Strangled By Love Wouldn't Breathe

Wooo. Hooo.

It's 7:18 Monday morning and I am fighting off an overly affectionate cat. She wants to steal my glasses. Everything has been out of whack this week. It starts with my sleep schedule.

For whatever reason, the number of hours I've slept per day for the past week:

Sunday: 4
Monday: 2
Tuesday: 17
Wednesday: 13
Thursday: 6
Friday: 4
Saturday: 6
Sunday: 8

Ideally, I prefer 8-9 hours of sleep per night. Since I got out of sync with the sleep hours/schedule, everything has been haywire. Twice I have begun my day at 5:45 am, which is usually when I go to bed. 2 hours' sleep especially sucks when you go to work for 13 hours. The messed-up schedule is what brought my update early last week, and accounted for the bonus track, when I was up all night on Thursday night. And, it's going to make my Monday update late, since I'm just starting to write it when I'd normally be publishing it.

I hadn't expected Thursday to be very productive, but it was, kind of. I straightened out the cock-eyed work table I had built, bolted my vise to it, loaded it up with scrap tubing and stock, and cut up my old one. I swept up the garage and organized it a bit. I figured this was enough accomplishment for one day, but I spied the Homelite sitting there. I hate to admit defeat, or give up, so I grudgingly picked it up. I hadn't been able to get it to run at all when I broke it out the last time.

I flipped the toggle switch, pulled the choke out, and gave her a crank. Bitch fired right up. I turned the choke off and she ran like a new one. Bad ass. I had hoped, naively, that I had only badly flooded it the first time I had messed with it, and that she might run if I came back fresh. I was overly surprised that I had been right. But, I didn't feel right ending on that note, so I took my new file and sharpened the chain proper. By this time it was after 1, I was pretty exhausted, and I had to clean up and get ready for work.

I showered up and donned my taxi uniform. I decided to kill the last half hour or so at my computer, though my mind was just a blurry mess. My phone rang. It was A*1. The last time they called me it was to ask if I could come in early. I figured as much this time, and I thought I would, since I wanted to jump right in, since I wasn't good for anything else.

It was Kelly, the dispatcher, from the Vox article. She said they didn't have a car for me and to not bother coming in. I was relieved. This meant I could sleep and that I had Friday night off. I wasn't too worried about the money, since my used car enterprise has been profitable this month. "Oh, Kelly, you're breakin' my heart, here." She apologized, apparently thinking I was serious and upset about not working. I told her not to worry, that I needed to catch up on some sleep, anyway.

Instead of immediately napping out, I remembered the primed Homelite sitting in the garage. I still had two hours of daylight, so I went over to Culito's.

That fuckin' tree is stupid-big. I spent about 45 minutes and a tank of gas to get one block cut in two. And there are 5 blocks that size, and a number of 'smaller' ones that would still require mucho cutting. I tired quickly, and the saw was sputtering some. I decided to chalk it up as a moral victory and went home and slept.

I napped until about 7pm. I thought about all of the different things I could do on my Friday night off. I figured this would be the night someone from comomusic would call and request me, after the debate over whether or not I was real, and my assurances that I was, and my posting of my work schedule. I thought about calling the Pizza Lady from New Year's Eve, but not for long. I decided my evening would best be spent at Eastside, sipping beers.

I caught Peat on my way out, and we went to Smokin' Chicks for some BBQ. Peat caught me off guard with his offer to pay, until I later remembered that he was about due. I said I'd put in on the tip. Peat threw down $1 and I added a $5. Peat said it was too much and I told him not to worry about it. He took his $1 back and I called him a cheap fucker. He said he had been called worse. I asked if he would drop me off downtown, and he was agreeable.

I hit Eastside sometime around 8:30, maybe. I was talking to a dude at the bar when I mentioned I drove a taxi.

"Which company do you drive for?"

"A*1 Express."

"Do you write that taxi blog?"

He bought me a Newcastle. My first royalties installment. We chatted about the blog a bit.

"You know you're going to get fired, right?"

I told him that was a real possibility but that I didn't think I would, even if the blog came to light with ownership.

"No, you will get fired."

"Well. Let's hope."

There were some pretty good bands playing. The openers were called Global Test, from Little Rock. I like to chat up people from the Natural State, as that's where my pappy hails from. I also have a good friend in Fayetteville, and get down there a few times a year. I bought the lead singer a drink and we shot some shit. In time, I met all of their six pieces, and provided them with shots of Jagermeister. The guy playing keyboards and trumpet said he was really a guitar player, and then he mentioned that he had a banjo. Banjos bring the world together.

I drank 5 or 6 Newcastles, pretty reserved, actually. I called for a cab.

I was picked up by someone in #5. I didn't recognize him. I looked at his license, clipped to the dash. It had been issued 12/29/05. I waited for him to turn on the meter, to see if he was going to try to scam me. He clicked it on after about a block, and I asked him if it was #5 we were in (the girl I've been trying to make time with). Of course it was. I told him I normally drove nights. He said he had just started, but had driven some last year. I then remembered him from one night when he picked me up and brought me back from downtown.

"Did you used to work in construction?"

"Yeah, I worked for Columbia Curb & Gutter."

"And your wife was the one that passed out in the drive-through at Taco Bell, and got a DWI?"

"Yup, that's me."

I thought it a bit funny that I was called and told to sit out, and a brand new guy was in #5. I didn't bother getting upset, though, because I've mostly mellowed out with the cab business, and preferred having the night off, anyway. And, he had worked there some before. The angry piss-and-vinegar spirit that predicated my earlier, angry rants has just about been beaten back into a mellow Garner-shaped form.

I got home and passed out somewhere around 2am. I woke up at 5:45, though, and couldn't sleep. I killed some time online, waiting for the sun to come up. I got some breakfast. I told Peat they were having a clearance sale at Palen Music. "Do you want to go not buy some instruments?"

I took $300. I thought maybe if I found a great deal on a mandolin I would buy it. I had considered a mandolin earlier, when I first started picking and was thrilled at the prospect of learning anything and everything. I had placated those urges, though, when I bought my resonator guitar, which I didn't play for some time, since one instrument at a time was plenty for me to learn.

But, with my schedule driving a cab I was having muoy difficulty getting in picking time. Quite honestly, after a 12+ hour shift I don't feel like doing much of anything, and I couldn't break out the banjo if I wanted to, since it was too loud for my sleeping roommate. This held true for my nights off, when I would be awake all night. I thought a mandolin would be handy, since I could carry it in the cab with me. I had tried taking the banjo or the guitar with me before, but it was too cumbersome and too much of a hassle. I'd have to store it in the trunk, and, if I thought I was going to be slow for a while, I had to get out, get in the trunk, take it out of its case, stick the case in the back seat, sit in the passenger's seat, and try to do some picking. And, the biggest concern was ruining an instrument with the hot/cold cycles by throwing it in the freezing trunk.

But, Palen only had one mandolin, and it wasn't on sale. It was $269, I think, and an A-body. I had wanted an F-body. I waited for Peat to look at and fuck with everything in the store. I was running out of gas fast, maybe a bit of a hangover sitting in. After we were done at Palen, I suggested maybe we should swing by and see Jeff Bush at The Blue Guitar Music Company. Jeff had sold me my Regal tricone, and I knew he kept a number of used instruments in stock.

Jeff had 3 Rover brand mandolins on the wall, A-body style with stylized F-hole sound holes. $100. I figured if it was playable $100 wasn't a bad investment. I wouldn't have to worry about it getting messed up in the cab, if I didn't play it I wouldn't feel too guilty. And, if I fell in love with it and/or my skills grew and warranted it, I would gladly buy a nicer one. It would also placate my consumer desires, and keep more money in my coffers for things like rent.

"I guess a man shouldn't ask too many questions about a $100 mandolin?" Jeff looked at me funny. I asked him what he could tell me about the Rovers. He got a few words out and I said "how about you just sell me one, then." I bought the Rover R35 and a nice padded gig bag, $127.50 tax included. Then I went to the library to check out an instructional DVD.

I remembered seeing "The Mandolin of Bill Monroe" DVD there, but could only find the more advanced, second volume. Instead, I grabbed one by Butch Baldassari. Butch Bald-Ass-Sorry. I also got some audio CDs. I've been listening to more stuff from the Alan Lomax Collection. Some of those prison work songs are the shit. It's definately worthwhile for anyone who gives a rat's phallus about precommercial music/history. It's the stuff T Bone Burnett drew on for the soundtrack to Oh, Brother.

I only first looked at the Rover closely when I got it home. Through one of the F-holes I spied the build sticker. The serial numbers were hand-written in blue ball-point ink pen. It had the Rover logo and catchphrase "instruments that not only bark, they bite!" That's pink. Fuckin' sweet.


I took a little nap and then left for work. I left the mandolin on the couch. I was very tempted to take it, but hadn't learned so much as a scale or a chord to practice on.

I got put in #7. As happy-in-love as I had been over #5, #7 is like #5's hotter sister. All of the same features, but just a hair nicer in a few places. You're plenty happy with your girl, but damn, look at her sister. Whoever lucks into her can't be as deserving as you are.

#7 is a '97 Crown Victoria, retired police cruiser. #5--125K, #7--104K. Where #5 had a hole cut in the headliner for a missing police-issue dome light, #7's was still in place. It was still light out when I tried it. Damn, it was the sun. I think I got a flash-burn. #5 has some wood screws holding the driver's door panel together. Not #7. #5 has rips in the driver's seat from someone constantly getting in and out. #7's seat fabric is pure and virginal. #5's horn didn't work. #7's does. And, the coup de grace, #7 had 4 shining, matching, factory hub caps. #5 has two hub caps, one bare wheel, and one mismatched aluminum rim.

So I was in #7, and things started slow. In the first 8 hours I had about 8 fares. My first 6 or 7 fares were all $5.05 or less, except one $11.55 fare. Three were $3 minimums. I was tired, and sore from messing with the giant wood blocks at Cully's house. The evening was doing a good job of sucking.

One early fare was off of Bethany. I picked them up to go to HyVee--this was the $11 fare. They said it was going to be round-trip, which was good, since it would be at least $20 on the meter plus $1 a minute wait time. So, probably a $30+ call. They said it would only be a minute and I reminded them of our wait time. They were not down with it. I dropped them there. I think the guy smelled like dope. It was the same chemical smell I smelled on that rotten-ass crackhead I picked up from the ER. When I worked at the culvert factory a reformed meth-cooker pointed out some weird burning chemical smell to me, and told me it smelled just like meth cooking. I need to do some research.

I picked up an older dude at the 9th Street Deli. He appeared at the door and motioned for me to wait. He made it out to the sidewalk, and gestured for me to drive to the corner and wait. I was about 15' away from the door, but I guess he'd rather do the 40' or so to the corner to avoid the curb, He had a cane and was laboring pretty heavy. His balance was gone. He shook and trembled and moved with short, choppy, unsteady steps. A not-unattractive blond girl had been sitting on a bench, chatting with someone and smoking a cigarette. She stood up and wrapped the man's arm around her neck, and assisted him to the car. It was still a slow, pained, pace. Her cigarette burned idly in her free hand, at her side.

She got him to the car and he thanked her. She retreated to the bench. It was a new ordeal for him to get into the car. His legs didn't cooperate. The girl ran back and helped him again. I thanked her. She got the door shut and I asked the guy's address.

"You're just making friends all over the place," I said, in reference to the young blonde.

"I should be so lucky," he responded, in reference to her youthful good looks.

I took him to Oak Towers. I pulled into their circle drive and he paid me. I asked if he needed any help. He said he figured he had it taken care of.

"Well, I'm here if you need me." He reconsidered. I joked that I wasn't as good looking as the blond girl, but that I would try my best.

"Well, I guess I should take advantage of you while I have you here." He put his arm on across my neck and on my shoulder. We proceeded with the same slow, measured, pained steps. I carried his sandwich in a bag and grabbed a newspaper for him, before leaving him at the elevator. He told me he was dreading an upcoming operation to fuse three vertebrae in his neck. "The way I look at it, I have about three options. One is, I could just die. The second is, I could be paralyzed. The third would be that it may actually help and do some good."

"Well, lets hope for that third option."

I had a call to go to the Gerbes on Paris Road. I pulled up and didn't see anyone. I parked and waited. After a couple of minutes I radioed dispatch and said I wasn't getting anyone. He told me to check inside, and wait some more. I did, no one. I checked again, and he said she should be there, and that she was going to Maple Grove. I didn't know where that was, so I looked it up while I was waiting, it was about 7 miles away, about a mile and a half past the Gerbes on Nifong. I thought it must have been an employee, since no one would go that far for groceries, when there was another store so close. Eventually dispatch told me to go ahead and leave.

I had made it back downtown when the woman called back. Dispatch radioed and said he messed up, that I should be at the Gerbes at Nifong, and that she was pissed. "I thought Maple Grove was pretty far away to go grocery shopping at Paris Road."

"Well why didn't you say something?" 1) it's your job to get the destination right, 2) you should have known where Maple Grove was at, since you've been driving in Columbia for years, 3) I didn't know I was going to Maple Grove until you mentioned it on the radio the third time I called to tell you no one was here. Amateurs. I picked her up and ran her home. The fare was $4.80 or something, and I pocketed the $.20, after loading and unloading all of her groceries.

While I was on the south side, and since we were so slow, I ran by my house to use the can. I grabbed the mando. I messed with it some, trying to figure out the G scale from my minor guitar knowledge, and just getting used to holding the little thing. If you don't know anything about mandolins, they are tiny, with 4 pairs of strings, tuned EADG. I had never considered it, but those strings are short and taut, and obviously not as easy to fret and bend as a longer string on a guitar or banjo. And, your fingers feel huge and clumsy as you try to get used to the tiny spacing between frets. You also pick each pair of strings together, as though it were one. This is a little different than when you pick a guitar, since you have to have the pick on the same plane for both strings, which are about 3/16" apart. So, your motion requires some adjustment.

I finally got a decent call, around 9 or 10pm. It originated at Lake of the Woods, which is typically at least a $16 or so call. I found the house, and fare was going all of the way to west Broadway, on the other side of HyVee. I asked him if dispatch gave him an idea of what the fare would run, since it would likely be at least $24 or $25. He said no, but said that sounded alright. It ended up being $26.05.

The guy was interested in making a documentary. He has a masters in creative writing, with an emphasis in screenwriting, I believe he said from USC film school. He took my number with the intent of possibly collaborating on a project in the future.

I lucked up and caught another $26.05 fare, immediately following that one, from Shiloh to out past Lake of the Woods, with a group of 3.

Later, I picked up a nice girl, maybe 25 or 26, at the Forge and Vine. She was going home to her husband and sick child. The fare was $11.05 or so, and she tipped me $3, saying I was "very courteous."

Those calls were saving me, as I had been averaging about $2.50 an hour for the first 8 hours. I picked up another guy from the Forge and Vine, somewhere near 1am. He was drunk, and in a good mood. I was taking him down off of Green Meadows. I was exhausted and beat. He asked me how my night was going, and if I was making any money. I wasn't really bitching, but I joked that it hadn't been going well, but that it was finally improving. He seemed entertained, and laughed alot. The fare to his house was $11.05. He gave me 3 $20's. I protested just a bit, but he insisted. I told him I was too broke to be proud, and thanked him.

That was $48.95 cash money, in my pocket. I would not have to render unto Caesar. On a good night I hope to take home $100. $48.95 helps. A lot. It was just like a stranger giving you $50, for no reason. I guess that's exactly what it was. It's good to be the cab driver.

I headed from that call straight to the De JA Vu. Dispatch said he had a number for the guy, and that he would call and send him out. I was accosted by 4 drunks before I could get to the De Ja Vu parking lot. I was almost completely sure they were not my fare, but they were in the car before I could sort it out. They had at least called A*1, so I told dispatch I had them and to send another cab for my fare. They were going way out off of Scott Boulevard, so I figured it was as good a call as any, plus there were 4 of them, which is an automatic $3 extra.

Along the way one of the guys (2 stags, one couple) had some drunk-dialing luck, and wanted me to stop by some condos off of Broadway, where he had to check on his odds of getting laid. I swung in and he jumped out of the cab, before I could warn him about wait time. I wasn't in the best mood, and they were all 4 arguing mildly about who was going where. I was not making wait time, and they were holding me up. I was getting steamed. Plus, they had hinted that they might all get out there, which would cut my fare in half. "Tasha."

"Excuse me?"

"Tasha." It was the drunk girl in the back, offering me her hand.

"It's nice to meet you Tasha." She apologized for them wasting time, and told me to honk the horn at them. It was close to 2 am. I hate to lay on the horn, especially when they are standing right there, outside, oblivious. She leaned forward and did it for me, really laying into it. Her boy came back and apologized, and I told him I had to run wait time.

"Sure, sure, run the meter." He was concerned that I got my fair share. He noticed the mandolin in the unzipped gig bag, sitting between the Crown Vic's bench seats. "Oh, sweet! Man, can I pick at that for a second, while we're waiting."

Since he didn't ask what it was and he wanted to play it, I assumed he knew a little about music. I said sure, asked him if he needed a pick, and handed it to him. He launched in playing Norwegian Wood, very cleanly. He was loving it, and played away at it for 7 or 8 minutes while we waited. I was enjoying myself, now that I was again making money.

Eventually they all got back in, accompanied by two more ladies. One rode in front. 5 were piled in the back. The girl up front talked to me while we were driving, about how she didn't like Scott Boulevard, that it was a dangerous road. She was saying something about her work and doing home visits with families of elementary school children. Some sort of social work. I would have been very interested, but was also trying to listen to the picker in the back. He had played classical guitar for 12 years, and had also owned a banjo and played it for a while. He was very enthusiastic. Tasha or some other person may have been asking me something else.

I got them all home. The girl in front had said she had lost her purse, preemptorily apologizing for not being able to assist in the tip. The fare was $29.05. They gave me $40, apologizing for not having more. Tasha was wasted and missing a shoe. The females were engaged in trying to locate it, to little success. The picker was standing at my window, and seized on the spotlight. He grasped it with both hands, and tried to wrestle it into some other position than the one it was in. I was looking in the back, trying to find the shoe. He reached in and tried to figure out the spotlight, finding the switch and turning it on, briefly.

I started to get out to find the shoe, and saw it on the ground outside of the car. The dude told me adamantly, a few times, to keep on pickin'. On the way back to town I heard the plaintiff beeping of a dying cell phone. When I got to the gas station I found a well-worn flip phone with a picture of Bob Marley on the screen behind the back seat's cushion.

I picked up another group of drunk undergrads from a small party on Ross (East Campus), at about 3am. They, of course, asked about Clyde. A couple of the girls were from the Club Jazz group on Tuesday, and remembered me. I let the girl in front smoke and she said I was her best friend. There was some talk about remembering people and I heard one of the girls remark "I bet he remembers_____," who was the girl who rode up front, said I was interesting, and I thought maybe couldabeen 1/2 interested in me. I guess not.

The girl up front must have been the drunk girl in cowboy boots and the miniskirt from Club Jazz. They talked about another driver, who must have been Terry, that they thought may have had a little too much interest in her. I gave her my card, and she intimated that I may be their new favorite cab driver, but that doesn't necessarily seem to work out very often.

I got one more $20.05 fare, with a $4.95 tip, before bringing it in. Despite the dismal start, I pulled some big fares and ran $190 on the meter. Rich did $191. Terry the Hustler did $229. JW and another driver only snagged $135. My take home from that was $66. Along with my gigantor $50 tip, I did pretty well, and felt less guilty about my mandolin purchase.

I slept from about 5:40am until about 11:30am. I went to Walt's Cycle and Fitness and bought a new floor pump for my bike. I still had my saw in the trunk, so I ran by Cully's. It didn't want to run right, so I ended up just bullshitting with him. He was planning on coming over to work on his Hondas. I stopped at the gas station and got a sixer of Newcastle, a sixer of Pony Express Gold Beer, and a sixer of Lone star. I watched Cully work on his bikes and drank beer. I called it a night early and slept from about 10 until 5:45 this morning. Yeah, those are pretty regular hours, but not for a cab driver. I suspect 4 am will seem pretty late when it gets here after my shift later this afternoon.

Peat has a house guest, an old college mate from Jersey. Peat, Ted (the houseguest), Cully, and myself bullshat and drank beers after Cully finished up for the night in the garage. The modified hours and genuine human social interaction (I talked a lot while Cully worked) placated my need to blog a bit. I felt that old feeling of having to finish a paper before a deadline, where I would skip my other classes and work feverishly at it, compromising my product.

Well, even if it is just for the grade, here it is. Let's hope it makes Monday suck a little less for you, and I promise to do better next time.