Are You Being Served?

Greetings. It is 5:53 Thursday morning. I am still laboring under the effects of a minor head cold.

I slept until 3:30 today (Wednesday), and woke up feeling like ass. I scurried around and took a trip to the MU campus. I needed some supplies from the bookstore. I suppose I could have found a better place to buy them, but that is about the only place I've ever picked up art supplies in Columbia. I questioned my logic when it took me close to ten minutes to find a parking spot, some 1/4 mile from the bookstore.

That sent me flashing back, a bit. I used to go through that every night, looking for a parking spot near the law school so I could go study. I usually parked on Conley or in the parking garage at Conley and Maryland. That's where I ended up parking tonight.

My buddy Galen had a Pathfinder when we were in law school. We were dueling one evening, and he took a parking space I wanted, by the little guard shack thing. When I came back out, before him, I lassoed one of those giant concrete blocks (2x2x3') with the yellow poles in it, and drug it, with my Bronco, squarely behind his Pathfinder. I was laughing to myself about how stealthy I had been when I realized the chain I had used had become lodged in my tow receiver.

Another friend of mine had his truck parked only a few spaces away, so I grabbed a piece of firewood out of the back of it. I was using the stick of firewood to beat the chain loose when a car pulled up, I guess at first to see if I needed any assistance. Here I was, beating on a chain on the back of a 70's Ford Bronco next to a giant concrete block directly behind another parked car. I thanked him and told him I was cool.

The chain came loose and I drove away. The good Samaritan had parked and was walking past the Pathfinder in the garage when my buddy returned and saw the concrete block. He didn't have to think long to realize who did it, but, the funniest part, to me, was that he assumed I had done it by hand. He was laughing to himself at how dedicated I was as a prankster, to have wrestled and lugged the giant block by myself for a gag. Galen was a good deal stronger than me, and it was whipping his ass. He was surprised I had been that strong. When the Samaritan passed by he said "I think I saw the guy who did that." Galen told him he had a pretty good idea as to who it had been.

No charges were filed.

Anyhoo, I parked in the damned old garage and strode my way across campus. I went to the bookstore and selected a few items. It was a very satisfying consumer moment.

After that, I went to Buckinghams, and had some ribs. I was starting to get a bit shaky. I ate the ribs and headed home. I swung by the public library, and grabbed a couple of DVDs. I watched Image of an Assassination: A New Look at the Zapruder Film and part of Rex the Runt.

The Zapruder film documentary was interesting, but as slickly produced and entertaining as the training video at your last job, or maybe the Flint, Michigan, Chamber of Commerce tourism videos. There was no discussion of any of the conspiracy theories, it simply followed the history of the Zapruder film and documented it's digital transfer, restoration, and enhancement. All Hollywood bullshit and conspiracy theory aside, it is unusual to see a man's head explode. Wow, that is some unnatural shit.

I watch Rex the Runt just to see what the fuck those limey Brits have been up to since The Benny Hill Show and Are You Being Served?. It's kind of like listening to one of your 14 year-old's rap CDs to try to figure out what the fuck these kids are talking about nowadays. I thought I might pick up on some trendy, cutting edge shit before it jumped the pond. Well, not just yet.

I also finally sent my pink eye bill to the insurance company. It got messed up at the hospital and I got billed directly. Then I took the opportunity to write a letter on the triptych kitty card I had purchased for Mr. Kirk Rundstrom. I told him, among other things, that he always reminded me of my born-again drywaller-turned-Baptist preacher uncle Phillip, a member of the Donner Party, and/or a manic zealot. I wished him a speedy and complete recovery and gave him my dead Grandma money to buy some chicken with.

I did some mandolin pickin', and then a little banjo. I'm about to get my first mandolin tune (Cripple Creek) under my fingers. That makes for a lot more fun than just practicing the G-scale and chop cords. Five Easy Pieces was on while I was pickin'. That's not the best movie start-to-finish, with some overacting and cliche moments, but, damn if I can't stop watching it whenever it is on. It's nice to have movies like that, which I have been watching off-and-on for some 15 years or so, to compare your growth to. Jack Nicholson's character was kind of my romantic masculine ideal in my younger, meaner days. The older I get the more pathetic his character seems. On the upside, it was from the creator of The Monkees, Tony Basil is in it, and you get to see Sally Struther's nekkid jubblies from when she was as cute as pie.

After that, I burned some time online. I snapped some mohawk pics to satiate the demands of the masses. They don't do the best job of documenting it, but you can tell that it's there. And that I need to clean my bathroom mirror.

I went to Waffle House around 1:45. I ate, came back home, and slept. I took some cold medicine Peat gave me, after a snort of rye. That was keeping me from sleeping soundly. I thought I was in the cab. I woke up for good around 5:38am.

So, I thought I'd blog a bit. I don't know how much I'll get done in this sitting, but, Monday and Tuesday were fairly calm, so I shouldn't have any epic material like last week. I was wanting to check out The Greencards tonight at the 'Note, so I don't know how that might affect my update. Better get it out now, iffin' I can.

So, cab:

Monday. I came in and got dispatched to do a wheelchair right away. #15, the one-ton Dodge van I had been using for wheelchairs, was in the shop. I was sent out in #17. #17 is Taxi Terry's 28 passenger bus. Kelly asked if I thought I could drive it. "I wouldn't want to do a slalom course in it, but I'm sure I can get it from point A to point B." It's a lot like the one in the picture. Surprisingly, it wasn't that bad to drive. It is actually much more ergonomic than the Dodge van and even rides better.

My first call was to pick up at the dialysis clinic. I pulled in and tried to find the best compromise as to where to park the giant van. I needed to back up in the lot so the chair lift was as close to the door as possible, without blocking in too many people, as there were cars lined up perpendicular to the bus on either side of it. I found a pretty good spot, and went in for my fare.

He was an older white guy, with one leg left. I guess dialysis really sucks. It wasn't high on my to-do list, but, man, those people don't seem to be feeling too spritely when I pick them up and they are always desperately wanting to get home as soon as possible. Can't say as I blame them.

I wheeled the dude out and to the van. I had dropped the chair lift before I went in, so I could just wheel the guy up and save a couple of moments. Some dickweed in a PT Cruiser had pulled out of a space behind me and wanted to squeeze between the van and the parked cars, but the ramp made this a dicey proposition. Tough shit. They were going to have to wait.

The ramps on these vans are barely wide enough to get the wheelchair on. You can either wheel them on facing the van, or backwards. I prefer to wheel them on backwards, since I can pull them into the inside of the van easier when the lift is raised up. Otherwise, I have to climb up on the elevated platform, balance myself behind a wheelchair, reach around the customer and under their blankies to release the brakes, and wheel them over the threshold into the van.

So, I backed the guy onto the ramp, which means I have to weasel my way out of the tight confines behind him. In this case, he had a duffel bag hanging on the handles of the back of his wheelchair. I had to take that off so that it would clear. I finally got him up and into the van, and climbed back out to raise the ramp so the PT Cruiser could pass.

Well, I guess that jackass wasn't confident driving his 5.5' wide Cruiser through a 12' wide hole, and waited, expecting me to move. Well fuck him. I'm trying to pick up a one-legged man in a wheelchair from dialysis. The smallest thing I ever drive is a Crown Victoria, and now I'm in a gigantor fucking van. If you can't operate your compact PT Cruiser in that scenario your driver's license should be revoked.

The PT Cruiser waited for a minute, but finally came to it's milk, and, in a daring display of danger and bravado, drove the fuck around. Thanks, A-hole #1. Well, now I had A-hole #2 wanting to get out. Someone blocked on the North/driver's side of the van. I was trying to strap in the wheelchair guy. He suggested I go ahead and pull forward, so A-hole #2 could get out. I did, and he did.

Well, then I had A-holes # 3 and #4 to deal with. A-hole #4 was a dumb old bitch with the giant cataract sun goggles on, in a Windstar minivan. She had been parked, badly, in the handicapable spot in front of the door. All she had to do was to reverse, in the direction she was already turned, crooked from pulling in, and back up about 50' in the parking lot to pull back forward and exit. But she only wanted to back straight up, then pull out normally. Well tough shit, old bird. I'll revoke your license, too, bitch.

I ignored her, and proceeded to try to figure out the straps in #17, which were different from the ones in #15. I'm not taking any chances with these things. Now A-hole #3, some old dickweed in a Ford Escape with a dapper cap, was trying to back out at the back of the van, where he had ample room. But, like A-hole #4, he was incapable of reversing and making a three-point turn, and expected me to move for him. Forward, where A-hole #4 was waiting for me to move backward. I continued to ignore them both and worked on my straps.

Well, A-holes #4 and #3 both got out of their cars and stood, gawking at me, like I was the problem, and I could be somehow motivated by gape-mouthed dickweeds expressing their mute disgust in some A-hole with a mohawk. Again, fuck them. A-hole #3 then told me to move and let A-hole #4 out. I promptly ignored him. He got back in his Escape and negotiated the three-point turn, finally, but now A-hole #4 had backed up and was blocking him in. And A-hole #4 really did need her driver's license revoked.

I finished with the straps and went back up to the driver's seat. Now all I had to do was release the parking brake, put on my seat belt, and back up, and all of the assholes would be happy. But, it didn't appear that A-hole #4 could wait that long. She was backing up right into the front of my bus.

Like she could see anything with her cataracts, or through her monster shades, even if she could judge distances, even if she could rotate her fucking head that far. She was most definitely backing into me. I got it into reverse and managed to move back before she hit me. Of course it would have been all her fault, but I didn't have the patience to wait for some A-hole #5 cop who would blame everything on me because I have a mohawk and tattoos, especially with a sick one-legged man and me never far from my Network moment. Not like I drive for a living or anything.

So, finally, exasperated, all of the A-holes had been discharged to drive slowly in front of people with their blinkers on, in the wrong lane, and generally be fuckwads on wheels. I could proceed in relative peace. During all of that wrangling, though, I forgot to release the parking brake. The rear drums were roasty-toasty and reeked like burning asbestos when I got the one-legged dude home. I unloaded him and headed to my next wheelchair pickup.

Most of the stink had dissipated when I got to the Med Center for my next pickup. It was my first motorized wheelchair, so I thought I could relax as she ramped herself into the van. She was more than eager to help, but not as good at backing that thing up as you might expect. After a couple of tries, I had her straight enough to hoist into the van.

She was in the neighborhood of 50, and had apparently only recently become so limited as to no longer be able to perform her job as a secretary and had been let go. She was on oxygen, and it clicked every few second to give her a fresh squirt of O2. She did her best to be upbeat, joking about paralysis, but she started tearing up when she told me about the going-away party they had for her at her old job. This conversation spanned some 20' in the loud, rattly bus, her behind me, pointed to the side, me trying to keep the behemoth between the lines on the narrow lanes of North College.

I got her home and unloaded. A car in the driveway was blocking her access to her ramp. I waited while she called inside the house on her cell phone to get it moved before I pulled away.

I had another wheelchair pickup, at Rusk Rehab. I didn't get there until 5:20, and I guess it was a 5pm time call. He was already gone. I took #17 back in and got in #6

My first call in the Crown Vic was at Hoot-N-Anny's. Some contractor who was friends with the owner of the Vogue and had been remodeling the ladies' dressing rooms. He said the owner was supposed to show up to help him, but didn't, and he had done the work of two men. He was already drunk, and had a pretty bad back. It was painful watching him wince as he slid stiffly in and out of the back seat.

Turned out he was from Hartville, MO, an even shittier, smaller town to Lebanon's South. Lebanon had been the 'mecca' he and his friends visited for entertainment when he grew up back in the 70s. He tipped $2.70 on a $12.30 fare.

Next I had a call at the Hawthorne Suites. Alright, business traveler. Heading to the Trattoria Strada Nova, even better. He had been from a blue collar background and worked in construction for several years before the interest rates skyrocketed in the late 70s/early 80s, when he went back to college. I talked with him about my hiatus from higher education. Everything was going smoothly. It was a $9.30 fare. He asked if he could get me back again around 9:30. I said yes, then gave him my card. Then he gave me a $10 and wanted a receipt.

$.70 is pretty chincy, given the circumstances. But, gratuities are not guaranteed. I thought he may have been saving a good tip for later, when I picked him back up. It was 7pm when I dropped him. That meant that he likely planned to do some drinking, until 9:30 or so. I figured that would help open the purse strings some, too. Besides the possibility he might want to make a Foxy Sauna run. I thanked him and headed out.

My next call was some regulars, a young black couple whom I had hauled a couple of times before. They tip some every other time. I appreciate the effort. The wanted to go to Dinos, but it was closed. I dropped them off at the Captain D's, instead.

From there, I had to do another wheelchair. I took #6 back in and got in #15, which had returned from the shop. I took it and went back for my original legless lady, the wheelie-woman. I got her home without incident.

Next, I was dispatched to TPs on Rangeline. Dicey. Could be a very-drunk middle-ager.

I got up there and had to go in. I found the fare, a nice-looking Nascar-dad, 49, with a well-groomed moustache. A black dude with a gold grill had just bought him a beer, and asked me if I could wait for him to finish it. I said I couldn't wait that long, but he was welcome to bring it if he could slip out the door with it. He did, and we headed North.

The guy wasn't drunk, though you don't have to be to get a DWI. He said he was twice divorced and had let a younger (36 year old) woman move in with him. Things weren't going so well. They had got into a fight at the bar, she was his ride. He called the cab because he was done listening to her.

His chief complaint was that she wanted him to be mean to another woman, whom he had been friends with since high school, because she didn't like her. When he told her he wasn't going to be mean to someone he was friends with, she had told him to "grow some balls." I could tell he was on the fence with this one, and, if she didn't straighten up and act right, she was about to get the boot. He maintained that he was too old to put up with such shit.

The guy wasn't really even that mad, more disappointed than anything else. He was a pretty cool guy, and spoke fondly of fatherhood, and how it had changed him completely, for the better. He lived way out in the boonies, and the fare ran $32.80. His old lady had beat him home. It was a pretty swank place, a new house on a fab'd lake, with a big concrete driveway and a huge 3 or 4 bay shop to one side. She was in the car, a white Ford Explorer, and it was in reverse. I was afraid she might come shooting backwards as I tried to pass her in the driveway.

"There's no telling how much she's had to drink. She's already crashed my truck, her car..." I dropped him off, and he gave me $40. "Keep the change." Sweet. I got the fuck out of there and back into Columbia without incident.

Then I picked up a girl from the new Kohl's on Nifong. She seemed uneasy in a taxi, and didn't talk much. $9.05, no tip.

Next, I snagged a regular. A kid named Marshall who works at Flat Branch. I took him home. He had known the kid who got shot in the home-invasion up the street from mi casa. Marshall tipped me $4 on a $12.05 fare.

After that,I had another regular, a bartender from Harpos. I ran him home. He tips well. He was pretty wasted, and I had to laugh at him almost falling down as he got out of the car, and doing the drunk rapid-crab-walk-get-there-before-I-fall-can't-possibly-correct-stride-now stagger toward his house.

Then, yet another regular. The girl who works at Steak-N-Shake, $4.55 fare, $2.45 tip.

It was 10:30, and the dude requested me back at Trattoria Strada Nova. He was an hour behind schedule, which, I hoped, meant that he was drunk. Alright, payday. I got there, STAT. No one came out. I waited a couple of minutes, and went in to let him know I was there. He was talking business with two colleagues. He said he'd be out in a minute.

I went back out and waited. He got in no hurry. He took a good 4-5 minutes. When he came out, I took him back to the hotel. I guess he's a salesman of some sort, and comes to Columbia to meet with physicians from the university. He was asking me about some places he could take clients in Columbia. I filled him with excellent information. I got him back to the hotel, and the fare was, again, $9.30. He gave me a $20. "Just give me a $10 back." Thanks, Elvis. And he wanted a receipt. For $10, since the company doesn't reimburse tips. Like this guy would put them out of business, or something.

But that's just me complaining.

Next, I was dispatched to Hooters. My first call there. It was the guy from the Monday before, who was a drunk prick, outed by his lady, who tipped me $32 on a $30 fare, and threatened to kick my ass if I left a mark in his parents' yard.

He wasn't near as drunk, this time. He also had a friend with him. I asked him if I had taken him Wehmeyer the week before. "Probably. I've taken a few cabs out there." He didn't remember the trip.

I took the two of them to Willies. They made a few calls to coordinate with friends along the way. The guy up front (the friend), was pretty cool. He was wearing a dapper suit, a wide-legged, wool pinstriped affair. I guess he was a med student, and didn't really seem up for a night of rampant drinking. The fare was $11.05, I think, and he gave me $15. Not to be outdone, the guy in back argued with him about who was paying, and then gave me $5 more. Sweet. $9 tip. And, they wanted a card to request me back. No problems at all...

My next call was a dude from Target that I had hauled once before. Not much of a story, really.

Then I grabbed a regular from downtown, a drummer in a local band. I was picking at the mandolin when he came out, as a flag. Along the way he was telling me about a side project he was in, with a friend on mandolin, singing (the guitar player from his original band), a guy on upright bass, him on some stripped-down percussion, and a chick singing. He was quick to stress that it wasn't bluegrass, though.

I got another flag out of Campus bar, heading to Richmond. I told them about the dumb bitch 905/915 fiasco from the last night I had worked.

Then I was requested back by the cats from Willies, who had tipped me $9. I took them to a house on Ross, by way of the Petro Mart for beer. It was just after 1am. The dude up front noticed the mandolin, and said that his grandfather was quite the bluegrass musician. He had grown up playing keyboards, had spent 5 years doing the Christian praise-Jesus thing, then broke out of that. He said he'd like to find some people to play with, for fun. I directed him to comomusic.com. The fare was $9.05, and he gave me $20. No change. Sweet. And, I figured to get them once more before I quit at 4am.

I grabbed what I thought was a third flag as I cruised back downtown. He had actually called, and I had inadvertently sniped him from another driver. He said he managed some local bands and gave me his card. He was on the phone, trying to hook up with some chick. Part of that equation apparently hinged on him being able to get in to some place for which he had no key. He kept assuring her that he could go in through a window, and that they could make it work.

The fare was at $3.55. He gave me $7 and took my cell phone number. He said he'd call if he got in and didn't need me anymore. He called back, at $7.05, and I cruised.

My last call came from campus. It's a dude I've hauled 3 or 4 times, from different places. I think he has a bad back or something, and sometimes walks half-way home before calling, as there's no real pattern as to where I pick him up. He usually tips, though, on a short fare.

Dispatch said I could call it quits, then, at 2am. I hadn't got off early in 6 or 7 weeks, and I had been out late both Friday and Saturday. I welcomed going home early, even though I left at least one good call and a tip out there. I had done $215 on the meter, and thought the extra rest would help my budding cold symptoms. I cashed out and went home. With the good tips, I pulled about $130, which isn't bad at all for a Monday. With the flags and requests I had beat the other drivers pretty soundly, besides having some good tips.

Tuesday:

I felt shitty when I woke up. I went in and had a call waiting for me. In Brookfield, MO. Where's Brookfield, you ask? Good question. Take 63 North to Macon, then 36 West to Brookfield. It was a medical transport call. I was to pick up a woman there and bring her to the med center. Cool. That's 3 hours to relax. I have never been dispatched further than Jefferson City, 30 miles away. This was 95 miles, one way, door to door.

I was in #6. Great for cruising. I listened to commercial radio and drove the speed limit.

I was expecting some rigmarole in finding the place. I had an address and a phone number. I took the first Brookfield exit and stopped at a Caseys, to look for a phone book. The woman at the counter pointed to a pay phone on the wall. I picked up the phone book and asked if she happened to know where Joyce Place was. She did, and gave me laser-accurate directions.

It was close, and, shockingly easy to find. Wow. That was easy. I went up to the apartment and knocked. A woman answered. I asked if she was Wilma, and she said yes, and to come in.

I waited as she collected her things. There was wire rack next to the door, filled with 8-track cassettes. I looked for an 8-track player, but didn't see one. I looked at the titles. All good old country stuff. A lot of Freddy Fender. There was one truckin' songs cassette, and one that said "30 Years of Bluegrass." She said she had got them when her mother had died.

She had an O2 bottle and needed to collect her teeth. She took some dentures out of a glass and slipped them in, her back turned to me. When she went to speak the uppers about fell out of her mouth. I guess she's not used to them.

I loaded her up and headed back to Columbia. It was good and dark now. She rode up front. We had to listen to oldies until we got past Macon, then I switched to BXR and caught the game. I dropped her off. The fare (through the medical contract) was $78.80, plus a $3 co-pay. Not too bad for 3 hours on a Tuesday evening.

Next, I picked up a regular from Target. No drama. $2 tip.

After that, I picked BJ up from work. I noticed he had on a new Carhart-type work coat and work boots. "Yup, new boots, new coat."

"Did you have a birthday?"

"Nope. My birthday's next month."

"Well, you're all set then."

BJ was all wound-up. He was drinking a can of Pepsi. "Uh-oh, looks like I'm about out of Pepsi. I'd really be set if I had a Pepsi from QuickTrip." I offered to stop, and he really got wound up. He gulped greedily at the can he already had, so that he could get another one.

We passed a wreck under the overpass at 63 and Stadium. The ass-end of the car was all piled up, but I didn't see any other vehicles, and I couldn't tell how they could have got up so much speed in the West-bound lane, since it starts at 63 itself. This explained, some. Kudos for not wearing a seat belt, but you really should try harder to kill yourself next time. Please and thank-you. In advance.

The meter on #6 has a bit of a glitch in it. To the side of the main display is a smaller display for 'extras,' which we never use. On #6, it displays "11 11 1." BJ looked at it. "You owe, 11 11 1," and giggled. "You owe...one thousand...one hun'erd...eleven dollars...and one." I had also been picking up all of dispatch's calls to car #2, and #2's responses. They were discussing the Tigers game.

#2 said, "Gardner had 19 points in the first half, and only 2 in the second half."

BJ went off. "Pull him. Gardner owes '11 11 1,'" and giggled maniacally, "dispatch owes '11 11 1." I got that wacky character home, and headed to Brady Commons.

It was a young black guy, with some sort of minor ailment, which cause him to walk and talk a bit peculiar. On the way to his house he asked "so, are you a punk rocker?" We had a conversation about mohawks. He said he had had one, once, in 1988. He complemented me for having the 'gumption' to sport one at age 29. That's one way to put it.

I have had by far more comments from black people than white people about the mohawk, and all of them have been positive.

Next I picked up a regular, the one who works overnight at the nursing home, in the dementia ward. I segued from that into another regular, the Steak 'N' Shake girl.

After that, it was a call to the Super 7. I've mentioned it is a dodgy establishment. As I circled the building, I saw a dog tethered to a water spigot. I found the room. It was a black guy. He had called once earlier, then changed his mind. He said it would be a minute, and went to put his dog in the room. "I can't travel with my, dog, can I?"

I told him I didn't care, and he got in with the pooch. It was a nice-looking dog, and not some damn pit-bull or such shit. I asked him where he was going. "Well, I was going to Be'rridge, but, no--I need to go to...take me over to Austin." Austin's in the hood. It's where I picked up the crackwhore that solicited me. I started heading that way. As we passed North 6th he said "that's where I really need to be." I asked him if I should turn back, but he said, 'no,' that he would have to come back there after going to Austin.

Then he complained about all of the money he had spent on cabs that day, and started to say something about the driver he had earlier, who had been cool. He was setting me up for the hustle.

Like I fucking need this shit.

Of course, he wanted to go round-trip, and not pay wait time, and get a deal, etc., etc. As I hit Providence I started to turn right to go to Austin. He said to turn left. I asked him how he wanted to get there, and he 'remembered' that he needed to go to Switzler, instead, though he didn't know the name of the street.

So, we went to Switzler, in the heart of the projects. I'll take the projects over the hood any day, since the projects are fairly open, well-lit, and right off of Providence and downtown, with a police presence. It really gets dodgy when you get over in the 'hood, with the shitty old houses, close together, with no streetlights or good escape routes.

I pulled into the parking lot. He finally agreed to pay wait time. He gave me $5 then, as the meter was $4.55. I gave him $.50 and started wait time. He left his dog.

Two black girls walked by, going to an apartment door. One of them saw me, and pantomimed to the cigarette she had, needing a light. #6 has the tinted windows, so she must not have seen me shaking my head. She walked up, and I rolled down the window. She poked her head in and saw the dog, sitting, placid, right behind my head.

"Oh, look at you, you cute thing."

"Yup, that's my new buddy." She thought I had found him. I told her that he belonged to a fare I was waiting on. About then the guy came back. He knew the two girls. They started talking, and the chicks got in the cab with him, to go back over to North 6th. One rode up front, the other in the back. $3.50 wait time had clicked off, making it $8.05.

"Who's dog is this?"

"That's my dog."

"Yeah, but what are you going to do with him?"

"It's my dog. What do you mean, 'do?' Damn. I know you're going to put in on this cab ride. Give me $2."

"Ain't got it."

"Woman, don't even play me like that."

"I said I don't have it."

I ran them back over to North 6th. The meter showed $9.05. Plus two passengers, it should have been $11.05, though they had just jumped in and gone a few blocks. I knew it would be pulling teeth to get any more out of him. The two chicks hit the ground running, leaving him and the dog in the car. He bitched about the women stiffing him.

"That's how all of the ladies I've known act." Bullshit, you know.

"Them ain't no ladies, thems bitches. That's how a bitch acts. Man, hook me up here"

"Give me $4." I got three out of him and booted him.

Next, I grabbed the Harpos bartender again. He was less drunk this time.

Then, I grabbed a pretty-regular chick out of Quintons. There was a dude with her. She had got some new boobs, and was going on a vacation to show them off for the first time this weekend. She got a been burrito with no onions from Taco Bell. Lucinda Williams came on the radio. From there, the dude started talking about how much he like Lizzie West. I told them that she would be in Columbia in April.

When we got to her house, I told them it was $1 extra for the second passenger. "Oh, no, you're taking me home. I'm not getting out. I'm through with this bitch for tonight." He tipped me $4.

From there I was dispatched to Columbia Square Townhomes.

Columbia Square is like the projects-West. Calls from there always make me a little tense. I get a lot of them late at night. And, of course, tips are virtually non-existent.

This one was a lone black woman, wearing pajamas, Grumpy bedroom slippers, and smoking a cigarello. I was taking her to her boyfriend's mamma's house. Her boyfriend's cousin had died a couple of weeks ago, and she was going to relieve her boyfriend of bereavement duty.

After that I got a call at the Coliseum Bistro, after 1am. I took the guy over on Bluff Drive, and he tipped me $7 on an $8.05 fare. Ah, yeah. Would you like a card?

Next, I had a call from Bass, on East campus, going to the Best Value Inn. It was an odd combination. The houses were dark and numbers were hard to see, but the guy met me in the street. He had a bag with him and was somewhat quick to volunteer that he was going to see a friend who was in town to visit. Something was fishy somewhere, but it was none of my business.

After that, I had a call from the Boone ER on a social work pass. A black girl with a nasty cough. She was pretty nice, despite how sick she must have felt.

Then I had another call to Columbia Square, 17E. I pulled up and no one came out. I had dispatch call, and the dude was actually at 7D. I drove over there and he came right out.

He was a Kansas City transplant, all thugged out. Pants crotch at his knees. He came out eating some pizza bites. Damn, are those things ever good, especially if you're fucked up. He had two in his lap when he closed the door. He said he had smoked 2 or 3 blunts and that they were a necessity.

He was going all of the way across town to the Regency Trailer Court (where I had my runner). He asked if I could break a $100. I had forgot to thin my wallet from the night before when I woke up, and had come to work with better than $250. Then, I had been collecting money all night, and had received my last $100 from Gene for the van I sold him. I was sitting on $430 or so. Breaking the $100 made me a little nervous, since I would have to pull out my fat wallet and start counting $20s.

The guy seemed plenty cool, though. I started to go the most direct route, but he insisted on directing me, costing him $3 or $ more. The fare was $20.30. I took his hundo and changed him 4 $20s. He had directed me right to the trailer, it matched the number he had given me, and he had phoned someone to unlock the door when we got close. I waited until I saw him go in the trailer, then used my new counterfeit-bill pen to make sure the $100 was good.

You've probably seen these pens in action. All they do is react with the paper. If it is good the mark is either yellow or clear. If it is fake the mark is brown or dark gray. So, when you whip out your next batch of counterfeit bills, take a yellow magic marker and put two or three marks on there. Maybe the next person will believe that someone's already tested it good and save themselves the hassle. Or, if you want to fuck with someone down the line, put some brown marks on your good bills, and deposit them in the bank.

So that was my big Tuesday night. I finished up a little early, about 3am. I did $205 on the meter, which was pretty good, though tips were down a bit, me only managing a little over $20. It was my worst night in quite some time, but it's still loads better than back in December, when I would pull a whopping $108 on the meter for 12 hours' work. I still did handily better than the other drivers, by about $60 in at least one case.

So, there you go. A calm two days that made for a thriftier blog. Which is good, because I feel like crap. I think I'll grab some breakfast and catch me some Z'sers. Hopefully I will feel good enough to go to the show tonight, and I vow not to drink. Much.

Oh, and check out some mohawk pictures, below.

Ciao,
Garner.