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."