Ex Posto Cookie-Popping

Here we go. Thursday night. 7:40 pm.

After my last update I crashed out to get some sleep before working Monday. I left you hanging as to what might have transpired Saturday night in the cab.

Well, you didn't miss anything too exciting. The rundown:

I started off hauling Miss Jean to Chris McDs. Pretty standard. The hostess was wearing something that didn't seem to fit the season. Sort of a Olivia Newton John Let's Get Physical kind of thing.

My next call was over on Sanford, again. This was the same house with the bucket-o-chicken deal on Friday. I didn't get the gramma this time, just the teenage girl and maybe her sister? Someone in her early thirties? They were going to Bingo. We stopped for cigarettes along the way. The woman had all of the Bingo gear. Some weird bucket with special pockets all around it for the different colored mega paint markers.

When we got to the Bingo hall, it was apparently closed. It was a bust. I took them back. The fare was about $20. They weren't too put out, though. The woman said she was going to take a bath and go to bed.

My next call was to a president street, over in the hood. I didn't know what to expect, and pulled up to a house with an El Camino in the driveway. The tailgate was down, and there was a cardboard sign taped to it that read "TV for sale. Cable ready. $25." A white guy came and got in the cab. He had a red plastic Solo cup with him. He looked semi-professional, though he was casually attired in sweats and slip-on shoes.

I asked him if the El Camino was his, and he said it was his buddy's. I asked him how he was doing. He exhaled an exhausted sigh. "Not good. Do you really want to know?"

"It's none of my business, I don't mean to pry. But I do like to hear people talk."

He said he had been sober for a year and a half and had fallen off the wagon. He smelled like alcohol but was very lucid and didn't appear intoxicated. I asked if he was in AA, and my knowledge of the program was apparent. This made him think I was in AA, but I told him I wasn't, just that I was familiar with it and knew some people actively involved. I asked him if he had a sponsor, and he did, but he hadn't called him or anything when he fell off the wagon.

I talked a little about my alcoholic antics and he seemed to think I was in control, and was perhaps a little covetous. I mentioned that my father had been an alcoholic. This caught his interest. His father had been a tee-totaler, and he thought that may have somehow affected him. He mentioned that the biggest worry he had about his drinking was the effect it could have on his two little kids. As we neared his destination he mentioned that it was his friend's house, and that his friend had $400 that he owed him, and that he hoped he was home, because he had no money on him.

Shit.

Like that's a scenario that couldn't possibly go wrong. He quickly assured me that his friend told him that if he wasn't at home he would be at work with the money. We would go there to collect. I was mildly concerned. I knew it was a real possibility that this would be a wild goose chase. It was slow and I had nothing else to do, but this puts me in an awkward position with dispatch. They'll want to get the police involved. This guy wasn't a criminal, and I'd sooner eat the fare myself and try to collect from him later, if need be.

We went to where his friend worked, at the Columbia Tribune. We pulled up behind the building and the guy got out and went to a backdoor, where he spoke to some people on a smoke break. Then he bummed a cigarette and came back to the car. He said someone had gone inside to send his buddy out. I wasn't running wait time. The fare was $15.80.

The guy's friend came out, and looked a little annoyed that his friend showed up, drunk, asking for money. He didn't have it on him, and said he'd have to wait until he got off at 8 to go get it. It was a little after 7. Luckily, though, the guy had $15 on him, and gave that to me for cab fare. I was happy to eat the $.80 and get rid of the guy. I asked him if he thought he was on track and gave him a card. I actually did provide some quality therapy, honestly. He thanked me again and said he could tell I had a big heart.

It was pretty slow. I parked and tried to eat some Fazoli's. I got an 8pm time call. Some dude from New York who requested a 'nice car' and hinted that he might rent me out to go bar-hopping. He had requested someone with some knowledge of the bar scene. He talked big money. He was at Campus Lodge Apartments, which is one of the newer, nicer apartment buildings off of Old 63.

I got there early. He came out and got in the cab. He was Hispanic, with a mild accent. More urban than ethnic. He said he was born in Madrid, and had grown up in a small town in Texas. He worked for Kay Jewelers, in management, and had just been transferred to Columbia. He had lived and worked in Europe and Manhattan, as well as a few other urban areas. Welcome to Columbia, Chief.

He was one of the typical East coast-Midwest transplants. Of course he thought the taxi game was one big racket, and that we were all crooked. He wanted to find a personal taxi driver to take care of him. He promised big tips and steady business. He was 28, and looking for some tail.

We stopped off at a convenience store for cigarettes, then went downtown. I noticed a jacket in the back seat. It must have been from the AA cat. Dude wanted the low-down on the local club scene. Sheesh. That takes about 10 seconds. It's not like I'm trying to hide anything. He ended up settling on the Field House. I ran him by an ATM. He kept watching the meter, and kept telling me that "I only flip $20s, Bro." Meaning, cut the meter down to $10 so I can get a $10 tip. This annoyed me, though, because I'd rather run the meter straight-up, and have a $5 tip for doing my job right and not stealing. As it was, the fare came in around $14.55 or so. He took a card and swore he'd call back for me.

Of course he didn't. But that's fine. I'd rather not deal with him, if I don't have to. I just don't want anyone telling me how to do my job, or acting like driving a cab is some crooked Jimmy Hoffa Teamsters Mafia racket. It's just a shitty job in a college town.

I picked up 4 dudes from the Holiday Inn Express and took them downtown. They were from Sedalia, some dudes in their mid-to-late 20s. They had had a few, and there was a faint smell of reefer. They were familiar with Columbia, and came in for a night out on the town, since there's not much night life in Sedalia. The were blue-collar types, but young and rowdy. Some of them worked for a beverage distribution place, or something. They were pretty good dudes, and asked for a card, saying they'd request me back. I dropped them at the Penguin.

From there I picked up a Mom from Dallas at the CC's City Broiler. I took her back to the Holiday Inn Express. She was an accountant, and was in town shopping her third daughter at MU. She had been in Lawrence, KS, earlier that day, looking at KU. She left her daughter with her sister, who attends MU, who were up for a night out. She was tired and headed back to the hotel. We talked about my career situation. She thought it was cool that I was learning something before becoming an attorney. She tipped about $5.

I picked up a cracker bitch from her house and took her to work at the Supercenter. She usually walked, but it was raining like crazy. I had been fighting the defrost all night. It was 48 degrees, and I couldn't keep the right balance with the heater. Every time someone else got in it fogged all to shit. She still had the poof-ball bangs and frizzy permed hair. She complained about the management at Wal-Mart and wished she was going out with her girlfriends to Cody's or Midway.

I got a call to pick up at Harpos. It was sometime before 11. I was right on top of it, and parked and waited. No one came out for a while. Then, a lone chick came out, in a rush. She jumped in. I asked if she had called.

She said she hadn't, that she had called another cab, but that she had to go home right away, because her girlfriend had spilled beer all over her and she was embarrassed. It wasn't far, about a $4.55 fare. I decided to run her and come back for the people who called, since they were taking their sweet time.

On the way the chick said she had $1. She said she had a debit card. I mentioned the $2 service charge. She repeated that she only had $1. Basically, she didn't want to pay me, since she didn't want to spend the $2 on the service charge. It caught me a bit off guard. She asked if I could give her a card and she would pay me another time. I didn't really want to call in a credit card. I wrote $4.55 and the date on the back of a card and gave it to her, telling her to call when she needed a ride and was willing to spend some money. She thanked me for helping her out, but she also acted like it was always a guarantee that I would have. No real gratitude. I was thinking she was a real cunt, but I calmed down a bit, watching her dumb ass waddle to the porch of her house, her pants completely soaked in stale draft beer, making her look like she'd pissed herself. Fuck her.

I radioed dispatch that I was clear, and headed back to Harpos for the fare that had called. He told me that that had been the chick. Double fuck her.

After that I picked up three drunk kids from a dorm on campus, who wanted to go to a party. I think they half-expected me to know of one and instinctively drive them to it. Instead, they produced a flyer and decided to go to the party it advertised. I smelled Jack Daniel's on them. I don't think any of them were as old as 19. I dropped them off at a party on East Campus.

Sometime before bar closing I got another call out of Harpos. Dispatch was very adamant about me getting the right person. I found him, an older man whom I had picked up and taken to Harpos for the Sugar Bowl. He remembered me. We talked about MU's woeful basketball team en route to his house. He didn't tip. It took me a bit by surprise.

A little after 1 am I had a request at Quinton's. It was the foursome from the Holiday Inn. They hadn't had any luck with the ladies, but had managed to avoid any fights, despite getting kicked in the shins at Tonic. They wanted beer en route to the hotel. It was already about 1:08. Gas stations quit selling at 1:30. The closest beer joint (besides Hitt Street Market, which I forgot about) was the Petro-Mart at College and Paris. I hoped there wouldn't be the Lou's Palace Rap Video bling-fest going on, since these guys were rowdy and lady-less.

I got them there by 1:13. We beat the rush. The parking lot filled up. The guys in the back seat had something to say about everyone they saw, but luckily no one heard. They got a 20 pack of Bud Lite without incident, and I got them back to their hotel.

I grabbed a call out of the Heidelberg at about 1:50am. Dispatch said there were 2 different calls there, one going to the Courtyard Apartments and the other to Firefox, and I could take them both if they were agreeable. As I sat waiting, on the end of a vacant 9th Street, a chick on a nice road bike rolled past.

The rain had stopped and it had actually warmed to 50 degrees. She was wearing tight, short bike shorts and a fitted jersey, scoop neck. She wasn't wearing a helmet, and had tight, curly hair pulled back in two Anglo Afro-puffs. The bike may have been too big for her, and she was out of the saddle, leaned well forward of her center of balance. She wasn't very long, but was very well toned, without being cut or losing feminen curves. Her posture, astraddle the velocipede, was absolutely felonious. I clenched my teeth.

I had actually caught her in my rear view, and watched in my mirror as she turned around at 9Th and University, before heading back onto campus. Then some drunk tool came out of the bar and up to my window. He asked if I was there for him, and I said I was good to go. He went back in to fetch his girlfriend. After that, another dude came out, carrying a plastic 22 ounce cup of beer, with a lid and a straw. He asked if I was there for him or the other dude. I told him I could take him, too, if he didn't mind doubling up. He said he didn't care, but he wasn't paying the extra buck or whatever for the other passengers. I assured him I'd cut him a deal. He said it was normally about $9 to his house. He was cool, so I told him I'd do it for $7.

I asked what was taking the tool so long. He said something about his girlfriend was drunk and crying or something. Great. Drama. The cool guy was a dishwasher, and hadn't been there very long. The tool's girlfriend was apparently a waitress. As we were waiting for the tool, talking, I caught a flash of movement in my rearview. I broke off from our conversation.

"What is this girl trying to do to me?" It was the bike girl, again, in my rear view. She had turned and gone down University. I told the guy that there was some chick on a bike, darting around at 2am for no apparent reason.

"Was she hot?"

"Maybe--but I've got a real fetish for girls on bikes. She's built low to the ground, but sturdy. Very fit, and the way she's riding--see for yourself, here she comes." She was coming up behind us, passing the cab. Both of our heads swiveled and followed her. One could almost hear the Doplar effect as she passed.

"Damn, she's fit. That's the way I like 'em." She buzzed by again at least once before the tool and his lady came out. She was crying and blowing kisses to the Heidelberg sign. Apparently, she had worked there for a long time and it was her last night. She was moving. She was emotional. She was drunk.

And she was annoying. They finally got in the cab, and she was stammering and slurring great stuff about the Heidelberg. I said something about it being a nice place, just to placate her, and she acted insulted. One could not only casually like something so fucking great as the Heidelberg. I wanted to say something snippy about it burning down last year, but I bit my tongue.

As we rode along I was asking the dishwasher about people I picked up there, remembering the crazy ride out to the Highlands with the owner's drunk wife and the turbo-asshole, the night I cut the poor saps a deal for getting them home.

The bitch in the back perked up. "Yeah, he told us about that. He was mad because you overcharged him and it was like a $50 cab ride."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, wait. I cut them a deal. I charged them $45 when it should have easily been $60 ($56 meter plus unran wait-time), because I felt sorry for them because heir friend was such an asshole. That asshole Fisher. Those dudes were thanking me."

"Well I heard that you charged them too much, and that you got lost."

"Well, you know what? I was fucking there. And I drove out of the way because that drunk asshole didn't give me the right directions, and I made it up for them by taking$10 off of the fare." Bitch.

As we neared the Courtyard Apartments the bitch magically shut the fuck up. She didn't make a peep, except for asking her boyfriend for updates on how close we were. "We're turning on Clinkscales. We're on Ash." I knew this meant one thing: impending puke.

We were close, though, so I didn't worry much. I pulled up and they got out. The dude paid me through the window. The parking lot was tight, and I was trying to make a multi-point turn around. The chick was standing outside of the apartment, under the stairs, staring at the ground. "Oh, yeah, she's gonna puke." The dishwasher concurred. As we were trying to turn around, their was some urping and a little vomit.

"There she goes." We laughed, and I kept turning around. Then the waterworks came. Voluminous vomiting. I cringed, and, abandoning the multipoint turn, backed out instead.

I got the guy home. He asked me about the mandolin. He said he played some guitar.

At about 2:30am I had a call at Juniper Circle, just up the road from mi casa. As I headed south on Providence and went to turn on Nifong, I saw a fresh accident in front of me, on Nifong. People were still getting out of the cars. It looked like a pretty good impact, the cars were immobile, sprawled across 3 lanes, debris everywhere. Some chick was standing up out of the smashed tuner import, looking very nonchalant. A college-looking white guy was holding his face and sprinting down around the Commerce Bank, fleeing, I suspect. There were two or three others, either chasing him, urging him to stop, because he was hurt, or fleeing themselves.

Another car was pulled up, to ask if everyone was okay, apparently. Everyone's got cell phones these days. Fuck 'em. I drove around and jetted down Nifong. "These crazy drunk motherfuckers are gonna get me killed one day," I thought. At that instant a '93 or '94 teal Ford Thunderbird stuffed full of people careened right in front of me. I had to get all over the brakes to avoid hitting them. They had been coming in the opposite lane, and swerved in front of me, to turn in to the Taco Bell. Cocksuckers. The car rocked heavily under the weight of all of the people, and the unsafe turning speed on a flat surface.

I was still pissed when I hit Juniper Circle. I found the address and parked out front. It was a duplex, and, apparently, the fallout from a college party. The shades were half-drawn and fucked up in the front two windows. I could see people on the couch under the windows. No one came out.

I switched on my hazard lights. I could see the yellow light blinking dimly on their walls. No one came out.

I switched on my spotlight, and aimed it through their front windows. An arm came up from the couch, and, though I couldn't see the hand for the fucked-up blinds, I'm positive it was flipping me off. I radioed dispatch. They called and told me that "the guy's on his way out."

I waited and no one came out. I radioed again. They assured me he was on his way. I was annoyed. It had been 3-5 minutes since we called, and I could see people moving around inside. Finally, the door opened and a chick walked out, on her cell phone. She continued talking on the phone all of the way up to and inside the car. Then she handed it to me. I looked at the display. I think it said 'Jason.'

It was a dude, and he was giving me directions to his house. He had called the cab for her. That makes sense. I see that from time to time. Guy's girlfriend gets drunk somewhere, he sends a cab to get her safely home. Or puts in a booty call.

I asked if he wanted to talk to his 'Lady Friend' again and handed the phone back to her. She hung up and said something about this being crazy. She had never been in a cab before.

"Yup, I still find it pretty outrageous, myself."

Then she told me that she had only met this dude the night before, at a bar. He had called to ask her to dinner that night. "I just thought that was so cute, 'cause guys my age--they don't really do stuff like that." Yup, real class move. Apparently she had declined the dinner invitation and gone to a neighborhood party instead. She had walked back home, drunk, when he called again. He told her there was a taxi waiting outside for her.

So, of course, she got in.

She told me she was from a small town. "I guess I'm just too trusting sometimes." Um...yeah. "Like last night, I was at this party, and this guy I didn't know offered to drive me home. Then he took me to an abandoned house."

"Uh...and how did that work out for you?"

"I just started crying and he took me home."

"You'd kinda think that would hold you over for a week or two."

"I mean, what if this guy's like a serial killer, or something?"

"Yeah..." I gave her a card, and told her we ran 24 hours. She said if she called right back it meant something was wrong and to hurry.

I thought maybe she was 18 or 19, but she said she had just graduated and was 23. Hmm...what was you number again? I just live right around the corner...

When I was getting close to the guy's house, dispatch radioed. "Hey, did you say you would be clearing on Hamilton Way?"

"Yeah," I said, and told him the address.

"That's weird. I've got a girl on the phone here, calling from that address, and she wants to go to the St. Louis airport." The chick could hear everything on the radio. I was just turning onto the street.

"Does he have a girl there, trying to leave? Oh my God."

"That's what dispatch is saying." I pulled up in front of the house. The guy came out to pay. I rolled my window down. He asked if I could break a $100.

"Do you have a girl in there? Trying to leave?"

"What? Oh, no. That's my roommate's ex-girlfriend--I was telling you about--no, no." I changed his $100. He tipped $5. She got out and went in. I sat there, trying to sort out if there was a girl going to the airport or not.

Dispatch said that he had her on the phone when he asked me if I was clearing at that address, with the chick. He said she hung up when I said 'yes' and repeated the address. He tried calling the chick back and got no answer. Then, the dude popped back out of the house. "It's cool, cabbie. We don't need a cab. You can go."

I went from there to the Super 7. It was a drunk black woman. Dispatch warned me to get money up front and to radio back with a firm destination. The chick was drunk, and changed her mind as to where she was going. I asked if she was doing good. "No. I been trying to party."

"That's not been working out for you?"

"Nah." I took her as far as $3.30 and booted her.

My last call was to go over by Walgreens. When I radioed back, dispatch told me to run in, get a pack of Parliament Ultralights, and take them to an address on Conley Avenue. I ran in and asked the young clerk for the cigarettes. Then I remembered that I had forgot to turn on wait time. I told the clerk to hang on. "Pretend this didn't just happen." I ran back out, turned on the meter, and went back in, purchasing the cigarettes. $3.48.

I buzzed on over to the address. The fare was only $4.05. I waited, and a wasted white guy, maybe 22 or 23, staggered out. I rolled down my window, and held up the cigarettes with the receipt. I told him it was $7.50, combined. He gave me a $10. "You got some cigarettes for me?"

They were in my outstretched hand. I folded back the receipt. "Oh. You can keep that," he said, handing back the receipt.

I had another call down south. The address was confused. They said Juniper, but the address didn't exist on Juniper proper. But, there is a Juniper Circle and Juniper Place, and one other odd variant. I found a corresponding number on Juniper Place, but it was very dark. I radioed dispatch. They called back and said they were on Bearfield, a couple of miles away. I gunned it that direction, and, in passing some townhouses on RockQuarry, a group of three flagged me down.

I got on the brakes and stopped. They got in. They were the ones that were calling. I told them where they were actually at, for future reference. They had been at a party. It was two hoosiers done-good and gone to college, and a Japanese chick, from Columbia College. The guy was a very mild mannered dude, lanky, scrawny, drunk. Apparently someone talked shit to him and threatened him, and some of his friends came to his defense. This seemed to be the most interesting thing that had ever happened to him, as he repeated it innumerable times.

I took them to the Japanese girl's dorm at Columbia College. She picked up the fare, and the cracker couple were going to walk to the dude's apartment. Dispatch radioed that I had another request. I recognized the address. It was the AA dude.

I radioed back and said I had his coat, which is probably what he wanted. Dispatch said he still wanted to go somewhere. I thought he had scored his $400 and was ready to make good with a real tip.

I pulled up and grabbed him for a second time. The tailgate was closed on the 'Camino, and the sign was gone. I told him I had his coat and popped the trunk. He got it out and came back to the window. "I need to go where you took me the first time."

"Cool."

"Only I don't have any money? Is that going to be a problem."

Dude what the fuck. You don't go into a restaurant, order food, then go, 'I don't have any money, is that going to be a problem.' I was a little disgusted. This guy thinks he's the victim of a disease. Even if alcoholism is a disease, you don't curl up and admit defeat; you take the actions you can take to control the symptoms of your 'disease' and take proactive steps to better yourself. Like not fucking drinking, you ass-clown.

Well fist-fuck me. It was 3:40. I was sitting in the hood. I told him to get in. I'd run him last, for free, on my dime. I reported it as usual, it's just that I paid the cab company's portion of the $8.55 fare. "You've got my card. You call me when you're back on top. You need to straighten your shit out for those kids of yours."

I cleaned up and took it in.

I had another good night Saturday. I ran $250 on the meter, coming off of a $280 night. I stayed busy, and people tipped. It was nice to have good nights back-to-back, especially with rent coming up.

And I believe I brought you up to snuff on my Sunday night in my last post. Let's segue right into Monday, then, shall we?

I slept from about 10am until 2:40. I showered and headed in, grabbing a Wendy's spicy chicken sandwich along the way. I was in #5.

My first call was to pick up at the check cashing place at the corner of Providence and Broadway. The guy had a gaunt face with random scabs. He was a user of some sort, I'm sure. I asked him how it was going. "Man, we're not even going to go there." I took him to the Biscayne Wal-Mart. He tipped a couple of bucks.

My next call was at Mark Twain dorm, on campus. A pale white girl was standing, waiting, with a big backpack. She was wearing Condy Rice boots which came near her knees, a knee-length skirt with a modest slit, and had a scarf tied on her head. She was very fair-skinned, and her cheeks blushed pink. All I saw of her hair were some very fine whispy curls in front of her ears and at the nape of her neck, escaping from beneath her scarf. I suspected she may have been a cancer survivor, or she may have only been a near-albino. Hard to tell, and not something you can comfortably ask in the span of a 4 minute cab ride.

She said she was going to the public library. "The Daniel Boone Regional Library?"

"I don't know--it's the one at Garth and Broadway."

"That's it. That's a good place. They have a really good multimedia selection." As we drove there I asked if she had ever been there before. She said 'no.' I told her she might find that it wasn't too bad of a walk. She said that was good to know, because she would be going there every Monday for some time. I gave her detailed directions and alternate routes. I dropped her off, and she wanted to schedule a 7:30 pickup. I think the fare was $3.55 and she told me to keep the change out of $4.

After that, I had a call at the Break Time at Vandiver and Paris. It was just after 6pm. The fare was a black girl who worked there. She had cool hair, not a weave or anything synthetic. Kind of the black girl version of the biker chick's hair, only a little shorter, perhaps. She was slender with very pronounced front teeth, though they were very straight and white.

She got in and told me we were heading to the Family Resource Center. I knew it well, as I have two group home regulars who work there. I headed that direction. I asked her how long she had been working there. She said it was her first week. I asked because that gas station used to get robbed about once a week a few years ago.

She started talking on her cell phone. She was crying. She was complaining of someone who had failed to pick her up from work. "She fucked me again. That's the last time." She was really crying, not from frustration, more like having her heart broke. It was her mother who had let her down. "That woman can't never say she's my mama. She ain't never done one thing for me but drag me down. Nothing those kids've got ever come from her. And now I'm going to be late for my parenting class. I hope they let me in, 'cause if they don't I won't get my kids back, 'cause I won't be able to finish my classes before I have to go back to court."

She planned on buying a car with her income tax money when she got it back. She had done the Rapid Refund loan. "They take a big chunk of it. But it's worth it. It's worth it not to have to rely on anybody." She spent most of the ride on her phone. She also talked about her boss at the gas station giving her all of the hours she would want to work.

I drove as quickly as I could to the Resource Center. It was 6:13. I was going to go inside and tell them it was my fault that she was late. For someone so paitstakingly honest, I can be a very convincing liar.

Turns out she had to be there by 6:15, not 6pm. She was very gracious that I had got her there on time. The fare was $6.55. She handed me a $20. I gave her back a $10 and 3 $1s, and asked if I needed to dig out the $.45, not ever expecting a tip. She said that wasn't necessary, and, as I was writing on my clipboard, she handed me five $1s. "Holy crap." I said it out loud. "Are you sure?"

"You work for your money, same as I do," she said, still wiping tears from her eyes. What a good girl.

My next call was at the Holiday Inn. It was a group of two, some huge, old, fat, vigorous que-bald man; a traveling salesman from Lake Charles, Louisiana, and his 19 year old protege. He wanted to go to a nice Asian restaurant. Nothing buffet. Some decent, sit-down place.

I eat dead cows, pigs, and chickens. Asian food is all Greek to my colon. I knew of Formosa. I had been there once, during finals week, with my friend Galen, in law school. I also knew that my Russian Jew friend Dima had worked there in undergrad. I suggested it. Along the way the old dude made a crack about Asian ladies and massage parlors. I mentioned we had some of those, too.

I dropped off the Thing and his fresh-faced counterpart. The fare was $11.55. He gave me a $20, swiftly exiting the cab. He had taken a card, and wanted me back in an hour. Can do.

My next call was to pick up my new group home regular, Tim. Tim is the kid who was into bullriding and body art, who noted that a Kewpie was a naked baby. Tim got in and signed the charge slip I had waiting for him. As we drove off, his first words were "my mom doesn't want me dating a user."

"That may be best for you, Tim."

He went on to tell me about some girl he like, who smoked the reefer. He said that he wasn't really into dope, because it made you stupid. He mentioned that he was most interested in pussy. And, naturally, it's procurement. I warned him that that made you stupid, too.

He admitted, with no shame, that he's never had any 'twat,' though he had seen it in magazines. I was glad for him that he didn't have internet access. He then turned on users, considerably. They were of no use to him. I told him about my ex-stripper-ex-girlfriend, who was a chronic. I said she was high-strung and mean.

"She was a bitch," said Tim. He has a real way with words.

After that, I snagged my Boone County Library girl. I wheeled in at 7:30. She wasn't there. I still had my "You See Me Laughin'" DVD in my pocket, so I went in to return it and look for her. I didn't see her. I was going to check my e-mail, but the computers were full. Then I looked for a Petty Booka CD. I couldn't find one, and grabbed one of someone else. I have no idea what it was. I was walking over to check it out when I saw the albino/chemo girl strutting out the door. She had a pretty self-assured switch for an albino white girl of 19 or so.

I dropped the CD off in the return box and followed her out. She had just reached the waiting cab when I emerged at the top of the steps. I apologized, and circled the cab as she was getting in. It was 7:39. I asked her if she had got the things done she had planned on. She said she was tutoring there.

"That's cool. Do you get paid by the students, or is it part of some larger program that pays you?"

"It's volunteer. I don't get paid."

"Oh. Well. That is admirable." She was majoring in English and Spanish. I told her I had an English degree, and that I wished that I had started studying Spanish earlier. I waited until my Senior year of college, and would have likely double-majored in it had I started earlier. I mentioned that I really liked the way the language sounded, and likened it to Italian. "Have you ever seen Roberto Benigni's 'Life is Beautiful.'"

"Oh, I love that movie." I worked it a little bit, talking about how beautiful and lyrical the language was, and how much it sucked trying to watch the movie dubbed-over in English.

After that it was back to Formosa. I grabbed the Thing and his sidekick. We headed back to the hotel. Along the way the Thing complained of the early onset of a cold. As we neared the hotel he asked if we did casino runs. I told him we did, and gave him an idea of the rates. The Thing said he thought he'd run to the casino and the young guy got out of the cab.

"So we're headed to the casino?"

"No, actually, I want to go to one of these massage parlors you guys have got. I just didn't want to mention it in front of the kid. He's 19, and I don't want his family thinking I'm corrupting him."

Admirable.

I gave him the rundown on what I knew about Columbia whorehouses. He knew of Lynn's, saying he'd been there several times. "How often do you come through Columbia?"

"Once a year."

"I guess you've been in this business a long time, then?"

"Oh, yeah." He was pretty fixed on some Asian ladies. "They are really big on being servants, subservient to men. They'll do anything. It's part of their culture." Lick your asshole? Most dishonorable!

He wanted to check out the Foxy Sauna. I had gleaned from New Guy Dan that they offered at least a $20 kickback. I ran him over. He paid me, and tipped me $7 something. I was to pick him up when he was done.

Next I had a call at Everett's. I was some wasted-drunk 38ish woman and a drunk 50ish dude. She was wearing a short, short dress, and, apparently worked out. That didn't stop her face from looking like a male drag queen, sans Adam's apple. It was sort of like what Marylin Manson's mom might look like. She had dark, straight hair, and dark makeup/features, They were both trashed.

The guy was shitty. Half-assed business man, round in the middle, sloppy. It was 8pm.

They were going to her condo, south of town. Dude was looking to score. She was worried about getting back to her car. He assured her it would be okay. Going with the flowing.

She asked me lots of questions. "How old are you? Are you married? Have you ever been married? Why not? Are you gay?" She wanted to get me as personal cab driver, and set up some sort of flat rate. She took my card. She was a mess. She was saying something about wanting a cab driver that wasn't creepy, that wouldn't try to molest her. She started to say something about me being good looking. I encouraged her a bit, to make the guy jealous. That way, he might respond by flashing money to impress her, tipping me handsomely.

I got them home. Dude sprung a $100. I cashed him out, $5 tip. She said she was going to call me from now on. I told her I worked Mondays, Tuesdays, Fridays, and Saturdays. She needed a Wednesday night guy. I gave her New Guy Dan's name. Tee-hee.

My next call took me to the mall, to the Barnes and Nobles. It was Korean girl, neatly dressed, with nice hair. She spoke good English, though through an accent. She told me she had been waiting an hour and a half.

Dispatch must have forgotten about her. We hadn't been that busy. I apologized, and tried to chat her up a bit. She had been at the mall buying a birthday gift for her roommate. I asked some questions. She gave some answers. I was charming. Her birthday is the 3rd of February. She had never taken a cab in Columbia before. We talked about being an international student at MU. I told her about the Finnish chick I had dated, and the effort it had been to plan a road trip with her Chinese and Korean friends.

She tipped me $6.20 on an $11.80 fare. After being an hour and half late. Good girl!

After that I jetted to the aeroport. It was a woman of about 31 in town from Austin, Texas. She had lived there a year. She traveled on business, pharmaceuticals salesperson.

She was attractive, in that she was fit and took care of herself, though not overly stylish or trendy. I chatted her up about the Austin music scene. I think she like being connected somehow with the dirt and undergrowth of society. Her name was Marcy. She tipped $5. Good girl.

Coming back from the airport, the Thing got impatient. I don't blame him. I wouldn't want to hang out at a cheezy brothel ex posto cookie-popping.

Here I lost one and a half nights' cab content and a story about me riding a bike and seeing the aftermath of this car crash. Blogger.com fucked up. Damn you, Blogger.com! I will rewrite it later. I's gotsta work now.