the beer, to save him some time and hassle. He said thanks and gave me his order. "3 2-4s of Budweiser, cans. Or, if they don't have that, just get me a six pack of Bud."

I ran in and grabbed the sixer. The clerk said he would have to see dude's ID, so I ran out and got it from him. Even with the wait time the round-trip fare was only $5.05, and only took 9 minutes. The kid tipped me $6 and asked if I'd carry the beer in for him. No problem, dude. That was a $17.05 six pack of Budweiser. Dispatch said he had done the same thing the night before, and only bought a sixer. Buy in bulk, kid. Or, don't. I don't care.

After that I had a call to pick up a guy on foot up on Route E (Stadium, North of town). His truck had broken down. It made things easier that he was wearing new white tennis shoes with large, bright reflective patches.

I had a call to pick up at Eastside. I was pretty sure it would be a comoer, but it was a group of 5 near 30 year-olds, out for a bit of a pub crawl. They had hit about 10 places, and ended at Eastside. They hadn't gone in because of the cover, since it was getting late and they only wanted to drink one beer. They were pretty nice, and asked me about being a cab driver on their way home. I talked a little about the blog, and a chick said she wanted to be in it. I told them there wasn't much to write about, since they were being pretty mellow. "We're from Chicago, does that help?" I wanted to tell her that I'd surely write about it if she showed some tits, but I thought that would be impolite. They tipped me about $10 on a good $19.55 fare.

At about 10 til 12am I had a call to pick up at the De Ja Vu. I pulled in and saw a white girl and a black girl, drunk, standing together in the parking lot. The white girl had called the cab for the black girl, and was trying to see her home safely. The black girl got in behind me and the white girl leaned in my window. She told me the address, and asked me how much it would be. I said I didn't know, that I had to run the meter, but probably about $5-6.

"It'll be $10," said a man's voice from the back seat. Yup, my first tranny. I suppose, though, he may have only been a transvestite. The white girl gave me 2 $5s. She was trying to get rid of the black girl/guy. I suspect they had only just met. I was getting ready to back out when the he/she said "girl, I know you're not going to let me go without a kiss first." Not wanting to be impolite, the white girl laughed a bit awkwardly, leaned in her window, and gave her a quick, polite kiss on the lips.

I was turning around in the parking lot when dispatch asked me if I could double up, that there was a "woman and her kid" who had been waiting a long time at the Diner, right next door. I asked the tranny if he/she minded, and he/she said "no, as long as it's not going to cost me any more." I told him/her it wouldn't and started to wheel over there. "Is it white people or black people we're picking up?"

"That I don't know."

"I was just wondering if it was some cute boys is all."

"I think its a woman and her kid."

"Oh, that's good. I'd like to see the kids. I like children." Okay, that was a bit creepy. A little too Michael Jackson for my tastes.

I pulled around to the diner. There was a 45 year-old couple, and the woman gestured to me. The man was her husband, and was watching his daughter, a college student, who was engaged in a vociferous argument with some fresh-faced 21 year old dude in the parking lot. One of her drunk girlfriends was assisting in the retarded-drunk-bitch tirade. Apparently, the guy had grabbed her ass, and she had taken offense. The guy may or may not have apologized, probably not, but then she probably went psychobitch, justifiably or not, and they started a screaming match. The parents were watching from the steps of the diner. A small crowd was forming. The drunk guy had a friend with a beard that was trying to calm him down and break things up. I had a tranny in my back seat.

The girl's friend got in, as did some scrawny hanger-on dude that was with them. Maybe a little brother. Then the dad started arguing, more over some name the guy called her in the argument than the actual ass-grabbing. The drunk girl/ass grabbee got in the cab. The other drunk girl got back out. She looked at the tranny, puzzled.

"This is...I'm sorry ma'am, what was your name?"

"I am Marquacia."

"This is Marquacia. She's been kind enough to offer to share her cab with you folks."

The grabbee asked if she could smoke. I said yes. The tranny asked for a cigarette. She gave her one. The tranny asked for a light. The dad/grabber argument raged on. The tranny said we needed to go. I agreed. The drunk bitch wouldn't get out. "This is our cab, we called for it," wondering why there was a black tranny in it, bumming cigarettes.

"No, this is my cab, and you guys are wasting my time and money." I was getting pissed off, watching these jackasses argue out the window. I couldn't just take off, though, because the drunk bitch wouldn't get out. I started yelling at the dad and the grabber to knock it off and to get in the cab. Now there was a cook from the diner with an apron on standing on the deck. There was more of a crowd, watching more intently.

Then they actually started hitting each other. The grabber and the dad, then the scrawny kid was getting hit, and the drunk bitch #2 was in the middle of it. I was pissed. I got out of the gab, stepped up, started cussing, and moving bodies.

"You! (to the grabber) Knock it the fuck off and get the fuck out of here! You! (to the dad) Knock it the fuck off and get in the fuckin' cab." I cussed everybody, and pushed the grabber in the chest, clearing him half-way off of the lot. Now everyone was out of the cab again. I screamed and cursed at every one of them, told them to grow the fuck up, to get in the fucking cab, that I was sick of their shit, and they were wasting my fucking time. "Get in the fuckin' cab! Now! Do you want to leave in a fuckin' cop car or a fuckin' cab! Move, Goddamnit!"

Surprisingly, this worked. I got them all in the cab and started it up. I hadn't much more than got it in gear when my old friends the CPD rolled up, in three cars. The lot was still full of people. I pretended nothing happened and tried to drive out. Two CPD cars blocked me in. A cop got out of the first car and spotlighted me with his MagLite through the windshield. The family was eager to tell the cops their story and bailed out. I managed to squeeze past the second cop car and leave with my tranny. The mom was on the deck, and asked me if I would come right back for them. "Sure," I said, with absolutely no intention to, and rolled out.

I ran the tranny home. It was closer than I thought. "These white girls is crazy when they get to drinking. Too much drama." Preach it, sister/brother. The fare was only $4.05. I gave the tranny $2 back. As I handed her the money I realized my hand was shaking from the adrenalin surge. Damn if the drunk bitch hadn't left a purse in the cab, and a sweatshirt. I drove back to the diner.

The whole family was there, jubilant, upbeat. They piled into the cab. I headed towards their destination, on East Campus. I was wound pretty tight. The dad kept saying loudly, proudly, that "at least I defended your honor, sweetheart," to which she would reply, "see, Dad, at least you know I don't take any shit off of anyone." The second drunk girl kept bemoaning that she had got hit in the face, and "what kind of guy hits a girl in the face." The scrawny guy said he kept telling the guy to "keep hitting me, keep hitting me," so he wouldn't go after the dad. It was a loud, annoying cab ride filled with bullshit and bravado. I said something to the dad to the effect of hopefully he had drank enough that he would forget why he was sore in the morning. He was trying to say something about how it felt and I suggested that it made him feel young again, omitting the "and stupid" part. He tipped me pretty good, but I fucking earned it twice.

The last girl in the car wanted to go to the next street over. I had to go that way anyway, so I said I'd drop her off for free, since daddio tipped well and I was in a hurry and I'd have to charge her the $3 minimum fare. She said no, that she wanted to tip me, and that she had her credit card. I knew it would take forever to run the credit card at that time of night, since we were slammed. I told her there was a $2 service charge, but she still insisted on paying me. I decided it wasn't worth it, gave her a card, and said if she really wanted to make it up to me she should call the next time she went out drinking "and didn't get into a huge fucking fight."

My next fare was three good looking ladies, probably seniors or grad students. They weren't as tramped up as most college girls out downtown typically are. The girl that set up front was very exuberant and insisted on knowing every little thing about me, as I was her new favorite cab driver, pretty much instantly. But, every time I'd start a story she would take it off on a tangent, making up something that she thought sounded better, involving illicit sex with married women. "Why don't you just tell me the story, then." She was amazed by everything, including my ultrabright domelight. None of them wanted to pay the $2 transaction fee for a credit card, so I waited while one girl went in to get $4 in quarters to tip me. The girl up front kept forgetting why we were waiting and asking the other girl where the third one had gone.

I had another fare that worked on me after that. I picked up 2 bartenders from a downtown bar, in the back of where they worked. They said they didn't want to, but that we needed to pick up two more in the front. It was the bar owner's wife, and, apparently, some mutual acquaintance, who was a turbo-asshole The asshole had apparently volunteered to 'assist the lady home,' and I guess the two bartenders were afraid he would try to cornhole her. She was positively obliterated, to the point you couldn't understand anything she said. The asshole was only a little better.

What should have been an $8 cab ride home for the two bartenders turned into an agonizing 45 minute $56 fare, as we had to go way south to drop off the chick ($18.05 one-way), back northeast to drop off the asshole, and then back northwest to take them home. To make matters worse, they didn't know directions to the chick's house, we couldn't understand her, and the asshole was giving directions. Poorly.

He wouldn't give me a final destination, so I couldn't look it up. He didn't know street names, and it was a neighborhood I'd never been to before. He would tell me to turn left or right at the last possible instant, so I had slowed down considerably. The two cool guys were laughing at the two drunks, which pissed off the asshole. They were doing all they could to grit their teeth and bear the rest of the ride. When the asshole actually got the name of one upcoming street right, I made the mistake of calling him the Amazing Kreskin. I was no longer his friend.

When we pulled up to the chick's house, some 1/2 million dollar affair, I heard her door open, behind me. She stood up out of the cab but never paused at 'vertical.' Instead, she made one long sweeping motion, eating shit face-first, halfway on the driveway, halfway in the yard. She was really tall, though, and, thankfully, long enough that her face landed in the grass, not on concrete. I thought she was out-cold. She didn't move. The asshole helped her up while the rest of us watched from the cab.

I stifled giggles as he 'helped' her to the door. He took her keys and walked in front, oblivious to the fact that she was weaving, staggering, and stumbling in little semi-circles the whole way. She almost toppled a half-dozen times before he got her in through the garage.

The asshole let me take a wrong turn on the way out, then waited about a mile before he told me to turn around. I knew where we were headed, though, which was more than I could say for him. He started bitching that I was ripping them off. I told him I might have been able to find may way out easier if "we hadn't felt our way in by Braille." That pissed him off even more.

He was a dick the rest of the way. His 'friends' told him to stop being an asshole a number of times. I passed his driveway when we took him home. I offered to back up but he said no. He gave the guys some money and said "if I'm short, it's deliberate." He had made it in his house by the time I had turned around. As we passed his house the milder-mannered guy in the back asked me to stop. "I just want to piss on his house real quick."

"Yeah, me too," said the guy in front. I laughed my ass off as they hosed both garage doors on his swank house with beer piss. I got them home and the meter said $56 and change. To be fair, I had driven a good ways out of the way, maybe 4-5 miles, maybe less, when the guy let me make the wrong turn. I would have made him pay, but I felt plenty bad for these guys. I made the fare $46.05. They gave me $51.

After that I ran one employee home, picked up the cab company owner for her shift, and grabbed one more fare before wrapping up at about 4:30 am.

So that was Saturday. I did $282+ on the meter, of which my take home was $98. I probably made $120 in tips. It was by far my best night ever, by some $80-90. And, JW gave me another $100 on top of that for my Blazer. That's a lot of beaver bait for a guy like me. We sat bullshitting until 6am. I wanted to stay up really late so I would sleep all day Sunday so I could blog all night. But, after eating and taking some Theraflu, I was out for the whole night by midnight. But, here I am delivering to you the best I can do in 6 hours' time.

So, after frantically writing this, proofing it at 3:07 (my shift starts at 3:45) I just got a call from the cab company.

"We haven't got number 8 back up, so we're still a car short. We don't have anything for you to drive tonight."

Sweet. Would've been nice to know a little earlier, but maybe you guys will catch this before you go home from work. Again, sorry for letting you down.

Something I just remembered: at about 12 last night, when I was checking my e-mail before going to bed, Peat came out of his room in his boxers and said "dude, there are some drunks outside on our porch." Peat's room overhangs the porch. I hadn't heard anything, but was dressed, so I went down the stairs, wondering who it might be. Ted was on the couch and mentioned hearing something. I opened up the front door and there were two guys 2 feet from the door, pissing off of my porch into my yard in opposite directions.

One was on a cell phone, the other was holding an open 12 pack of Bud Lite. One guy turned his head(still pissing), and, with the cell phone to his ear, said does "so-and-so" live here?"

"No. Why don't you try pissing on the neighbors' house instead." I was mildly annoyed. They apologized pretty quickly. I asked them what number they were looking for.

"It's supposed to be on the cul de sac."

"There's another cul de sac on the other side of Rock Quarry. That's where you need to be. If you turn right instead of left."

"Turn right off of Juniper," he said, remembering. They apologized again. "And take a cab if you guys need to."

"Oh, no, we're cool."

"No, you're not."