Kerry Wood is a Dumb Dick

Yo.

It's 3:25 Wednesday night/Thursday morning. I slept until about 5pm today. That's in the neighborhood of 11 hours. I had wanted to get up 'early' and fix Corpsy's fuel leak, but I've been feeling like I may be on the verge of a cold lately, so I used that as an excuse to sleep in. So Corpsy will have to continue dribbling 87 octane directly on the exhaust pipe.

I showered and went to Smokin' Chicks. Now, Smokin' is a relative term, and I know enough about advertising that I won't quibble if the chicks fall somewhat short of my notions of 'smokin'.' But, tonight, there wasn't a chick in the house. At the least, you should always have at least one 'chick' on duty, if you ask me. I'm not interested in eating at a place called 'Smokin' Dudes.' Tell me if I am being unreasonable here.

After that I went to go downtown. I got a call sometime when I was asleep saying that the Das Karnival DVDs I rented were overdue. But I turned them in last Tuesday evening. I was going to go get to the bottom of it, but went to the library instead.

There I snagged a mandolin song book, Bloodshot's original "For a Life of Sin," and two movies. I grabbed American Movie and Rex the Runt. I had seen American Movie innumerable times, but not in a few years. It's one that I used to make everyone I knew watch. I had also never seen it on DVD. This edition had a director's commentary and a few minor deleted scenes. As for Rex the Runt, I have no fucking clue what it is, but it looked like a UK version of Gumby or something. Claymation is pretty kick-ass, when it doesn't totally freak me out.

And, yes, I stopped by the Ultramart for some Pyramid Apricot Weizen. Bad habit. I also got some Gummisavors, but laid off of the drumsticks. Trust me, I'm in total control.

I cracked open a weizen and spun American Movie for Peat. I think he enjoyed it. I sure did.

A few beers deep I asked Peat if he could hook me up with a mohawk. I used to rely on my friend and neighbor, Jerod, but he has since moved, and keeps more standard hours. I had been waffling on the notion of a fresh 'hawk for a while. I quit blaming hair for making me look stupid, conceding, at long last, that I may do a good job of looking stupid with or without hair's help. I was torn on letting it grow out some, or maybe 'hawking it.

Mohawks are silly. I usually get sick of one in less than a week. People always ask if I'm gonna dye it pink. Where does that come from? And, I don't mind if chicks want to touch it, but it's a bit creepy when 35 year-old men want to cop a feel on my skull.

I probably wouldn't ever 'hawk my head if I could grow some real facial hair. Dudes that can grow convincing beards have a ton of options, and can change it up every few weeks. As for me, it takes a good 6 or 7 weeks to start showing some minor Kerry Wood dirtlip in a mirror under a fluorescent light. And to look like Kerry Wood is to look like a complete dick. Flesh-colored facial hair is no one's friend. On an unrelated note, the Birdos picked up one of the worst moustaches in the MLB this off-season, in the form of Jeff Nelson.

Anyhoo, I had been leaning away from the mohawk, and thought maybe I'd get the notion shot down by Phyllis and save me the trouble of making up my mind. I finally asked her yesterday (Tuesday). She was peeling off the old rate sticker from the dash in #1.

"Phyllis, would it be a big deal if I came to work with a mohawk? I don't really care too much, but I didn't want to come to work with one if it was going to be a problem."

"I don't care. As long as you're cut clean, I don't care." She didn't even have to think about it. It was like someone asked her if it was still raining outside or something else trivial.

So, that pretty much sealed it. It's almost like you have to exercise your right to have a mohawk if your employer doesn't give a shit. And, that created a bit of a buzz around the office, so I couldn't leave them hanging. I hate people who talk about what they're gonna do and don't do it.

So, yeah, I asked Peat if he could hook me up. He didn't feel like it and said he would do it tomorrow (Thursday) night, but I didn't think I would be around. And a mohawk is something you don't set up an appointment for. You just fucking do it. There's no tee time for bad haircuts.

That option shot, I dialed up A*1 Taxi. "Derek? This is Garner. You guys got Dan working tonight? Yeah. I need to rent him out for a 1/2 hour. Cool. Send him over. 2009 Juniper Drive, apartment A."

Dan showed up in about 15 minutes. I went outside and had him park in the driveway. I handed him a $50 and asked for $10 back. The 1/2 hour rental is $30. "Radio those crackers and tell them you're gonna help me move some furniture."

"I'll just call in route."

"Whatever works." He followed me to the door. "You're going to be cutting my hair. You ever cut a grown man's hair?"

"Yeah. I cut my own hair."

"Good. There's nothing gay about it." We were at the door. "You're not allergic to cats, are you?"

I blocked out the width of the mohawk, centering it, carving it out as far as I could. Dan swiftly squared it up down the back of my noggin. That barely took 10 minutes. I had him run me to the store to buy some new razor blades and some extra shave gel. When we were in the car Derek came over the radio. "What are you up to tonight, Garner." Dan handed me the mic.

"Oh, I'm just stepping out with 7 or 8 of my lady friends. I wanted to avoid the $1 extra per passenger, since there are so many of them, so I thought I'd just rent out a block of time."

While I had Dan tied up for the half-hour I drilled him on Das Karnival and got some more of his back-story.

I was weizen-less and tired. I thought I'd nap out for a couple of hours so I could get in blogger mode. I slept from 12am until 2am or so, and gave myself a rigorous field sobriety test. I passed and felt completely sober, so I motored Corpsy over to IHOP and got some food.

It is worth noting that in the director's commentary to American Movie they talked about how Mark Borchardt's car (about an '80 Mercury Zephyr) smelled like gas the entire time they were filming. It was bad enough to make the director vomit after riding with it on Mark's paper route. Mark also talked about liking the paper route because he didn't have to listen to a boss and could listen to the radio. Pleasant coincidences.

Cab.

Monday I had blogged until 8 or 9 in the am. I crashed out at about 10am and slept until I had to go to work. I hit the snooze button a few times, and, apparently, accidentally turned the alarm off. I woke up at 3:19. I was supposed to be at work at 3:45. I called and told them I was going to be late. Kelly joked that they couldn't have me coming in late. "So I'm fired, right? And I shouldn't bother coming in at all? That's good, I'll just stay home then."

I got to work at 4:05. I hadn't eaten. I was tired. My back was stiff from my hunched-over blogging posture. Phyllis told me they were going to train me to do wheelchairs.

Great. Well, this has mixed implications. I had wanted to avoid wheelchairs, simply because I didn't want to have to drive a giant van all night. Someone is usually in #15, the giant Dodge van I used that one night a few weeks ago, every Friday and Saturday night. But, on Monday and Tuesday nights, there are only 2 or 3 wheelchair runs to do, so Phyllis has the driver take out a regular car and then swing in to pick up the van just for the wheelchair run. This takes less gas and is easier on the driver. The big van is noisy, harder to navigate in tight spaces, and not easily recognizable by drunks as their ride.

On a busy Friday or Saturday, it's not practical for the driver to swap cars for a couple of runs, but, Taxi Terry is always out in his 28 passenger bus, and he does the 2-3 wheelchairs on those nights. So, hopefully, I will only have to do wheelchairs on Mondays and Tuesdays. They are usually early enough that the turn-around with the cars isn't that big of a deal, since calls are less frequent. And, though they're usually charges, the minimum for a wheelchair run is $20, so even if it takes me 45 minutes I haven't really lost any money, since I would have to run about 3 calls for the same money, which are usually $6.84 group home charges on Monday and Tuesday evenings.

I think the big impetus was that Kelly the dispatcher was getting stuck doing one regular wheelchair run on Monday evenings. This caused her to have to stay late, which she was tired of doing. So, for my first call Monday, Kelly accompanied me in #15 to train me (remember the whole legless lady fiasco?).

We went to Rusk Rehab to pick up the regular customer. He's in his early 20s, and was paralyzed sometime in the past year or so (I'm guessing) in a car wreck. He had been driving a moving van for the company he worked for when a front tire blew out and he crossed the median, getting struck by an oncoming 18 wheeler. He is paralyzed from the waist-down, apparently, with what appears to be limited use of his fingers. He can hold a pen and scrawl lines for his signature, but that seems to be the current extent of his dexterity.

He can get around good on his own in the chair, though. He has a bitchin' titanium unit. He wheeled himself up on the ramp and from the ramp into the van. I strapped him in, under Kelly's watchful gaze and instruction. It seemed about as awkward for him as it did me. I was pretty sure he was still getting used to being paralyzed.

On the way over, Kelly had told me about him and his accident. As I was on my knees, securing the straps to the front of the chair, Kelly asked him "so, is your girlfriend going to move down here from Kansas City to stay with you?"

"It's awkward being with someone in a wheelchair. At least that's what she told me. We're not together anymore." He didn't try to disguise his true feelings. It was February 13. Nice work, Kelly.

After that run, I got put into a car. It was #6, the Rachel Hunter aging-supermodel car. Nice. My first call was to pick up a prescription at Walgreens and take it to Columbia Health Care. I picked up the meds and jumped in the Crown Vic. I was motoring over to Keene Street, and thought I would try to catch my buddy Brandon (in Fayetteville) on the phone. I didn't expect to get him, since it was 6:10 and I usually try to catch him before he leaves work.

I told him that Split Lip was down, that Kirk Rundstrom had esophogeal cancer. That was bad news. The good news, though, was that he and his wife had their first child on Saturday. I'm not good with dates and hadn't realized that we were two weeks into February. Damn.

We had a bad connection, and dispatch came over the radio, so I had to let him go before I got any details, like the little girl's name. That's when I realized I was headed to Towne Drive, not Keene Street. Double damn.

I straightened it out, and found Columbia Health Care. It's a nursing home. I went in, but didn't see anyone who looked like staff, just assorted old people. I asked the least invalid looking person I saw where I could find some staff. Of course he was half-deaf, and started yelling at me. He didn't have any teeth and his mouth puckered like you-know-what. An asshole, in case you didn't know.

Anyhoo, he was helpful enough to lead me to a nurse's station. He yelled at all of the old people we passed in the hallway. "Beep, beep! Move over! Get out of the way." I left the prescription with the nurse, who was very gracious. I was walking away when she thanked the old guy for showing me to her. I heard clearly, though, because she had to yell it at him. I turned and tried to thank him, too, but I doubt he heard me enough to understand.

Wow. Nursing homes. There's a good time. There were a number of old people, waiting to die, pulling themselves slowly down the hall with their feet, in wheelchairs. There was one old woman in a chair made out of PVC piping. That was weird. "Gramma, Gramma! Look what I made you in shop class!" As I was on my way out I passed what looked like the dining room. It didn't register until I had passed the door, but there was music playing. I was at the foyer when I realized it was the Black Eyed Peas. The old people are listening to the junk-in-the-trunk song? I couldn't believe my ears, and turned to go back to confirm it, for blogging purposes.

I stopped midstride, though, and looked at the hallway full of invalids I'd have to negotiate through. It was like one of those zombie movies or video games, and I was returning to try to save someone. I couldn't risk my own life to try to save theirs. I was lucky to have made it that far unscathed. Fuck it, they were probably already dead anyway. I'll tip my next weizen to them.

My next call was a group home charge. It was only the second time I'd hauled the guy. His name is Robert. His signature, printed, read: 'r o o r E t.'

After that I had a call at Aldis. Yup, it was Congestive Heart Failure Lady, from earlier posts. From Aldis to her house is only $3.05 on the meter, but she tipped me $5 for loading and unloading her groceries. We didn't have long to chat.

From there I headed out to the Columbia Mall. I pick up a number of international students there, returning to campus. Usually Indians or Asian girls, shopping for the must-have accessories for this season. As I pulled up I spied an Asian girl, standing near a weird-looking non-collegiate dude. He had a nasty rock-n-roll goatee. The girl got in front, and the dude got in back. They didn't appear like they were together, and the girl didn't appear to know much English.

I asked if they were together, and didn't get a very firm answer. I told them I'd run it as one fare, plus $1 for the second passenger. I told them they could split it up any way they cared to.

The chick said she was going to the "University of Missouri--campus?" I asked which hall, Stafford. The dude said he wanted out at the McDonald's on campus. I told him I'd drop him off first, at Lowry Mall, and then take her to her dorm (just in case he was weird stalker of some sort). He said that was fine, but then decided to get out at Office Depot, instead. I took $6 off of him, guestimating the fare to run about $12 by the time I got the lady home. Apparently they had both been waiting for the city bus, and realized they had missed the last one, and decided to split a cab.

I dropped her off, and collected the remaining $7.

After that I was sent to pick up Miss Jean. She was at the Olive Garden. She had that exasperated look on her face, the one she has when she's drunk. I knew what was coming. "Good evening, Miss Jean!"

"Well, I don't see what's so good about it."

"Have you been waiting long?"

"Only about an hour and a half." It hadn't been an hour and a half since she was picked up from her retirement home.

"My, that is a long wait. I don't know what they're doing there at dispatch. I just got the call."

"Oh, well it's not your fault. But I'm going to have to call Phyllis tomorrow." She was really tipsy. I took extra precaution to keep her from falling. I got her home and radioed dispatch. I told Derek that she claimed to have been waiting 1.5 hours.

"Was that the case?"

"No. Not at all."

"Yeah, she was pretty drunk tonight."

Then I had to go back and get the wheelchair van. I left my mandolin and street guide book in #6. I was picking up the legless lady--the one who had fallen out of her chair with another driver--from dialysis. I was reminded to be extra careful, and that she was pretty gun-shy about riding with us. Well, no shit, she is.

I guess I was early, and couldn't get in the building. The doors were locked. I radioed dispatch to see if he could call for me, but he didn't know the number. After several minutes, I saw them wheeling her out from the back. The nurse or whatever was wearing one of those giant plastic face shields. Have we got a spitter here?

She wheeled the woman out to me. I already had the ramp down on the van. "Hello, Clara. I know you've had a couple of rough rides with us, but I'm going to take good care to make sure that doesn't happen again." I got her in the van and strapped down without incident.

For those of you who have never messed with people in wheelchairs, you tend to forget that when you let go of them (on relatively flat ground), they'll try to roll away from you. It's hard to appear professional in that situation. Gotta remember to set those brakes.

I got her home and asked her to sign my charge slip. "My daughter will have to do it for me--I've got a stroke in my right arm."

legs--MIA
kidneys--non-functioning
diabetes? yes
stroke--at least 1

Damn, this woman is hard to kill.

I grabbed Roberta at the workshop. I was a few minutes late, and she was waiting outside when I pulled in. She came to the car, carrying a good-sized red Valentine's bear and a heart-shaped box of chocolates.

"It looks like you're someone's Valentine."

"Yeah. A girl I work with give me this bear. I guess she likes me and all that. As a friend, you know." Of course. I wouldn't think anything untoward of you, Roberta.

From there dispatch sent me to Booches. He said someone requested me.

I was sure it was a comoer. My groveling in my last post had worked. People were commenting on the blog, and someone was kind enough to start a thread urging people to "show our beloved taxi blogger some love you assholes." Thank you, Redneck, for this mostly unsolicited sentiment. I was already embarrassed that I had stooped so low for feedback, and now someone apparently felt compelled to take the cab to salve my feelings. "Awe, shucks, guys, you shouldn't have."

I pulled up to Booches, and Bert from Witch's Hat came out, with his roommate, Derek or Dereck. How do people spell that, anyway?

This is going to read like sappy romance novel fodder, but I recognized Bert from the web site and the Vox article on them a while ago. I had done my research because Bert, as CapnCharisma, had commented on the blog a number of times at comomusic. I had also just seen the Das Karnival episode featuring Witch's Hat.

Bert told me they were headed to Melbourne, and asked me if I knew where it was. "It's off of Walnut, east of College?"

Bert was impressed that I knew my streets so well. I told him that it was because I had just looked it up in my street guide when I got the call, ruining a bit of the mystique. We talked about the band, upcoming shows, the Das Karnival stuff. He was a little disappointed that I was in such a nice car, #6, since he had read so many of my previous complaints about #10 and others. He also showed me the very porch he elbow-dropped the pumpkin off of for the video. It was a good time, and I look forward to having my face rock-melted off tomorrow night at Shattered.

After that I picked up a couple at Stadium Apartments and took them to Quintons. The chick sat in front so she could do her makeup in the visor mirror. But, police cruisers are not so-equipped. I told her she could use my rear view mirror, and turned it in her direction. "Really?"

"Sure, I don't need to see what's behind me." But, the lighting was poor, and she decided to wait until she got to the bar. She asked how the mascara she had applied looked, but I couldn't tell because of the shadows. I got the standard "Columbia Cab Confessions" line out of them. He-he.

Next I picked up the cracker lady from Paris Road and took her to work at Wal-Mart.

From there I had a business traveler from the Residence Inn going to Stephanies Cabaret. He already smelled of gin or something, and stopped for what must have been a half-pint, since it disappeared into a pocket somewhere. I'm supposed to get $2 from Stephanies and $5 from Club Vogue for bringing people in, but I've never collected on it. $2 isn't really worth it for me to get out of my cab and go inside. I'm not really into taking money from cheesedick strip clubs.

I had a call at the Phillips 66 at the corner of Rangeline and the Business Loop. The guy didn't smell overly offensive, but did smell like he had lived in his van for five months. Which is what he told me. He was driving on a revoked license when a cop addled up to him at the stoplight. He had already been busted for driving on a revoked license twice, and the third time is a felony in Missouri.

He pulled into the gas station, and the cop went across the Loop and parked at the pawn shop, where it still sat, with all of the lights off. The guy was taking the cab down to the VA hospital, where he was in a 'treatment program.' He was pretty freaked out, worried that his van would get towed or broken into. "Everything I've got is in that van." He had also left all of his medication in it, including his anti-anxiety meds, which he could have used.

He said he only had $5, and would get out when that ran up. I knew it was $7.05 to the VA hospital, because I have a regular that lives right by the gas station who works there. The fare was $5.05 at Hitt and University, but I went ahead and dropped him off at the VA.

From there I was dispatched to the Rack and Roll, on the South side of town. It is in the same building as Sophia's, where the girl works. She said she would go to the pool hall to have a few beers after work and wait for her cab, because Sophias didn't want employees at the bar in their work clothes. She smelled like garlic and olive oil. She was the same girl whose roommate owns my old Isuzu Trooper.

Then I had a call on Troyer, off of Green Meadows. I pulled up and waited. The door opened, and a drunk guy appeared, talking to a chick who was stacked. She was bigger than him. Apparently, they had just broken up. She stood firm in the doorway while he groveled on the porch, a step lower, further exaggerating his disproportion to her. She was unmoved. He took her hand and was pleading for something. She kissed his hand, pushed it back, and closed the door. He came to the cab.

He was in a bit of a huff, but drunk and mad enough to not talk about it. He was going out past the Midway Exit off of I70, a $30 cab ride. Sweet.

He promised to tip well. I didn't understand much of what he said. He was slid down in the seat, almost talking to himself. He said "I won't fuck with you, and you won't fuck with me."

"Whatever, man, I'm just taking you home." Then he said something about fuck that chick and fuck his other ex, too, or something, and that this wasn't the first cab ride he had taken home. He said something about $26.80."

"Yeah, that sounds about right." I think he wanted me to turn off the meter or something. I told him I was going to take Providence, if he didn't care. "It might cost, like, $.50 more, but it'll be a lot faster." He said something about not caring about the money.

He didn't have much to say on the way out there. When I hit the off ramp I asked which way we were going. "You don't know where Wehmeier is?"

"Dude, I never get out this way." He told me where to turn at the appropriate times.

I took a right, as his command, on the only road in sight. After I turned he said something about "you just killed" something. I slowed up.

"Did I take a wrong turn?"

"No, just go. Keep going." Then I heard him say 'killed' again.

"What--I killed you, or I killed myself?" I didn't really understand his response. I think he was talking about the road being dangerous, with bad corners. We were in the middle of nowhere. The fare was closing in on $30. The ride on the highway was quick. I told him I would charge him for a half-hour rental if the meter went over $30, because we had to be close.

We were driving and he said something prickish. Again, unphased, I said I'd get him there. "Well good. Just shut up, then." I laughed and he said something or other. "I'm kind of ruthless, I'm kind of mean."

We turned on a fresh chat driveway that climbed a hill up into a field. There was a big, brand new house and a huge shop building off to the side. There were two or three newer cars in on the concrete driveway. I pulled up and stopped.

The meter read $31.80. He said something about it $26.80. I told him the fare was $30. He handed me a $20, some money still in his hands. "I owe you $40, right?" I think he had promised $40 up front, saying that the fare would be $26.80, but I could write down whatever and keep the rest in tip.

"The fare was $30. You owe me $10."

"No, I owe you $40." He handed me two more $20s.

"Okay, that's $60. The fare was $30. You want some change back?"

"No. You keep it. You know, I don't even care about the money. Here. I've got some $1s. You want those?"

I laughed. "Dude, money's money. I'll certainly take it if you're giving it away."

"Here. Here's some more. You take it." He handed me two $1s. He got out, and checked for his phone. Before he closed the door he said "You stay on this gravel. If you get off the gravel, and leave a mark, I'll kick your ass." The yard was bare dirt, turned to mud. It's not like I wanted to get my car stuck way the fuck out in the boonies. No problem, dude.

I laughed most of the way back to town, with my $32 tip.

I was still shaking my head when I got back and had a call on Red Oak. I was looking for the number when I saw a guy walking in the street, close to the address. I guess he was waiting outside.

It's a decent neighborhood. He was wearing khakis and a black leather jacket. Young guy, white, mid twenties. He got in, and was drunk. He was complaining that he had just broken his hand. He had just found out that his wife had been nailing his best friend, and was leaving him for the other guy. It further insulted him that this friend was a black man. He said he had punched and broken three of the globes on his ceiling fan, and thrown a bucket of KFC and mashed potatoes and gravy all over the place. Chik-kin'.

He was going to Club Vogue. He had $20 on him. The fare would be $14.80 or so. He called his friend, the owner of the club, and asked him if he could borrow some cash. To give to the girls. At the strip club. I dropped him off at the Thirsty Turtle and skeedaddled.

My last call was going to Huntridge. I picked him up at Harpos after 3am, so I figured it was a manager or the owner. He had me stop to get some papers at the Hitt Street Market. He said he wanted to see what they had to say about "us." I thought he was using the editorial 'we' in reference to the MU Tigers basketball program, as the big story was still Quin Snyder's resignation.

I didn't realize until the next day, though, that this was the owner of Harpos, and he had wanted to get the papers to read what they were saying about him kicking out the Tiger Talk and Mike Alden shows.

So that was Monday night.

Tuesday night: Valentine's Day.

And what could be more fitting for me on Valentine's Day? I got to spend it with my sweetie, my good gal #10. Yup, that worn out bitch I'm saddled to and can't get rid of. Once I loved her, but I've since seen greener pastures and want to move on, but can't. Such is life.

But at least one person still loves #10, and that's Miss Jean. The big Town Car has a longer wheelbase, allowing for a wider rear door opening than the Crown Vics. This makes it easier for her to get out of it. She has to turn sideways in the seat, pulling herself with her upper body, then 'will' her feet out. This is work enough in #10, even worse in the Crown Vics. She always lights up when she sees it. "Oh, you've got car 10. It's my fav-or-ite car," in her warbly old lady voice.

So, I ran Miss Jean to the Pasta Factory, and escorted her in. Standard fair.

Then I had to do a wheelchair. I picked up #15 and drove it to the Med Center.

The legless woman from dialysis had been a shocker. Well, this woman from the Med Center had one-upped Clara, she didn't have so much as a pelvis.

Yeah, this woman was a torso with arms and a head. That sounds horrible to write, but thems the facts. The weirdest part of it was how absolutely normal she was save for that fact. She was a very average looking 40 year old woman, with no other impairment. She had no tubes, bags, or devices attached to her. She was wearing a blue long-sleeved button-down chamois shirt.

I had to take her home, trade her chairs (she was in a hospital chair) and bring back the loaner. First off, the wheel chair was equipped with a giant sissy bar, from which IVs and such could be hung. There was no way it would fit in the van, and they had no other chairs handy. I suggested I could take the sissy bar off. The nurse looked at it and said we'd need an allen wrench. I looked at it myself, and it was only held on with two Phillips-head screws.

Have no fear, ladies. Out came the Wenger Swiss Army Handyman knife. Note that in place of the traditional corkscrew resides a Phillips screwdriver. You bet your sweet ass it does.

So, I removed the sissy bar, threaded the screws back in it (so I wouldn't lose them) and took it with me. I loaded up the woman in her chair. When I got her in the van she said I could just park her behind the driver's seat, since we weren't going very far. I assured her that we needed to strap her in, which I did.

I dropped her off, and returned with the chair, reassembling the sissy bar.

From the hospital I was dispatched to Quintons. It was a blue collar guy, heading to Hoot-N-Anny's with a stopover at his apartment. He worked at a florist's downtown and had been putting in some mean overtime for the Valentine's Day buildup. He had grabbed a couple of beers before calling the cab. I got there early, and he had to leave half a tall girl.

He had just been divorced, and was complaining about how hard he got hit with child support payments. He had been in the process of moving, and hadn't been able to move his clothes. He had bought new clothes to work in since he had ran out of clean stuff. We stopped by his apartment and he picked up his brother's girlfriend (his new roommate). He hadn't intended to, but said she looked pretty pathetic sitting alone on the couch, watching TV on valentines day. He warned me that she was 'pretty goofy' before she made it to the van. The guy had been a cab driver in Columbia for several years, and tipped me $3 on a $9.05 fare.

Then I had another wheelchair. This woman was just a regular old paraplegic, with all of her limbs intact. She was anxious to get away from the hospital. When I got her home I had to wait for her roommate's boyfriend to move a love seat out of the living room and assemble a queen sized bed in its place, as well as kennel some barking dogs. The manual wheelchair didn't want to make the turn around the stairs. To avoid moving a fishtank I rolled the chair up and over the corner of the bottom step, being careful not to jostle or dump her. She tipped me $2 cash on top of the fare, which was a charge.

After that, I headed back in and picked up #10 again. I grabbed the regular from the VA hospital. He was talking about a date he had coming up with a young lady from the hospital. He complained that she showed too much of her gums when she smiled. Ah, Mrs. Ed syndrome.

My next call was to an address where I had picked up the Club Vogue chick that tipped me $9. I was eager to haul her ass again, but got her boyfriend instead. Damn the luck. I took him round-trip to the IGA liquor store (for a bottle of Valentine's Day champagne) and Shakey's Frozen Custard. He tipped me $10 on a $23 fare. Nice.

Next I had the regular who goes to work nights at the nursing home. We talked about break-ups and not getting your shit back. Okay, I talked about break-ups and not getting my shit back.

Then I had my deaf-mute regular.

Next I had my Jerry's-Kids-crutches-girl-who-bitches-about-her-college-classes-nonstop regular.

From there, it was around the corner to my Casey's regular.

All that regularity was broken up with a call from Mirtle Grove. I pulled up to the college duplex, and could see a silhouette moving in front of the Venetian blinds. I beeped the horn but no one came out. I couldn't make out the movements of the silhouette. They were at times jerky and erratic. Almost like someone playing ping-pong.

I wasn't getting anyone, so I went up and rang the door bell. The door opened almost instantly. There was a ping-pong table in the living room. Good work.

A pleasingly plump coed with a Paris Hilton skirt on toddled down the driveway. She was on some slip-on heels, and I watched to see if she was going to fall. She had been drinking, some.

It was a text-message ride. You get those with single girls all of the time. As soon as they leave they start texting different people. She tipped $4 when I got her back to her dorm.

At midnight I picked up at the DeJa Vu. I usually only get drunk fat chicks out of there, but this time I got a dude. I pulled up to some people loading sound equipment into the back of an Envoy. A rental. I saw a guitar case. One guy was checking out, and it looked like the other two were going to scope the bar scene.

I took the one guy, with a boom staff in a case, to the Stoney Creek Inn. He was this guy. He does a lot of stuff for Comedy Central's web site, and was filming some behind-the-scenes stuff, following the comedians on tour. He was plenty modest when I asked him what he did. "I work for a cable television network. It's called Comedy Central..." I told him I was very well aware of it.

I wrote him a receipt for the fare. He told me it was nice meeting me. I told him I might be writing for him some day. "Oh, you do some writing? Comedy stuff?" I told him not really, and mentioned the blog, writing down the address for him. He said he was into blogs, and would check it out.

Then I was dispatched to the Travelodge. It was an OTR truck driver, going to Yellow Freight, out off of the Centralia exit. $22+ fare. He was a black man, from St. Louis. He said he normally did turns and was home every night, but his truck had a flat and he lost 5 hours waiting to get it fixed. Those 5 hours still count toward the maximum you can drive in one day, so he ran out of hours and couldn't drive back home yesterday. He commented on the Lincoln, saying that he had just recently sold an '85 that he had purchased new. He had a daughter who went to MU. He was carrying his CB rig. His handle was 'Disco' and he had it in red vinyl letters on his set-up.

Sometime after 1am I finally got my first Valentine's Day couple. They were coming out of the Forge and Vine, a good place for tips. The guy owns a local bar, one which Taxi Terry has a death grip on. T2 gets all of the calls out of there Thursday through Saturday. I impressed the dude well enough, and he said they would give me the hook-up on Mondays and Tuesdays. We'll see if it pans out, but that could give me a significant boost on those days, which are typically slower than Friday and Saturday. A lot of money comes out of that bar, too, and it wouldn't hurt to set up a little clientele of my own. T2 has that shit on lock down, and almost always beats the shit out of everyone on fares when he works.

Next I had a call at Willies. I pulled up, and stopped in the street. I turned on my flashers. The people were slow in coming, especially since it was 1:30 and the bar was chasing everyone out. I started getting pissed. Dispatch called and said they were supposed to be right out. I had waited long enough for my blood to boil when the chick finally came up to the cab. She had her hand on the door handle, still talking to her friends who were getting into a parked car right beside me. They had been standing there for 2 or 3 minutes while I was waiting, but I didn't realize it was them, for sure, until she went to get into the cab.

Then the bitch just stood there, her hand on the door handle, while she continued to chat with her friends, never acknowledging me. The girl she was talking two glanced from her face down to mine at least 3 times, with a "gee-your-cab-driver-is-getting-homicidally-angry-maybe-you should-get-in-already" face, carefully avoiding eye contact. Likewise, the driver of the other car was looking at me. Then CPD pulled up and stopped behind me.

That fucking bitch still kept talking. I was Superfly TNT. Now I've waited 6-8 minutes, during mealtime, there's a cop riding my ass, and this bitch has never even fucking acknowledged me. Then she went to get in the other car with her friends. That fucking bitch. I could have killed her. CPD lit me up, and I drove off. I was so fucking pissed.

I was still broiling when I pulled around to Quintons. Someone gestured to me, and I pulled to the side. A couple got in. My second Valentines couple.

They were drunk, and had just hooked up "five seconds" before I came, after an evening of near misses. I guess they kind of knew each other from before, through friends, or something. They were in good spirits. Those "I'm about to get laid" spirits. God bless them.

I asked if it was just the two of them, and they realized for the first time that their friends weren't in tow. It was a pleasant realization, though, since they could make out and not feel guilty for hooking up. They asked what my name was.

"Garner." They both cheered.

"No way! We requested you! Look, I've got your card right here." He was holding my business card. "They told us you were tied up." The cancellation.

I didn't recognize him, since he had a fairly generic college guy look to him (they all wear the same stuff and there are like 3 haircuts), and I rarely look at anyone that closely, since they are in the back and I am driving, especially with groups. I asked how he got the card. He said I drove him a few nights before.

"Chas?" I was right. That scored big points. I remembered him because he tipped me $13 cash after paying the $12.05 fare with his mother's credit card, which she had given him for the sole purpose of taking cabs home and not driving drunk. I hadn't recognized him because he had had several days' scruff the last time, and he was clean shaven this time.

I asked where we were headed and the chick said Southampton. Now, I go to Southampton 5 or 6 times a week, and know exactly where it is. For some reason, though, I confused it with Northampton. I asked them a question to clarify, but the answer got garbled somehow. Northampton isn't that far away from Southampton, time-wise. They got busy making out in the back and didn't notice me veering off course.

It was a minor mishap, and, save for my embarrassment, I corrected for it quickly enough, and adjusted the fare appropriately. I apologized, and Chas said not to worry, that I was "giving them more time to fall in love." I got them to her house. She said she had to be teaching elementary school children how to read at 9:30am. Chas tipped me $10. Good guy, that Chas.

That made me very grateful that that fucking bitch at Willies didn't get in the cab. I built a good repeat customer (the kind with unlimited cab funds and propensity to tip with mom's money, who goes out a lot) and got a nice $10 tip. Some days its good to be cab driver.

From there I had to get gas. One of the many shitty things about #10 is the gas gauge. It reads full all the way up until about an 1/8th of a tank, at which point the needle swan-dives. The low fuel light comes on and I don't trust it. Running out of gas would be very bad. I would normally fill it up around 10 or 11pm, and be good through bar rush. But, I got spoiled on cars with working gas gauges, and forgot #10s tricks. Head games.

It caught me during bar rush a couple of weeks ago, and I have been filling it up earlier since then. But, I hadn't driven it for 2 or 3 hours when I was in the van, so I figured it would get me through bar rush. Well, I guess full didn't mean full, as in the day driver hadn't topped off.

It was already nearing 2am, though, so I figured downtown was pretty-well cleaned out, considering how slow it had been. Thus, most incoming calls would be from houses, where fares wouldn't get sniped from rival cabs, the way they do from bars. So, they could wait while I fueled up.

When I got out of the cab at the gas station, I spied an errant valentine on the ground. It had been ran over and had many tiny dimples in it from being pressed into the concrete, though it was clean and intact. I picked it up and read it. It was one of those prepackaged elementary school types, and had been made out to a Laurie from a Cindhersomething-or-other-Indian-sounding. The name was so long it didn't fit neatly in the Anglo space and wrapped around the edge of the valentine, in a child's handwriting. I put it with my clipboard and drove away.

My next call was in a decent, older neighborhood off of Sunset. I had been fighting #10s radio all night, and was having trouble getting the house number from dispatch. The street was a dead-end, though, and only one house had a light on, and there were no cars in the driveway. I pulled up and the door promptly opened. I chick stepped out and was receiving a bland farewell from the dude in the house. I saw him take out his wallet and hand her some cash.

Whenever a dude sends a chick away in a cab, and pays for it, the chick's usually pissed off and tip me better, trying to spend all of the dude's money. And the guy usually gives at least a $20, since he doesn't want her coming back and the yuppie-food-stamp is about all that anyone carries these days (thanks, ATM). It's not a scenario I see every night, but it is one with a clear precedent.

She was nice looking, though perhaps a bit on the Amazon side. Maybe 5'10 or better. Sturdy, fit. Neatly dressed. She got in the front seat. She was a bit exasperated by this whole VD thing. Valentine's Day, that is.

After asking me my name, the first thing she said was, "Garner, do you have a girlfriend." I told her I didn't she said she didn't have a boyfriend. Then she started mildly complaining about how trite Valentine's Day was--stock stuff, really.

"Well, can I give you this, then?" I handed her the wayward valentine I picked up at the gas station. She laughed out loud. She read it, and looked at the name. She laughed outrageously.

"My name is Laura." Close enough, I guess, given the situation.

"Well, Laura, you can rest assured that some little Indian boy out there thinks you are special."

"Oh, I'm going to keep this," she said, filing it away in her purse.

She tried to talk about being single, and being depressed about it. I told her the story about the kid in the wheelchair, and his girlfriend breaking up with him. And the two women in wheelchairs I had hauled earlier in the evening. And at least my prospective dating pool was larger than some. It was spiraling pretty quickly. I meant it to be a 'look on the bright side' kind of thing, but I almost made her cry, she thought it was so sad.

On the way to the East Campus address she gave me, she phone to make sure the guy was home. I guess he was already asleep or something, but didn't mind if she came over. After that conversation, she dialed up someone else, who had definitely been asleep. She looked at her phone, and spoke, without looking at me.

"Yeah, I'm talking to two guys at the same time." I cut her off.

"There's nothing wrong with that. You need to set you up a stable. Have one guy buying you dinner tonight, another guy paying your car insurance tomorrow. It's a skill. Use it. Pull their strings. Make 'em act like jackasses--oh,oh--you know what's awesome, make 'em fight over you."

I pulled up in front of the apartment building. The fare was $9.55. She said 'thanks' and handed me a $20.

"You need any change back?"

"No. I don't. Have a good night. Unless things don't go well here, then I may be calling you back for that $10. " I gave her a card and told her we ran 24 hours. As she got out I noticed a small blue tattoo, smaller than a quarter, on her right flank.

If you're keeping score at home, that's back-to-back $10 tips. Biotch.

It was after 2am. I drove past El Rancho, and it was closed. I decided to check out the strip club. It was closed, too. Dispatch radioed with a call. From El Rancho. I ran back and picked up a white guy with long hair and glasses like mine. He gave me the address, and said it was close, but he was too lazy to walk. It was a couple of miles. I told him about some of the 4-7 mile walks I used to routinely make home, drunk. He was impressed.

My last call was two college girls, shuttling from a friend's house home. They were pretty cool. I joked that they should get the survivor award for being the last ones up after a night of drinking. They tipped $4.

All in all, I had a couple more good nights. The $32 tip was a big help Monday night. I think I did $205 Monday and $215 Tuesday, with $50+ in tips. That's a take-home of about $130.

Here it is, 9:18 Thursday morning. So, it looks like you're getting your update early, for a change. And it covers the standard two days; I'm not pulling up short this time. This is your reward for treating me so kindly with positive comments. And it's not even my birthday.