RL's In Heaven Sitting Down

Ahh yes yes 'yall.

Merry Damn New Year, and stuff, to ya.

Hola? Taxi?

Friday Friday Friday. I went to work, as usual. I got to the shack at about 3:40. I sat and waited for a cab with some other drivers, chatting all conversant-like. After some time, maybe a half-hour, Phyllis called me into the dispatch office.

"Do you want to go home tonight?" Well, I do hate working...

"Hmmm."

"You don't have to, I'm just giving you the option."

"Yeah, I'll sit out tonight, as long as I can drive tomorrow night."

"Oh yeah, definitely. You're on tomorrow."

"Cool. I'll go home then. I'm just gonna hang out and shoot the shit for a while."

"Cool. We'll see you tomorrow."

I went back to the driver's table and shot some more shit. I think we were talking about strip clubs and strippers, and their exploitive attributes. I was debating on what I would do with my Friday night off. The bar loomed large as a real possibility. But, I needed to save my money, especially considering that rent was due on Sunday, and a night at the bar would likely cost me a minimum of $50, plus $30 in cab fare, and there's always the possibility of going to jail and needing bail money. So, I'd likely piss away $80 or so, and would be forgoing making $75 or so on the night. At least there was the promise of making some good money on New Year's Eve. Awe, fuck it, I would most likely just go home.

I hadn't made up my mind yet, when, at about 5, I heard Phyllis, from the other room, ask if I could work again, after all. Damn.

"Uhhhhhhhhhhh. Uhhhhh. Uh. Yeah. I'll work. I need the money anyway."

The moral of the story is that you should never hang out at your workplace after you've been given the night off. Damn. But, as I said, I needed the money. I figured it would put me up at least $150 in the plus column, given the money I would save by not going drinking.

At least I got my girl #10. I had brought some CDs in the pocket of my cargo pants.

My first call was the Congestive Heart Failure Lady, from El Rancho. It seemed to be a pretty bold venture for an old lady, eating Mexican food. She told me she had never eaten there before, and I assured her it was very good (she wasn't eating anything with shrimp in it).

My next call was sort-of in the hood. I had picked the woman up, once before, at the Super 7, at about 3am. She's a bigger black woman, and was surprisingly upbeat and polite for the hour. And, most surprisingly, she tipped me on top of a $4 or $5 fare. I picked her up at her house this time, and took her only a couple of blocks down the street. It was only about 1/3rd of a mile, the meter only reaching $2.30 ($1.80 for first 1/10th, $.25 for each 1/10th afterward). I was little surprised she didn't walk, but that's none of my business. I reminded her that we had a $3 minimum, which she was plenty agreeable with, and, again, tipped me. Most unusual, but most welcome.

It was only about 7pm when I had a call to Tropical Liqeurs' south location, near Providence and Nifong. Not your typical cab-riding drunk spot, especially at 7pm. I swung into the parking lot and saw a guy sitting on a parking curb at the corner of the building. I saw him well before he did me, but he threw his hand up to hail me as I was already parking in front of him.

He was layered up with some big puffy athletic team coat on, and had a big, oversized wool had bunched up over a cap or something. He had headphones around his neck, blaring. He was mostly Caucasian, but clearly had some minor ethnic background to him. He had neat teeth with a small gap between the front two, like two polite rows offering each other a formal curtsy in the center. He had a handsome enough square jaw, dark complexion, and some stubble. He had a couple of earrings and some jewelry.

He was drunk. I asked him where we were headed and he gave me an address on West Worley.

"It's my brother's house. It's a crackhouse. They're all crack heads. I ain't like that, man. I drink liquor, but I don't mess with that stuff."

He started telling me that his uncle had been a professional baseball player, then worked as a scout in the New York Yankees organization. He said that his uncle had had an official Yankees club house jacket, and had given it to his brother. His brother had sold it for crack in Columbia. He also said that his grandfather had owned a Babe Ruth autographed baseball, which disappeared after his funeral.

"I ain't bullshittin' you, man. I'm being honest." This was an important point to him, and would be reiterated a number of times during the trip. "I ain't being frutile, man."

What the fuck is frutile?

"You're a good cabbie, man. You're honest. I'm Jodie Foster and you the Taxi Driver, man."

At last someone gets it! What? I was at least glad to finally get a Taxi Driver reference, at long last.

I stopped at the intersection of Clinkscales and Worley. It is the same spot I dropped off the guy from the hospital I mentioned last post who stunk so bad. He was still trying to tell me some heartfelt stuff as I waited to get paid. He had mentioned a couple of times that he was alright on money. "I got like $80 left, and I'm gonna go play."

"That's $14.30, man."

"That's cool, man. I'm being honest with you man. I'm gonna pay you, honest man." He started trying to pull money out of his wallet, fumbling with it, dropping bills, and laboring over assessing their denominations. I tried to make out what was playing on his headphones, over his rambling. It was Cyndi Lauper, Girls Just Want to Have Fun.

He pulled out a $1 bill. "What's that (to himself)? That's a dolla. Nope, that ain't honest. What's that? Nope, 'nother dolla, that ain't honest. Nope, 'nother dolla, that ain't honest either. What's that? Nope, 'nother dolla, that ain't honest. Ah, there it is. $10 dollas. That' honest. Thank you, man," he said, handing me the $10 bill.

"Whoop, it's $14.30, Buddy."

"What? $14? Damn. That's a high taxi ride."

"Yeah, but you were aways out there, man."

"Oh. Where was I?"

"Tropical Liquers, down south of Nifong."

"Oh. That is pretty far." He came up with some more money, and tipped me $3 or $4. His name was Freddy and his dad was Puerto Rican. The "I'm all right, don't nobody worry about me" song from Caddyshack was playing on his headphones as he got out.

It was a fairly calm night for the most part, not very busy. I got to courier some drugs between hospital pharmacies later on. I was supposed to pick up at Columbia Regional and drop off at Boone County. I always imagine I'm carrying some serious narcotics with turbo-street value, like Oxycontin, or some life-saving miracle drug where someone's life hangs in the balance. I looked at the ticket. It was Maalox.

I pleased myself by navigating directly to the pharmacy inside Columbia Regional, from memory. I started rethinking the route to the pharmacy in the University Med Center. I drove there and found my way directly to it, smiling to myself when I recognized the large purple birthmark on the face of the unexcited girl there that I had seen only once before.

"I have a package here, from Columbia Regional..." going to Boone County pharmacy..."and I'm in the wrong place," I said, as she read the label and confirmed it for me, which was entirely unnecessary. At least I was able to find the Boone County pharmacy with similar thrift.

Things were pretty dead, so I parked on Broadway in front of El Rancho. I was lost in thought when someone rapped on the window behind me. It was a middle 40s blue-collar guy, with a gray walrus moustache and a worn navy hooded sweatshirt, zipped up, with some paint/drywall stains on it. He was pretty drunk.

"Can you take me to the Black and Gold?"

"Sure can."

I tried to figure out where he came from, and what he was doing downtown, trying to feel out if he had any money.

"You been out downtown somewhere?"

"No, I live here."

I told him I had frequented the Black and Gold at one time, though it had been 3 or 4 years.

"You know any whores up here?"

"No, not really, the only ones I know are the ones up at Lynn's."

"You know the girls at Lynn's?"

"No, I don't know them. I've hauled a couple of them, and I take some people up there, but that's all I know about them and their services."

"Oh. I go to Lynn's quite a bit." Good to know. We spent the rest of the ride talking about strippers and whores and how easily they took your money off of you. We hit the Black and Gold and he sprung a $100 bill on me.

Luckily, I had enough cash on me to break it. I told him to keep an eye on his money and to watch out for "them whores."

Things were dead at 1 am. I parked on Broadway, just down from the Penguin, and watched the scores of drunks pass an empty taxi as they walked to their cars to drive home. I was listening to Ralph Stanley on #10's trusty JVC CD player. For those of you who don't immediately Google everything I say, Ralph Stanley was an early bluegrass legend, still alive and recording. You probably don't realize it, but you're likely familiar with one of his songs. It is "Oh Death" from the Oh Brother: Where Art Thou? soundtrack, the one that the KKK Grand Wizard sings at the rally, which does not match his personage one bit. I grabbed the disc at the library. It's nothing you can really rock out to, but its interesting enough.

Anyway, A group of seven drunk college students passed, in two factions. The first four were a few paces ahead of the second three, who were slowed by two of them supporting the third. He was of wiry build, wearing a baseball cap, and smoking a cigarette. He was pretty wasted.

This second group of three were intercepted by a tall, thin, black panhandler. He's been working downtown pretty regular around the holiday season. He is a little creepier and more threatening than most of the crazy, fuzzy old white guys hanging out on 9th. He rolls up on you steady, rather than waiting for you to pass by him. He catches people off guard, before they can look away or cross the street, and asks for money straight-out. If you refuse him he doesn't just say 'Thanks' and desist, like most comotransients, he'll ask again and pressure you until you refuse him three or four times and walk away. He's also the variety that gets even more demanding if you give him something. Like for $1 he'll say he really needs $5.

I was busy watching the drunk guy and didn't see the panhandler coming from the opposite direction. I didn't notice him until the drunk guy threw off his buddies' aiding arms and made an exaggerated gesture out of taking the man's hand and shaking it furiously, trying to do his best jive hand shake, which I worried might not sit well. His buddies stood anxiously aside, while they exchanged some conversation, the drunk guy pretty much leaning on the much-taller black guy.

I couldn't hear their conversation, directly in front of my running cab with the windows up, but it seemed to be taking longer than it should for them to exchange whatever information that may have been pertinent to one another. The first group of four had turned around and come back. There was a Filipino kid with bare arms and a sharp flat-top who appeared the most keen and sober of the seven. He had a bit of a military look about him, and I had the impression that he could exercise the necessary restraint over his peers should things turn ugly.

Now the drunk guy had his wallet out, the tall black man looming over him, peering down into the open billfold. The drunk guy's speech was so animated that the cigarette fell from his mouth. Seven anxious spectators surrounded. It ended with the drunk guy giving the panhandler some money and another exaggerated handshake. His friends carted him on. I just kept thinking how peculiar a soundtrack Ralph Stanley would have been as I watched a "racially charged" altercation through my windshield.

I grabbed a flag out of Tellers a little after 1:30. I had a time call set for 1:30, and I got there early. The guy hadn't shown at 1:34 when these guys showed up, and he didn't answer his phone. I wasn't making much on the night and decided to take the bird in the hand, especially since they were already in the cab, pretty drunk and insistent, before I realized they weren't the time call. They weren't going far and tipped pretty well. I made it back downtown pretty quick, but the time call had apparently cancelled or grabbed another cab.

At 1:45 I was dispatched to the "Urgent Care" entrance at the Veteran's hospital. It was a man in his 60s. He was a big man, dressed neatly, carrying a satchel. I imagined him some 35 years ago at the helm of a ship kicking ass in a foreign country to 'keep us free,' at the behest of a detached and clueless government.

He had been drinking for three days when his son had "given [him] a pill" and told him it would "let him sleep some." He took it and "got woozy" and thought he was dying. He had gone to the VA Hospital, where I'm guessing they tried to hold him long enough for him to dry out a bit and let the bars/liquor stores/gas stations quit selling booze. He was shaking pretty bad and starting to freak out a bit at the long night ahead of him.

We went to an ATM so he could get some cash. He asked if I had any beer or liquor at home that I could sell him. I told him I might, but it would be about a $30 fare out there and back (inflated a bit). He said he didn't care, and that he would pay me for it. I rented him a 1/2 hour block of time for $30. All I had was 4 Newcastles and a Pony Express rattlesnake. My roommate had told me there was a bottle of brandy in the cabinet as a safety, if necessary. I used to keep at least a 1/2 pint of Jim Beam as a safety, for the occasional snakebite or anesthetic should I have to break off an Injun arrow shaft, push it part way in, fill the hole with gunpowder, and ignite it to blow the arrow out of my back and cauterize the wound. One can't be too careful.

Well, my roommate had proved it nearly impossible to keep a proper safety. He would always drink it, and replace it in within a reasonable time. Booze is pretty fungible in our house, but the whiskey never seemed to stay in reserve. So, I sold his 1/2 empty fifth of rum.

Yeah, it was rum, not brandy. Had I remembered it was rum, I wouldn't have mentioned it to the old man. Because I would have remembered that it was a bit of a housewarming gift from a Colombian co-worker of his, and probably pretty good stuff. But now I was about fucked. I figured I had made my mistake, and Peat would have to forgive me, and I would do my best to make it up to him.

I stopped to get some gas for the cab and some Coke for the old man. When I got back in I smelled the rum in the old Lincoln. As we headed back towards town I asked him how it was.

"It's pretty good stuff. I tried a swig earlier." As desperate as he had been for booze earlier, he still held reservations about the Newcastle. "You say its an Ale? So it's a stout, then?"

"Any port in a storm." I asked him what he normally drank. He said Budweiser. "When I was in the service they shipped us Budweiser and Busch. It would have been frozen and thawed a bunch of times. The cans would be rusting. They also gave us an allotment of whiskey every month."

I sold the old man the rum, for far less than what I will repay for my mistake. Of course I had mixed feelings about giving someone with a drinking problem booze. I don't want to be an enabler. But, the DTs are not pleasant things, and I hated to think of an old man who made greater sacrifices than I will for a cause that didn't care about him alone in his son's basement apartment during the holidays, freaking out until dawn.

I watched my dad dry out in Breech hospital when I was 6 years old. He was in there for a week or so. Every night he would hallucinate and rip the IVs out of his arms, waking up in pools of sweat and blood for brief moments of lucidity. He was convinced that his best friend Tom Booth was cutting wood in the hallway, there were kids in wagons, and I'm sure, though he never mentioned it, his long lost baby brother was there, too.

I saw an ad for this stuff in the window of a liquor store in Greene County this summer. They have a product called Pink Elephant.

So, yeah, sorry Peat, about your rum. At least I brought the beer back.

I helped the old man into the back way of his son's apartment. He was woozy and afraid he would fall down. He tried in vain to get a key into the doorknob with the brief flicker of a cigarette lighter, but his trembling hands betrayed him. I took it and opened for him, and got him home safe.

My last fare was on a street that kind of straddles the hood and the older white middle-class first-homeowners neighborhood. I recognized the house as that of friends of a friend. I'd call them acquaintances, but I insulted the one girl's ethnic heritage (the same as my own), her taste in bars (the one where I was drinking at), her hair/eye color (my favorite combo) in the same breath that I said "if my neighbor had an unrestrained pitbull and I had a toddler the dog might get a Prestone cocktail." She owned a pitbull puppy. I had seen it not an hour before.

In my defense, I said it in part because I wanted to use the phrase "Prestone cocktail." I'm not sure who used that, but it was in a thread on Como that I can't find. If that doesn't make immediate sense to you, don't feel bad. I had to explain it to her, too: that Prestone is a brand of antifreeze, that antifreeze contains ethylene glycol, that antifreeze tastes sweet, that dogs eagerly lap it up, and that the ethylene glycol is highly poisonous, and that even a little bit is usually fatal to small animals. It's great to have to explain to someone exactly why what you said too them was so offensive.

Which is not to say I would have avoided her because of that alone. Rather, I offered to bake her a strawberry-rhubarb pie as an apology, and I have not yet done so. What can I say, I simply don't have much time for pastries in my convoluted cab driving/blogging schedule.

Well, anyway, it wasn't either of those two girls, just three of their houseguests, returning home. One of them was a guy who had been in the cab twice before earlier that night. Another, the last to drop off, was a girl whom I had couriered on my first or second night, in a group of 7 or 8. Thus, I didn't recognize her, but her address.

So that was Friday. I only ran $145 on the meter, I think. About $50 plus tips.

Saturday was New Year's Eve. I got around a little earlier/quicker than usual. I felt surprisingly well-rested. I took advantage of the extra time to take a meal sitting down, at Smokin' Chick's BBQ. Jumbo turkey sandwich, fries, diet Dr. Pepper. I had to put some gas in Corpsy, less she stranded me, so I stopped at the Ultra Mart/Arena Liquor at Green Meadows and Providence. In addition to $20 worth of Petrol, I bought a pint of Jim Beam, a pint of Tanqueray, and a hard pack of Camel filter cigarettes.

I asked for half-pints but it must have been caught up on the language barrier, though I just as likely slurred or mumbled it. It didn't matter much, though, because I only intended to bootleg it, as I did the cigarettes. I though it quite likely that some revelers might be caught short on booze and would appreciate some after 1:30 am. And, if they didn't, I had a thirsty roommate, an empty space in the cabinet, and the occasional predilection to the spirits, myself.

While I was at the gas pumps my phone rang. It was Phyllis.

"I was just calling to see if you were coming to work."

"Yeah, I'm on my way. I had to stop to get some gas, but I'll be there by a quarter 'til."

"Cool."

That was a bit odd. I wondered if there was a set-up brewing. I guess she was just making sure she wouldn't be caught short-handed on our busiest night.

I rolled into work. I put the booze in Corpsy's trunk. Then I went inside to wait for a cab.

A ton of drivers were there. I saw #16 parked in front of the building. I believed it must have been removed from service. #15 had been parked in front of the shop for a couple of weeks. #16 has its flaws, and I think the transmission was failing the last time I drove it, which was the first time #3 quit me. I had been in #15 once, on homecoming night, and it was a huge pile of shit. I didn't think it had been on the road since then. I was ready to get stuck in a shitty car, since everyone would be on the road and I would get the last car.

I hoped I could avoid #15. It was the one that you had to jiggle the key to get the accessories to work. Then it would vibrate so bad you'd lose the magic spot, then it would die, and, when you restarted it, the key wouldn't be in the magic spot, and you would have to re-jiggle it to get stuff to work, like turn signals. I complained about this at more length in an early post.

One by one drivers took their cars. Big Mike was sent out in #15. I was surprised, but greatly relieved, thinking that must mean that #16 was worse than what I thought. Then Psycho Ken was sent out in my girl, #10. It stung a bit. He normally drives #8, a retired police cruiser Crown Vic. It smokes like a chimney and the rear-end howls like two banshees, but is otherwise pretty nice. #10 would be a downgrade for him. I was the last, and didn't get into a car until 5, well after everyone else was gone. I spent the time bullshitting with Phyllis a bit about the ways to rip off the cab company. Finally my car was coming in. It was #5.

I drove #5 only once, on my second night. It was a '90 or so Crown Vic, with the old, square body style. It was a pile. I think JW got in an accident with it, and messed up the fender and headlight on the driver's side. I hadn't seen it in a while and guessed they had been patching it up at Maaco.

You couldn't possibly believe my surprise when I went out back to see the day driver pull up in a new, improved #5, a recently retired late-model Crown Victoria police cruiser.

Holy shit!

This car was nice. If I had been paying attention, I would have realized that they had rebadged one of the new cars they had brought in as #5, retiring the old one. The newest ones are 5, 6, and 7, but I never allow myself to gaze upon them, for they were always far beyond my reach.

I thought there must have been a catch. I waited for Phyllis to realize her mistake. "What's wrong with it?" I asked the day driver. "Is there a hidden camera in it, or something?"

"No, it's a nice car."

"Exactly my point. Why are they letting me drive it?"

"I asked myself the same thing when they put me in it."

It's Christmas in Heaven, hip-hip-hip-hip-hooray, every single day, is Christmas Day!

I grinned for most of the first hour in #5. She had a shiny-fresh Maaco paint job and A*1 badges. No dents. 125K on the ticker. The back seat was pristine (I believe these are removed when new by police stations, and retrofitted with molded seats for hand-cuffed passengers, then replaced when auctioned), with working shoulder belts. All of the car's accessories worked of their own accord and with their original devices, no toggle-switches. It had a gray interior, much brighter than the Burgundy in the Lincolns.

All of the door handles worked, inside and out. The power locks worked. The windows even worked, all four of them! Working bright lights! Though worn from getting in and out, the driver's seat still had some life to it. I guess cops are more fit than cabbies. There were a few burn marks, where cigarettes held up to the windows had grazed and melted tiny swaths into the headliner in the back. There were a few holes where police gadgets had been rooted. The console was gone in between the seats, which was perfect for my jacket, street guide binder, and flashlight.

And the dome lights--they worked! Bright, white light, at the flip of a switch. The spot lights in the metal dome light fixture of the Lincoln are all that work in #10. The center dome light is missing, and the light is dim, yellow, and poor for back seat passengers. When you leave them on for a period of time, to read, perhaps, they get dangerously hot and burn your fingies when you try to turn them off. Not in #5 my friend, not in #5.

The car even retained its A-pillar spot light. Choice! Driving impressions were immediate and incredible. It ran smoothly, a nice twin cam 4.6 instead of the old 5.0. It sounded like a real V-8 if you opened her up, but was quiet otherwise. It steered and stopped straight, smooth, noiseless, and predictable. The front suspension was tight, with no pops and groans when I turned into ramped driveways. All of the controls were ergonomic and tight.

And you could see out of it! Instead of the 8' long, perfectly square front clip of the Lincoln, the hood on the 'Vic sloped into nothingness, politely out of my view. It was like I was watching TV in a comfortable chair as I whizzed around downtown, rather than piloting some rattletrap jalopy that required constant attention and white-knuckle concentration to reach my desired destination safely. When I grabbed the CB mic for the first time it was as if it flew out of my hand. Instead of the giant microphone in the Lincoln, with its sharp corners and considerable heft, best suited as an implement for killing goats in a third-world country, it was a light, tight Motorola mic that disappeared into my hand. Choice!

This made for a much brighter, enthusiastic cab driver. I remarked about the luxury appointments of #5 to a number of passengers. They agreed it was a nice cab. I also told them how bad the cabs I normally drove were. Some people asked why I got a nice car this time.

I speculated that it was mostly luck of the draw, but that they were also probably trying to punish some other drivers by upgrading me and downgrading them. I have heard a comment that some people were going to drive the crappy cars they were given, and, when the crappy cars were gone (upgraded), so were the crappy drivers. But, fuck it, it was New Year's Eve!

I had a few ordinary calls as the evening wound up. Calls were steady enough, but not piled up, since it was early and we had a lot of drivers on the road. I shuttled some people home from work, to the cell phone store, etc. I picked up one French or French Canadian woman from a friend's house. She had gone to dinner with her friend and they had planned to go down town for fireworks. Her friend had taken ill after dinner, and she was going home. Her friend had picked her up (her car would not start) and now she was going home alone on New Year's. Le poo-poo. Guess what? I got a new car, bitch!

I had a call just when it got good and dark, to pick up on Worley. The same numbers can be found on East and West Worley, so I wasn't sure which was which, since people don't put an "E" in front of the number on their house. I asked dispatch if she knew. "He said that there was a bunch of Christmas stuff in the yard, Jesus and stuff."

"Ahhh."

And there it was. The tiny yard choked, full of Christmas crap. Frosty, Santa, reindeer, wisemen, Mary, Joseph, a baby. Jesus! Lights everywhere. The guy appeared on the porch and motioned for me to wait, and stepped back in. I sat looking at the myriad displays of holiday crap.

A black man of 50+ came and got in the front seat of the car. He had a small plastic bowl of steaming rice. Fat, white, wet rice, stirring it with a spoon.

I was taking him to a friend's house for New Year's. I remarked that I had missed the driveway upon my first approach because I was distracted by all of the decorations. He said it was his mother-in-law's house and that she decorated like that for every holiday.

I asked him if he was ready for 2006. He said it would have to be better than 2005. That's the biggest reason I asked the question over and over, to hear people bemoan their poor fates in 2005 and half-optimistically expect better in 2006--yet another year that wouldn't give a fuck.

He said he got into some trouble in '05 and would be paying for it in '06. He had got out of prison in '04 and met his wife the same year. He seemed to think even years were better luck for him. He was awaiting sentencing for a third degree criminal trespass. Apparently the Columbia Housing Authority had served a notice on him, and a security guard recognized him as he cut across the corner of a yard en route to some place else.

I asked him if he was going to do some celebrating that night. "Yes I am. Tonight is the last night I'm going to drink alcohol. After tonight, I quit."

"Does that mean 12 o'clock, or when you go to sleep or run out of booze."

"When I go to sleep."

"That alcohol can get you in trouble."

"Sure can. Can cause a lot of trouble. My wife is an addict. She's in Vandalia right now. I done got her Valentine's card, anniversary card, everything. I'm not gonna mess up. I got it all already, just in case I'm in jail when the time comes." Two ships passing in the night.

We got to his friend's house. The fare was $8.55. The guy got out of the car to go get his friend, who was paying for the cab.

"I'm gonna leave you my rice, so you know I'm coming back," he joked.

"Yeah, that's some of that $9 rice you got there."

The guy came out to pay. He was much younger, not yet 40, white. He had a dog that the old man was afraid of. He tipped me a couple of bucks. His celebration had begun much earlier, apparently.

I was dispatched to a house to pick up part of a group. The dispatcher didn't realize there were 10 people going when she sent me. She had to send another cab to get the rest, which ended up being Terry. This was especially ironic, because after I picked up 3 people in the Crown Vic we passed Terry turning on the street with his ridiculously huge 18 passenger shuttle bus. Man, you could open a Wal-Mart in that thing.

I had been anxious to get out of there before he showed up, lest he snag them all (actually only 8 people). I was already there and didn't want to miss out on the call. There was a little party going on, and it took a bit for them to get out to the car. It was one cute girl with a big smile and a few extra pounds, and two dudes. "They didn't tell me I was getting the good looking group."

I got them in and started telling them that another cab was on its way. We met Terry in the ridiculously huge van. He stopped, so I rolled down my window. He was trying to be his very personable and upbeat self, but I could tell he was counting my passengers and doing the math in his head. "1, 2, 3 extra passengers, $1 per extra passenger, x3...that's $3 I'm not getting. That's $.50 for each of my 6 kids, 3 at home and three in Mississippi. Besides the tips I could hustle."

They were going to the Big Smith show at the Blue Note. I told them I was a genuine Ozarks hillbilly and that I had seen them there a couple of New Years past. They were from Springfield, and all fired up. They thought I was cool, and said they might see me when they went home. I got a big smile out of the girl when they off-loaded.

I had a call to go to Eclectics at 9pm. Eclectics is an adult novelty/porn store, or it was. Now it is Bocomo Bay, Adult Entertainment store. It is worth noting the name of the neighboring business. The sign reads "Sheepbreeder." In smaller print: "...and Sheepman Magazine, servicing the sheep industry since 1880." One-stop shopping for all you fetishests.

Well, no one was waiting for a cab at Bocomo. Christ, it sounds silly even typing it. Dispatch gave me a number to call. It was disconnected. After a couple of minutes with no word from dispatch (odd), an older Lexus with aftermarket rims pulled in beside me. The girl (something less than 30?) told me she was my fare. A white guy was driving the Lexus, and pulled out as soon as she put her stuff in my cab, with no fanfare. She said "I have to run inside here to pick something up, I'll just be a second." Okay.

She was wearing a baseball cap over shoulder-length blond hair. Her face wasn't extraordinary, she looked like a little eye-make-up would go a long way. She had a new brown T-shirt on over a men's thermal underwear top. It said "I [heart] Goobers." Fake vintage T-bullshit. Jeans. She was roughly the right shape, though it appeared as if her late 20s had softened her physique. It wasn't a stripper body. Maybe an ex-stripper, but one who quit as her tips dwindled, not when the indignance of the job became suffocating. She was going to Jefferson City. I took her for a whore.

She reemerged after a minute with a black plastic bag, disguising the contents. Of course that's the bag you'd get if you bought a stick of gum or a pencil eraser in a porn store, but who the fuck would go to a porn store for school supplies? She climbed in the back of the cab. We discussed her destination. I was reminded to get the money up front, since it was a $50 flat fare going out of town. She knew this and as much as suggested it before I could. She handed me a $100, I gave her two $20s and one $10 back, and we pulled out.

She had said that we weren't going to Jeff City proper, but to the first exit on East 54 going towards Holts Summit. "My Cadillac broke down on me, and its got $2000 rims on it, and I just sold my Lexus to that guy that dropped me off. I was going to Kansas City to get my husband, then, on the phone in the middle of all of this, we decided that we weren't going to be together anymore. So I got myself a fifth of Jack Daniels and a bottle of champagne." She had it with her, in one of the bags she brought in the Lexus.

The Kansas City-Columbia-Jeff City outskirts schemata wasn't making much sense, geographically speaking. "So where are you from?"

"Well, I live in Sedalia now, and I was going to get my husband in Kansas City when my Cadillac broke down (in Jeff City?)." She went on to say that part of the reasons her marriage didn't work out were because of her, but that she couldn't accept all of the fault.

I still didn't know where we were going or why. "What happened to your Cadillac?"

"It got a flat tire, but you can't just get it fixed because its got $2000 rims on it. Well, it didn't go completely flat, it just kept leaking air. So I parked it at a friend's house and called my husband. I just sold my Lexus to that guy that dropped me off. I was broke down and didn't know what to do, and it had just been a week since I sold him my Lexus. So I called him and told him I didn't know what to do, and that if he could just get me to Columbia I knew I could take a cab to Jeff City."

"So we're going to your car on the side of the road (the Cadillac with a flat tire)?"

"Yeah, it's totally legit."

"No, I just like to have an idea of what I'm driving into. I'm not just dropping you off at a cold car, am I? You've got people there or something?"

"Oh, no I've got my an apartment in Jeff City and I also have a business in downtown Jeff, with a loft I can stay at if I want to."

"No, it's not any of my business, I just didn't want to leave you stranded with a broken down car. As long as you've got a plan."

"Oh, yeah, I pay for myself. I like to make sure I'm in control..you know..in charge of my affairs. I take responsibility for myself." She commented that is was sweet of me to ask, though.

I heard her open the soda she had bought for her Jack Daniel's. "I'm just opening a soda back here," she said, and I got a waft of 96-proof sour-mash. Like she could fool me or I cared. I worked at a whiskey barrel plant for 3 summers, my dad for forty-some years. I know a thing or two about the product mellowed in charred white-oak barrels.

She asked several questions about our cab company and the service she could get to-and-from Jeff City. "Do you guys sell, like, gift certificates?" I explained that she could probably set up a pre-paid cash charge account, if she wanted.

As we neared the 54 exit she made a phone call. She was telling someone that she was in a cab, coming to Jeff City, that she had had a bad day, the car, the husband. "Hey, I was gonna see, can I be with you tonight?...Yeah, it's just that I'm going to be alone tonight...It would sure help me..."

She got another call and switched over. "Yeah, I know Jessica, its just that you can't do this again without giving me anymore notice. I need two girls for the day after New Year's. And you call me at the last minute and say you can't work tomorrow because you'll be too hungover. No, you go ahead, have a good time, enjoy yourself. No, I was 21 once, too. You just have a good time, then you take off until Tuesday. Think about where you're priorities are. Then Tuesday you give me a call and we'll have a talk. No Jessie, you're not fired. I'm not firing you. You just need to think about where your priorities are. Yeah--yeah--like I said, I was 21 once too. No--I gotta go Jessica, I'm on the other line. I'll talk to you Tuesday. Just call me Tuesday. Yeah, bye-bye." Trying to pimp hos with psychology. What is the world coming to?

We turned on East 54 and took the first Holts Summit exit. We went down a country road and turned into a recent subdivision. We went a bit further and turned onto a street, at the end of which would be a "cul--a cul--a cul ve sac." As we neared she said "Would you be really mad at me if I couldn't tip you? I mean I would, it's just that things are a little tight right now, with the car trouble and stuff. Would it be really insulting if I just gave you $1, or would nothing be better."

Thirty minutes earlier I had given her two $20s, a $10, and I had plenty of change. She could afford booze and cab fare, some anonymous thingamajigger from a porn store, but only $1 in tip on a $50 fare. 2%. Poor girl. It being a holiday and everything.

"I guess it wouldn't be called a gratuity if it was required."

I dropped her off at a $1500 Buick with cheap plastic hubcaps in the cul de sac of a remote neighborhood. She went straight to the car, no house. She checked to make sure if she had everything (no errant thingamajiggers in my cab). I looked over my shoulder and saw a small plastic bag, knotted neatly, with something apparently rather small in it, the size of a matchbook.

"Is that yours?"

"Yeah, kind of, I guess." And she closed the door. I left it back there all of the way back to Columbia. I wondered what sort of disgusting thing it contained. I wondered if she traded sex for the ride in the Lexus, and if that was how the guy knew her from before. How would I approach the subject of a soiled condom left in my cab humorously, without revulsion?

It was empty. Just an empty bag tied-tight to take up less space. The things people do.

When I got back in town I had a call at the Bear's Breath. It was my regular, the older woman who writes songs (Dandelion Wine, House of Hos). She was with her daughter and her 80+ year old sister. They had a table reserved for them in front of the band. The sister had a walker and oxygen. I told them I'd be outside when they were ready (I was a couple of minutes early).

I thought they were calling it a night early (10:30's not bad for the geriatric set), but they were merely bar-hopping it on over to Hoot-N-Anny's, where a second reserved table awaited them. I folded up the walker, careful of the oxygen bottle and tubes, and loaded it into the trunk. They had put sis' up front with me.

There was a cold wind whipping at them as they filed out of the bar. "That wind's cold enough to freeze the balls off of a brass monkey," offered Sis. She was barely a third-again taller than her walker. Her skin hung slack in wrinkles on her face. Her once thick hair still held its color and draped in a trapezoidal fashion about her head. Her teeth were long gone, or in a glass somewhere. Her tongue was constantly working, unbounded by any enamel-encrusted barriers. She looked like she was about a third of the way into the process of melting into the ground.

I asked Miss Liz how the songwriting was coming, and she complained she'd never received the tape she sent off for. Sis started remarking how good looking I was. I laughed aloud. Miss Liz chided her, good-naturedly, and informed me that she had had 2 screwdrivers and something else.

"Well he is. He is pretty good lookin', even if he is skin-headed." She was just the third person to notice my haircut, after JW and a group home regular. "I'm 80 years old and I reckon' I'm still full of...vinegar and...vim."

When we got to Hoot's I had to help them help her in. The steps are steep and irregular, even without a walker. "Grab my arm," she said. I did, only to find that her humerus was encased deep within an amorphous mass of really-old-lady upper-arm fat. There was no way to 'grasp' her arm, as you'd have to squeeze the daylights out of a few pounds of loose flesh to wrap your fingers around it. I tried to cushion and support her weight with my hands beneath her arm, constantly threatening to shift on it's foundation of fat. It was like an entirely new body part, perhaps, some might argue, one that a young man should never experience.

After that I had a call to an address I thought I remembered. It was the frozen pizza lady. I wrote about it in the "I'll bite yer arm off, Sasquatch" post. If you can't see it on the right click on the last post and then check the menu again. She was the one I picked up at the De Ja Vu, who I was sure was going to invite me in, asked me when I got off work (3 hours later), and then said she was going to make a pizza instead.

It was her. She came to the car with a drink in her hand. It was 10:45. The first thing she said was "do I look okay?"

"You look fabulous!"

She had just finalized her second divorce the time I met her, and wasn't too happy about it. I thought 11pm was a reasonable time to go out to celebrate New Year's. She gave me an address a little north of hers, and said we were picking someone up. Potential husband #3? She also has a 3 year old son.

Turns out she had met him via an online personals ad that she had placed because she heard her ex did and wanted to piss him off. She had never actually met him in person, though, and this would be the first time, 11pm New Year's Eve. She had apparently been trying to get him to go out that night, on the phone, but he was busy playing online poker and drinking by himself. Classy. Totally classy. She was going over in person to give him the ultimatum.

"This might not take long," she said, and got out to go to the door. She was back in 1.5 minutes. "Well, that was a waste of time." Apparently he still wasn't interested, never quit playing his poker game, and hadn't even bothered to put on pants. We were headed to the Upper Deck, or, as I prefer to call it, "the shittiest bar in Columbia."

Okay, in all fairness, I've never been inside the place, but I think its one of those things like anal rape--I've never experienced it, but I'm confident enough in my suspicions that I am comfortable forgoing the actual experience for the sake of ensuring that I am not mistaken.

Along the way to the Damned-Old-Taxi-Blog-unendorsed Upper Deck she began to ask what my deal was. She thought I was good looking. "What do you do?"

"I drive a cab."

"No, besides that."

"Nothing. I am a cab driver." I ended up slipping about law school.

"Oh, you're a lawyer." She's working on a masters degree, doing stem cell research.

"No, I am a cab driver. I am 5 credits shy of a law degree."

"We should go out together some time. You could take me to the Red Lobster."

"How about I take you some place nice, instead. Maybe Sophia's or Addison's."

"I've been to those places. I like Red Lobster better." I have never been to Red Lobster, but, see anal rape, above. "I'll even pay for myself. We can go dutch."

"I may be broke, but I'm not cheap. I wouldn't take a lady on a date if I couldn't afford to pay." Mostly true. Looking back at the old post, I forgot she knocked on my glasses. That didn't seem to bother her this time, though.

When we got to the UD she paid via credit card, tipping me $4. When I had her sign the charge slip she wrote down her phone number, and "Call Me," just above it. I left her to ring in New Year's at the world's shittiest bar, or maybe just a close runner-up.

I ran another call or two. Once, I went to pick up at the Thirsty Turtle. I was waiting to turn around when an old black man on a cheap women's mountain bike rode up to me.

"I want you to look at this here," he said, digging in a bag he was carrying. I had opened my door before remembering I had the luxury of working windows. "You're not going to think I'm in my right mind, but I am." I rolled the window down and shut the door. He handed me two plastic storage dishes, new, packaged together, with lids. "Microwaveable." He had some more in his hands. I hadn't taken them so much as he forced them on me. "I just want $2 for them."

"No thanks, man, I can't use them," and I tried to hand them back.

"Just give me $1." I was killing him.

"Sorry man, can't use them. Someone here will hook you up."

"$.50. Just give me $.50."

"Sorry, gotta go man, I gotta make some money." I finally got him to take the shit back and I got away from him.

I had a call to go to Pepper's. It would also be a serious contender for shittiest bar in the world, and I have just as much experience with it as I do the Upper Deck. The parking lot is like a mile away from what I guess is the entrance. It was definitely made a bar as an afterthought. After a minute a black guy with a suit coat and novelty top hat emerged with a white girl. They were arm-in-arm, seemingly moreso at his instance, as he was escorting her to the cab. She stopped him short and got in the cab by herself.

I don't assume the best of people if I pick them up at Pepper's. This girl seemed pretty normal in every respect though, dare I say cool. I asked her about how her evening was going and she said not well. She had gone to Pepper's with a male friend, who got mad when she was talking to another dude, and left her there.

"Where are you headed?"

"A place called McNaully's."

"McNallys?"

"I guess. I just moved here. It's supposed to be downtown."

"Oh, I know it well, I'll get you there."

"How much should it cost."

"Ooooh--I'd say maybe $9-$10."

"Well, I only have $10 on me, so if you can just get me close I can probably find it."

"We'll get you there." I looked at my clock. It was about 11:45. "Hopefully I can get you there before the ball drops, or whatever, at 12:00."

I gunned the Vic' downtown. I was making good time. I took Rangeline to Rogers, Rogers to Tenth, and was cutting down Walnut to turn onto 7th. Kripes. I forgot about the First Night antics at the courthouse. There was a city bus stopped there and a cop directing traffic. I was only held up a minute, and he let me through. I cut down the alleyway. We were only a block away when she noticed the meter jump to $10.05. I wasn't paying attention.

"It hit $10! Stop stop stop!"

"We're cool," I said, and swung in front of McNally's at 11:56, with $10.30 showing on the meter. Good cab driver. She handed me two $5s. I was expecting her to hit the ground running, and looked down for my clipboard. She leaned into the center of the cab and threw her arms around me. I responded too late, and the kiss that was meant for my lips landed on my neck. It lingered for a second. She smelled nice, even through the cigarette smoke. I may have embarrassed her a bit, her thinking maybe I was avoiding the kiss. She said thanks and ran into the bar, with a marvelously cute ass. I fuck everything up.

There was a second's lull, and the fireworks began downtown. I swung my cab around and into a church parking lot off of 9th Street. I had a good view between two buildings and rolled my window down to hear the sharp crackle and sizzle of the fireworks, along with the resultant boom. It cut through years of mediocrity and bullshit. I liked feeling like a kid, rather than typically feeling unkidlike. They were mostly done when dispatch radioed.

I had someone to pick up at Club Vogue, going basically across the street to the Super 7, for a pre-arranged flat fare of $5. Then I had a 'personal request' at the Upper Deck. My fare wasn't ready at the Vogue. I did, however, see "I'll Bite Your Arm Off, Sasquatch" Guy. He was stumbling along on carefully-measured baby steps. He was bedecked with a shiny 70's naugahyde/vinyl vest and what must have been a novelty derby hat, along with his fingerless mechanic's gloves. Dispatch said to forget the Vogue guy and get the Upper Deck.

It was a little after midnight. I parked outside the Upper Deck. No one came out. I sat and watched two white trash (and I mean that in the best possible sense of the term) girls come out of the bar, celebrating. One was too fat and the other was too thin. The thin one had sunken teeth and a perm like the girls had in high school, in the early nineties. They went to the back of a crappy 80s Ford Ranger pickup, opened the lid on the camper shell, and pulled two longnecks out of a cooler. They looked perfectly ridiculous twirling for no reason, their bottles aloft, for the dim spectacle of one another, in the wet dark pavement of America's shittiest bar, on the first night of 2006. Welcome, New Year.

Pizza Lady didn't come out. I couldn't afford to wait long. I remembered her phone number and called it from my cell phone. At least she can't say I didn't call her when I see her again. She answered and said she would be on her way.

She got in and wanted to go back by the tool's house. I guess she had been calling him steady in the 45 minutes or so since I dropped her off. She talked about what a loser he was and said she "would never have sex with him." We went and picked him up. They were going to Pepper's. Before he came out she said she was going to pretend she was broke and make him pay for the cab ride. She assured me she would pay if he didn't. I took them to Pepper's where she continued her charade. He produced $16 cash, for a $13.55 fare. I headed back downtown.

It was a bit chaotic. People I picked up at 1am had waited about 40 minutes. People I picked up at 2 had waited about an hour and 40 minutes. We were just trying to clean up downtown. Then we would pick up the outliers, since they had no where else to go and couldn't flag down a passing Reliable or Luter cab.

I had one group that consisted of four college students. They spent the entire ride arguing, 3 against one, that no pizza places would still be open. The guy who paid for all of his friends wanted exact change, down to the $.45. He was the junior economist of the bunch.

Pizza Lady called me on my cell phone at 1:20 or so. Had she gone through dispatch she would have been waiting until 2:30 or 3. Dispatch told me to work her in. I grabbed a couple on 9th, across from the Blue Note. They were from Chicago, and had attended the show. We talked about music all the way to the Red Roof and I left them with a list of required listening. They tipped well.

I went back to Pepper's. Pizza Lady jumped in. A sawed-off cowboy and a couple came up to her window. She rolled it down and told the woman that "this is [my] cab. I called him directly." The other woman wasn't arguing, but that didn't stop Pizza Lady. The other woman just wanted to know how long I thought it would be; they'd been waiting for an hour already. They were going away from the Pizza Lady's house, so I couldn't really double up. The cowboy apparently came out with Pizza Lady. She noticed him, like an afterthought, and told him to get in. He said to wait a minute. Pizza Lady and myself told him we couldn't. He said, "Well, I guess you'll have to." So I drove off.

I was rounding the parking lot when Pizza Lady said she wanted to go to the Waffle House, not home. Shit, that's right on the way for the couple. I spun around to pick them up, and cowboy got in, too. I dropped Pizza Lady and cowboy off at the Waffle House, and took the couple to the Drury Inn. They were remarkably pleasant about the wait and the Pizza Lady fucking with them. They were very blue-collar, but tipped well. I saw a Dominos delivery driver walk into the lobby with a pie. That little bastard was right.

I ran a few more fares, mostly under-age and after-bars college parties. I pulled up to a party at a house on East Campus and watched a guy topple backwards off of the porch railing and fall about 8' to the ground below. I had some pretty people in the cab. One couple was extremely nice and said I was the only "cool cab driver" they had ever had. I've had a few you're the "most normal cab driver's" before, but cool was pretty fresh. I told them they should catch me on a good night. They tipped me over $10 on a $12 fare.

I had one call out south. They were local kids, early 20s. Dispatch said there would be 5, and I would have to cram them in. I had the wrong street number and stopped where it should fall, between two existing street numbers. I waited for dispatch to double check, since there was a Lynnwood Court and a Lynnwood Street listed in my book. Then a door opened on a parked car and a guy and a girl spilled out. They were pretty well-done. The girl got in and the guy went back to the party to get the others. She said that she was glad I was there, because the dude was a 'friend,' and she wanted her other friends along to help avoid any awkward non-platonic gestures.

I backed up to the house where the party had been. A girl with a huge, unrestrained rack in a super-plunging scoop-necked dress jiggled around the front of the cab and parked her cleavage in my open window. She said they would not be needing a cab, but that they would tip me for my trouble. Someone else was going to drive. The girl in the back was annoyed, and gave me $5 and apologized, getting out. But, before I could move, the dude was back with some others. The plans changed a couple of more times before I started to leave with the original couple. Then another guy stopped us. They were trying to make off with his stash. Oops.

I took them over to El Chaparral, where I had the weird call on last Tuesday. They assured me it was a crappy neighborhood, full of junior thugs. They had broken into their house before. Pizza Lady was calling again.

I went and picked her up at the Waffle House, with her junior cowboy. I've found that 90% of the guys who wear cowboy hats to bars in Missouri are runts. This guy wasn't very big, but had on a cowboy hat, boots, and a hooded sweatshirt. At least he didn't have the full K-Mart cowboy get-up. I took them to her house. Along the way she was telling him that I was a lawyer. He asked me what kind of license I had to have to drive a cab. I started to explain it and he said he knew, because he used to be a truck driver.

"You were a truck driver?" She exclaimed.

"Well, yeah, I drove trucks for a while."

"That's so gross. Truck drivers are just disgusting." She started to say something about them and prostitutes.

"Hey, now, my dad's a truck driver," he interrupted.

"Oh boy, did I just stick my foot in my mouth?"

I pulled into her driveway at 3am. "You should come in and have a drink with us."

"Gotta work."

One of my last calls was after 3am at a home for physically disable persons. It was a bottom-rung employee, trying to go home. She had called at about 12am. They said a one hour wait. Dispatch told me to knock off a couple of bucks if she complained too much. She didn't really complain much at all. I dropped two dollars anyway, making the fare $4.30 instead of $6.30, then forfeited most of my cut, just taking $3 off of her.

I had to go pick up the day driver at 3:30. I had seen a number of drunk people walking in the preceding three hours. One was off of Rangeline, which is more or less dangerous, with no shoulder or walkway, and tons of drunk traffic. He was in the act of falling when he tried to hail me. I had already passed him, there was no place to turn around, and I was on a call. Tough luck, dude. On the way to pick up the day driver I saw a guy walking down Clark Lane, the direction I was heading. As I got closer I saw him pumping his fist in anger as he talked on his cell phone. He was worked up, almost leaving the ground with every pump, pointing at his cell phone as if the person on the under end could feel the weight of his threats. I decided he could use the opportunity to cool off, and passed him up.

I got the day driver and brought her in. I left her at dispatch and went to wash, vacuum, and gas the cab. I got back and finished my paperwork as quickly as I could. I was about to leave when Pizza Lady called me again. It was right at 4am.

"Are you working?"

"I'm just about to leave."

"Oh. Crap. Well, how can I get another driver?"

"Do you need a cab?"

"No, I need some cigarettes. I would pay the fare if they could bring them to me."

"I've got a new pack of Camels I could bring you."

"Oh, would you do that for me? That would be so nice."

"Sure, give me about 20 minutes."

"Oh, thanks so much. I love you."

I laughed. "Well that's an awfully nice thing for you to say."

What can I say? I'm a sucker for crappy melodrama, and I had to see how this last chess move would play out. Was the cowboy there? Would she invite me in so we could fight for her? Had he got sick of her yet and gone home? Did she have a whole Village People assortment of people waiting to bone her, and thought she'd get a cabbie for good measure? What was I going to do with cigarettes, anyway? The cab fare and wait time would have cost her $12-15, plus $3 for cigarettes. I figured I would at least get $5 or $10 out of her, anyway. My favorite thing to do with chicks like this is to let them fuck with you and then completely ignore them, like it doesn't bother you. Drives them crazy to think they can't make you crazy.

As I was walking out of the shack Psycho Ken pulled in in #10. He looked pissed off, which is normal. "You buying breakfast today, or what?"

"I'm going in and giving my notice."

"Bad night?"

"I'm not gonna drive in any fucking piece of shit cabs anymore." And I like #10.

So I went to Pizza Lady's house, with the cigarettes. It's a nice, new house that her second husband bought her. I waited for a minute and no one came out. I rang her cell phone. Before she could pick up the front door opened. I hung up, only to see the runt cowboy emerge. That bitch. I'll be damn if I'm giving him a ride anywhere.

He came up to my window, which I rolled down. "I can't believe she's making me come out here, for this shit..." he said, head down, beaten. I handed him the cigarettes. "Thanks, buddy." I looked up to see him retracting his outreached hand in embarrassment, head turning, already in the process of walking back to the house. We didn't get to shake on it.

So, without ever getting fucked, I got fucked twice in two nights. But, I know Pizza Lady will be calling as soon as she gets drunk again, which could be any second now. I am going to take the cigarette money out of her ass.

So, yeah, wild nights, I guess, in sleepy lil' ol' Columbia. Hey, its almost a living.

After all that business I went to the IHOP, ate breakfast, and came home. I put the pint of Beam and the pint of Tanqueray in the cabinet where the rum had sat. Then I slept until 7:30 PM Sunday night. I went and paid my rent, and ate at Steak and Shake. I remembered that Eastside was open. I didn't feel any strong desire to drink, but I hated to pass up an opportunity to go out. I did, though, and came home, watched a little tube, petted some cats, and started in on this here blogging. It's a good thing, too. This is a marathon post, even for a long-winded sonofabitch like myself. Culito's supposed to call me in 7 hours to scope out the garage, and I still have to spell check, proof-read, etc. I may still be up.

I'm sure #5's not ready to be my steady girl, but it was a glimpse of cabbie Nirvana. At least I have #10 to fall back on. I think she'll be understanding. I e-mailed again about the sprinkler job. He e-mailed back and said "it's been a crazy couple of months, but you're first on the list." We'll see what happens.

Smells like pancakes.