Pumping Water From A Dried Up Well

Hola mi amigos. It is Sunday night. 11:31 in the pm. That's post-meridian, for those of you out of the know.

Since I last rapped at ya:

I got my update up Thursday morning because I expected to be drunk Thursday night, and unable to accomplish anything. Finally, I managed to achieve at least one goal.

I went to Shattered for Never Perfect Intentions, Black$mith, and Witch's Hat. It was a good time.

I told myself I would drink between 5-7 beers. I got there way early, at 8pm, and chatted with Bert from Witch's Hat. He suggested I come back a little later, so I went to Grill-1-5 to wait out the sound check. I had a pint of Bass there.

I cruised back to Shattered around 8:45. I decided to have a drink. I had never been to Shattered, and was trying to see what they had in bottles without having to ask the bartender. Bottles are good for concerts, because they are easier to hold and harder to spill. And I'm not a big fan of draft beer.

Plus, I suffered a bit of an industrial accident in 2000, and severed two nerves in my right index finger. The thumb-side of my index finger is partially numb, and temperature sensitive. Meaning, a cold-ass drink will make it completely numb, and I won't realize I am relaxing my grip. Then I drop a drink. Then people think I'm drunk. People seem unconvinced when you blame it on nerve damage.

Longnecks are easier to hold. Once you get a couple of drinks down, the neck is empty, and not frigid. No droppy the drink. And, I don't slosh if I start gesturing wildly with my arms while punctuating a story I'm telling.

Well, anyway, I didn't see any bottles before the bartender asked me what I wanted. I ordered the old bar stand-by, bourbon and water. What harm would one do?

"Want that a double?"

"Ahh sure, why not. That's some keen salesmanship on your part."

I didn't realize Shattered used 22ounce plastic cups, the fat ones like Shakespeare's uses. So now I had a giant glass full of ice and whiskey. This could end badly.

I took advantage of any available horizontal surfaces, to keep my drink stabilized. Chase Thompson spied me, via my fresh mohawk.

"That's a nice mohawk. Did Dan Gemkow give you that?" We had a nice chat. I complemented him on his good work with Das Karnival, and told him I was anxious to see Black$mith in action. He asked if I had seen the soundcheck. I told him I hadn't. "Good. We've got some surprises in the works."

I was impressed with the caliber of talent onstage. It was a very enjoyable show. Chase Thompson swung by before Black$mith's set, and asked me how I was doing. I complained that my hand was cold. He had something in his mouth, and dropped it. On the dirty bar floor.

"I dropped my reed."

"Oh, that's what that is. I thought it was a corn chip."

"I wish it was. I've got to put it in my mouth."

I also chatted with Bert, who introduced me to Greg, from Witch's Hat. Sometime during Black$mith's set, my old friend Emily magically appeared. I hadn't talked to her in two or three years. She was friends with my old neighbors. We caught up a bit. She was around for much of the BroYo fiasco.

I was waiting at the bar for another drink, between sets. The bartenders were swamped. I was standing next to some Asian chick. In the interest of polite social discourse, I asked her what she knew "that was good." She said 'nothing.' I drilled her with 3 or 4 simple trivia questions, which she answered correctly. "See, you know all kinds of stuff." I asked her what she was drinking (Bud Lite), and offered to buy her next one. I tend to buy lots of people drinks. It really is a basic platonic gesture to me, and would save the bartender a little more hassle. Plus, how much could a Bud Lite cost?

"Uh, that's okay." She was adamant. Geez, it wasn't like I was proposing or was even going to bother talking to her any more once I got my drink. At least it saved me a couple of bucks.

I continued drinking. Bourbon and water, doubles. During the Witch's Hat set (I think), I met Bob (808) from comomusic. He suggested I could use an editor. Damn, that's 2 people in as many days.

Usually when I'm done writing it is 8 or 10 in the morning and I am exhausted. I don't take any breaks when I'm writing, save to urinate or grab a cold one. The average post probably takes me around 8 hours. I'm usually in a hurry to get it published and linked from comomusic.com. I re-read it once and spell-check it. Some stuff is going to slip through the cracks. It is a blog, and I like to keep it fresh, which sometimes means raw. So, I apologize for any little sticking points. You know me--just keeping it real.

Anyhoo, the show ended, and I was still drinking. I ran into Bob again, and he asked me what I was drinking. I told him. He asked if it was well whiskey. I told him it was.

"What do they have for well bourbon here?"

"Ten High." He grimaced.

"Let me buy you some Glen Levitt." I told him I only drank cheap Bourbon. Jim Beam was where I drew the line.

"Let's do some shots."

"That is a terrible idea. I'm drunk." I didn't do any shots. I had a Newcastle draw. I caught Bert at the Witch's hat merch table and bought a T-shirt and CD. Then I called a cab.

Virginia was dispatching. I requested Dan. She said he was going to be tied up for a while, that he was "picking up someone--wait he's picking up some one at Shattered right now." I opened the door and saw two people getting into #6. They were going to Hyde Park, which is about a mile from my house. So, a random drunk guy with a mohawk jumped in their cab.

I passed Dan a $20 and told him to let me know when that ran out. I was just going to ride around with him until he got sick of me. After we cleared with the people at Hyde Park we stopped at the gas station. Someone had requested a pack of cigarettes, and they were only about a mile away. Dan needed gas, anyway. I grabbed 4 sixteen ounce Miller High Life cans.

In all of the confusion, Dan forgot to turn on the meter when we left the gas station. Typically, we start wait time, pay for the cigarettes, return to the cab, turn off wait time, and run the meter to the person's house. I looked up the street while Dan drove. We pulled up and waited. Dan had to call dispatch to get the chick to come out for the cigarettes. We pondered what she might be like.

She was a fat, stupid bitch. She came out to the cab and stuck her head in Dan's window. She complained that it reeked of alcohol. That would be me. The passenger. With an open Miller High Life. Dan told her it was $3.50 for the cigarettes, and looked at the meter, which was blank. Crap.

Supposing it took 2 minutes to get the cigarettes, and it was only one mile away, the fare should have been $6.05. Besides the fact that someone was bringing this dumb bitch cigarettes at 1:30am in the freezing cold.

Dan told her it was $3 for the fare, and $3.50 for the cigarettes. She complained that that was too high. I told her straight up that she was getting a bargain, that $3 was the minimum fare, and wouldn't even get a pack of cigarettes across the street, besides the fact that this guy was getting out in the freezing cold to get them for her. I told her it should be at least $6 or $7 for the fare alone. She bitched some more, and paid him. I don't remember if she tipped, but, if she did, it wasn't much. What a stupid bitch.

From there, we picked up someone at the Hardees drive-through. Dan pulled up to one of the guys, and rolled his window down to see if he was the fare. He said he was, but that we had to wait on his friend, who was ordering food. "Whup, gotta run wait time," I said, hitting the meter. The first guy got in, and Dan turned the wait time off. It was his cab.

I'm trying to remember, but I guess the guy walked through the drive-through or got in a car with someone. We had to wait a few minutes. Dan turned the meter back on. I have learned to always turn it on, because drunk people will abuse you if you don't, and you'll lose money. At least if you turn it on and run it you have something to base your argument off of. Even if they bitch and you cut them a deal, you can say, definitively, that "it should be $12.80 but I'll cut you a deal, and charge you $10." Drunks have no concept of time. And time is money, for a cabdriver, especially between 1-3am.

The guy got in the back, and commented on the smell of booze. I told him it was me, and he asked where I got a Miller High Life.

"The gas station. Would you like one?" He said yes, and I gave him one. His buddy got in, and we headed South. The guy said we were going to Maricopa, and then he said something about being a liquor wholesaler. I turned and looked at him. "Your name isn't Fisher, is it?"

It was the guy from the hell ride about a month ago, with the drunk chick in the Highlands, the wife of the owner of the Heidelberg, and the turbo-asshole. The one where I called him the Amazing Kreskin and told him I wouldn't have got lost if we hadn't found our way in by Braille. The one whose buddies pissed all over his garage door when we cleared. The ride I heard about with the drunk bitch who puked after I dropped her off.

Fisher was the turbo-asshole.

"Yeah, we had an interesting ride home a few weeks ago." I refreshed his memory.

"That was you?" He laughed, and apologized. He didn't remember much about the ride, but said he had heard about it from his buddy afterwards, and had given him another $20. I told him it was no big deal, and that he hadn't caught me on my best night. Small world, isn't it?

Dan's next call was back at Shattered. It was 3/4s of Black$mith. I got out to take a piss. When I opened the front door to #6 (tinted windows), Chase Thompson was in my seat, helping himself to one of my Miller High Lifes. I sat in the back with Mr. Las Vegas and Double-A.

They were headed to a party, on East campus. I decided to get out with them. As soon as I got inside, I realized I had no business being at a party. I was drunk. I only recognized a few people, and didn't want to meet any new people as a stammering jackass. I finished my beer and exited. I called for Dan again, and met him at University and College, since I didn't know what street I was on at the party.

So I made it home safe. I later apologized to Dan for being a jackass. He said I wasn't a problem. I did tip him well, though.

And can you believe that that stupid bitch from the cigarette fiasco called Phyllis and complained? She claimed Dan scammed her, by not running the meter and overcharging her. $3? That's our minimum fare. She also claimed he reeked of alcohol, obviously ignoring the drunk passenger (in a taxi?) holding an open beer. What a fucking cunt-whore. She's in the running for my fucking cunt-whore of the week contest. Don't forget to log-on and vote.

So, that about covers my off day. So, we can get down to cab business.

Cab:

Friday: Of course I was hung-over. Not too terribly, but when you're faced with 12+ hours driving a taxi cab and dealing with 40 or so different people, half of them drunk, it can be a bit trying, especially if you're not operating on 11. At least I got a car early, and it was a good one. #6.

My first call was one of the lesser-functioning peoples from the sheltered workshop. He's the scrawny black guy with the walker and green teeth. It was a short ride.

After that, I had another regular out near Sorrel's Overpass. I got there and honked the horn. I waited a couple of minutes, and honked again. No one came out. I radioed dispatch. They told me that it was a time call, and I was 7 or 8 minutes early. I felt like a dick for honking the horn. When he didn't come out at 4:30, I gave him another 10 minutes. But he never came out. No-show, but we charged him anyway, so at least I got my $2 out of it.

Then I took BJ to work. BJ is the grandma-voiced dentures kid. He asked if I would stop for a soda. I didn't want to, but I had ignored his hinting the last couple of times I took him home. I stopped at a gas station, urging him to hurry. It wasn't the one he preferred, and he hoped that "their Cherry Coke is...is...is up to tasting good today."

BJ brings his CDs to work. He's only there for 4 or 5 hours, but he brings a giant clear tupperware-type food storage container with like 80 CD's in it. I'm not exaggerating. He also packs a large duffel. Once I asked him what he was listening to and got no response. I asked him what his favorite CD was and didn't learn anything more.

He came back out, with his Cherry Coke fountain drink. It's funny to watch mentally handicapped people get in a hurry. Where have they got to be? I dropped him off at work and headed back in.

My next call was out on Primrose, north of I-70 on Stadium. It was a nice-enough chick, heading back down to North 8th or 9th. She had taken the bus to the mall and walked the couple of miles North to her friend's house. She said she didn't really have the money to spare, but that it was far too cold to walk back. I didn't blame her.

She said she only had $10, and that I could let her out when that was up. I told her it would be about $12, but that we would make the $10 work. I gleaned that she had lost her license for something or other, and decided she didn't need it back.

$10 would have dropped her on Worley. It wasn't far from Providence, but it was fucking cold. I told her I'd run her all of the way home for the $10. The fare was $11.55.

I expected her to hand me a $10, but she gave me a $20. This was mildly irritating. I would have taken it much more personally if it wasn't 18 degrees. At least she had expected to walk after $10, and hadn't expected or asked me to take her all of the way. No matter. I wrote the fare down as $11.55, ate the $1.55, and moved on.

It was going a little slow. After dark had fully set in, I was dispatched out off of Scott Boulevard, to a nice college-y neighborhood, around 6:45 or so. I found the house, in a nice, new, brick subdivision, and pulled in the driveway, behind a late-model Nissan Pathfinder.

I beeped my horn, but no one came out. I waited a couple of minutes, and beeped again. No one. I had dispatch call. "They'll be right out." When I hear that, I think of the "I'll be right back" line from Scream.

It was 3 or 4 minutes before the door opened. That's bordering on unreasonable, when it's 7pm, you know the taxi is coming, I've honked twice, called once, and waited 7-8 minutes. The only mitigating factors, for me, was that it was early, I was slow, and that they may be apologetic and tip well.

A skinny blonde bitch came out, never looked at me, and came down the driveway to the Pathfinder parked 18" in front of my bumper. Again, without looking at me, she opened the door of the Pathy. I thought maybe she was not my fare, but just someone leaving the house. She got back out, though, with a pack of Menthol Marlboros cigarettes. She walked to the cab, again, without ever acknowledging me.

This is a major pet peeve. If you are keeping me waiting, at least open the door, acknowledge me, and hold your finger up. I will wait. The difference is about 40 blood pressure points, diastolic.

So, this bitch got in the back seat, and didn't close the door. It was about 12-15 degrees. I asked if she was by herself. She said 'no,' that there was someone else coming. As if it was a stupid question. She left the door open for the entire further unreasonable 4-5 minutes while waiting for her friend. Like I might rape her, and that 2 seconds she would save by having the door open would be the difference that facilitated her escape. She never acknowledged or apologized for the delay. She even complained about how cold it was. With the fucking door open.

Bitch.

Her friend finally came out, and slid into the back seat. She had a broad ass. Apparently broad enough that fashionable pants were hard to find in her size. At least she was polite enough to say "sorry for keeping you waiting."

And, would you believe, the blonde bitch in the back said, "oh, that's okay"?

At least her friend called her out for being such a dumb cunt, telling her she was talking to me. It didn't embarrass her in the least.

Finally, we were rolling. Within 1/2 a mile they were complaining about the fare. "It's already $4?"

"Yeah, it's $1.80 to get in."

The second girl asked if we took credit cards, then remembered she forgot her debit card. I doubled back. She retrieved it (wait time off) and we headed back downtown. To Addisons.

With the turn-around, and the second passenger, the fare was $20.05. Bitch #2 tipped $2, and said they might need a ride later that night. I did not offer them a card, and reminded myself that if I had a call at Addisons during bar rush, that I should go there via Willies, The Field House, The Penguin, El Rancho, Jimmy John's, Tonic, and Quintons.

After that, I grabbed two more from the workshop, then another regular from the hair salon he owns. He is a black man, with an accounting degree, who also does taxes as a side enterprise. He lived in Kansas City for some 30 years, and complained that there wasn't as much call for a good barber in Columbia. "These fools here is happy just to run a razor over their head. They don't take care of their shit like they do in the city. The womens in Kansas City wouldn't let you slide with that shit. You've got to keep your shit tight, in the city."

I made a run to the airport. It was a business man, returning home. We talked about DWIs and the good-old days when drunk driving was considered simply a boorish behavior. He tipped $5 on the $25 fare.

I was dispatched to the Wal-Mart Supercenter. The people were actually at the Nifong Wal-Mart, and I was re-routed. It was a black woman, her teenaged son, and, I guess, a couple of his friends. She continually admonished them for loud-talking all of the way home. She commented that Chris Drive was no place to live, and that she couldn't wait to move. I don't fucking blame her. That's where my lone runner came from.

After that, I snagged two college kids from North Cedar Lake, and ran them downtown. They met me in the street, were drunk, a lot of fun, and tipped $5.95 on $14.05 fare.

From there I ran right back to North Cedar Lake for my regular who goes to work at the nursing home. Then I grabbed another semi-regular from Spring Valley. She normally walks to work, but it was in the neighborhood of 10 degrees. I generally only see her during inclement weather. The fare is like $4.55 and, she usually passes me $7.

Then I had a call at the Red Roof Inn. It was right at 11pm. They had been waiting for an hour, but dispatch called to make sure they still wanted the cab. It was a slender 20something black woman. She wanted to go to McDonald's, make a stop at Pendleton, and clear on North 6th Street. I made sure she knew about wait time.

We stopped at the Break Time on Nebraska before McDonalds. She leaned down to see who was working inside. "I hope it's not that one that always asks me for my ID." She went in and came back out after a minute or two. I watched her conversing with the woman behind the counter.

She asked me if I had a lighter. I didn't. Neither did #6. I have a couple of Zippos, which I treasure, so I don't carry them for fear of losing them. I'm not a smoker, but I am a pyromaniac. There are few sounds so recognizable and satisfying as the opening, striking, and cold snapping-shut of a Zippo lighter. Plus, I don't really feel to bad when smokers can't light up in my car. If you want to smoke, cool. But, if you can't keep track of your lighter, you're a rank amateur. Next, please.

We spent two minutes ($2) in the McDonald's drive-through before she decided it was going to cost too much. I told her I would drop the $2 if she wanted to bolt. She suggested Burger King, across the street. I ordered 3 hamburger kids meals for her, and another adult value meal. The BK dude apologized for only having one 2-drink carrier. I put the remaining two orange sodas in the Crown Vic's cup holders.

We took the food over to Pendleton. A black man came out to meet us, after we had passed the house and she called him on my cell phone. I handed him most of the food through the window, and she got out to carry the rest. She went in, and I ran wait time. I fretted that she might not come out, but logic told me she would. She did, after $4 or $5 ticked off.

She wanted to stop at another gas station before going to North 6th. We did, at the Phillips 66 on Rangeline. Then I took her to North 6th. The fare, on distance alone, would have been about $7 or $8. With all of the wait time, it ran $25.05. She paid cash, handing me a $10 and a $20. I gave her $5 back. No tip. On rides like that I'm ecstatic just to see cash for the fare without a hassle, though.

Next I had a call at 913 Curtis, in Greektown. It was a nice girl, only going so far as Shiloh. The fare was only $3.80, but she paid by debit card ($2 service charge) and tipped $2 without complaint.

After that I was sent to the Wal-Mart Supercenter. A woman with a bunch of groceries. Shit.

It was 7 degrees. I pulled up to see 2 shopping carts, heaped full. I had a fresh shaved head. It was a black woman and two kids. I did not foresee a tip in my future, and I would have gladly tipped her if it meant I could stay in the car.

Motherfucker.

I popped the trunk, pulled on my jacket, and got out. She thanked me but said I could stay in the car. She didn't want to be guilted into a tip. Awesome. The words were barely out of her mouth before I was back in #6's driver's seat.

I ran her over off of East Ash. Along the way, she asked about Phyllis. Apparently, Bill had driven her to Wal-Mart, and she had had a Crown Vic black-and-white Interceptor parked in her driveway, a '96. It needed work. She wanted to sell it. She said it needed a starter to run, and had a power steering fluid leak, an engine oil leak, and a transmission fluid leak. This sounded like a shpiel she had received from a garage. Fuji, all of our Crown Vics leak power steering fluid and motor oil. The tranny did scare me a bit, in case she had ran it low or something. The police stations know when the trannies are about to go and pawn them off, quick, before they start slipping noticeably.

She wanted $300 for it. My interest was piqued. She did mention that it needed to be 'cleaned up,' that water had leaked in the A-pillar where the spot light had been, and that the interior was moldy. Hmm. I took her number so I could check into it today (Sunday). No tip.

Next, I had a call at Cody's. I expected a K-Mart cowboy, but got a fat, white, wannabe player instead.

He was cool enough, though, headed North in the boonies. Luckily Cody's is already half-way to fucking nowhere.

"You a big fan of Cody's there?"

"No." He had been coerced into going there by some friends, and called a cab so he could leave, because it sucked so bad. Can't say as I blame him. I got him home without incident. He tipped me $3 or so on a $14 fare.

I had a call waiting for me at the Reserve (the old Jefferson Commons), on the South Side of Columbia. I was way up North. I started humping the Vic to get back in an orderly fashion. I wasn't thinking too clearly, though, and took a wrong turn. I drove 4 or 5 miles into the middle of nowhere. I had to back-track and find my way back to 63. I was trying to push it, but the roads were uber-shitty and a dry, powdery snow was beginning to blow, low, like smoke, along the asphalt.

I made it back into the Reserve, and the guy was still good to go. I ran him to a party on East campus. He had a half-empty 24 pack of Natural Light with him. He wanted me to wait to make sure his friends hadn't already left the party. He was going to wait to pay in case he need to go back home. "Do you want me to leave my wallet, or something?" I laughed.

"I'm not to worried about you running on me. Besides, I've got your beer." He checked, expeditiously, and returned and paid me, after confirming that the party was still going.

It was almost 1am. I had a call to get to the DeJa Vu, ASAP. I motored over. Clickety Clyde was already parked right in front of the Vu. I pulled in, anyway, right up beside him. Before I even got it into park, Virginia called me off. She sent me to another address which did not sound familiar. Someone wanting to make a casino run.

If you're not familiar with Columbia, there is a casino, the Isle of Capri, a half-an-hour West, in Boonville, MO, along I70. If you're not familiar with Missouri, this is because there is some arcane law which prohibits casinos in Missouri. To get around that here in the Midwest, we have "boats on moats" exclusions. This means that if it floats, it is not 'in Missouri," as in on land. Rather, it is on water. So, there is some giant building for which you have to cross over a tiny canal or something to reach. This is retarded.

Call a spade a spade. Consider this: in Nevada, I can legally have sex with a prostitute. In Missouri, I can not. However, if I want to pay a woman to have sex with me, I can do so, call it 'acting,' in and 'adult film,' and, voila, it is perfectly legal (provided I fill out the proper paperwork). Fucking Puritans and their laws.

Not that I desire to have sex with prostitutes.

Because I don't.

At all.

I swear.

But this is all beside the point, except for the fact that I would be forced to drive a bunch of loud drunks at 70 mph down highway 70 in 5 degree weather, over bridges, with snow blowing, to a casino in the middle of nowhere. Dodging drunks and deer. The fare would be $45 for 3 of them. This was during bar rush. Meaning, if they didn't tip well, I would make a total of maybe $20 for the hour plus (35% of $45 + $5 tip). Under less than optimal conditions.

Furthermore, I had never been to Boonville or the casino, though I assumed it would be pretty well marked. I pulled into the Broadway Diner to look up the address I had been given by dispatch. Then 3 women in their late 30s got in the cab.

I hated to put them out, since it was so frigid. They had had their car towed while they were in the Vu. They had driven in from Jefferson City to celebrate one of their birthdays, and didn't have many options. I told them that I would try to get them to the tow lot, but it kind of depended on how big of a hurry my casino crew was in. To make matters worse, they needed to stop at an ATM, and I had to find the tow lot, and hope someone would be there waiting. Guess what? Tow operators don't give a fuck about you or your car. They only take cash and they work on their own time-frame.

On top of that, I was having no luck finding the street in my guide book. I radioed dispatch, and she gave me a number to call. I guess it was a bar. The bartender told me the casino guys had got a limo and already left. That was no problem.

So, I proceeded with the mild-mannered housewives. We hit an ATM. The woman couldn't remember her PIN. It was written down in her purse, which was in the impounded car. Apparently, she was the only one with an ATM card, and was getting cash for the other woman to pay for the tow. This was the craziest thing that had ever happened to any of them.

I went ahead and drove them to the tow lot. I made the woman call on my cell phone to make sure the tow operator was there. He let her in, and she got the wayward pocketbook. Then we went to a second ATM, and back. It was a $20 fare or so. She paid by credit card. I asked if she wanted to put a tip on the card.

"Yes...but, I don't know...what's standard for a taxi?"

"Well," I said, looking at the fares on my clipboard, "the standard seems to be to not tip at all."

She gave me $3. Happy Birthday, Lisa.

Now it was about bar closing. People were everywhere on the streets, freezing. People who would normally walk were flagging cabs, resulting in short fares. Someone flagged me outside of Harpos. It was two dudes.

They got in, and said they were only going to University and College. I told them it would be $3-4 for the fare and a $1 for the second passenger. They said they would pay it, but wondered aloud why it would be so much to so such a short distance.

I didn't feel like debating fares. "Look dude, it's all about transaction costs. I have to find you, get you in, get you out, wait for you to pay, etc. While I'm doing that I may be passing up a $20 fare. You can buy a 2-liter bottle of soda at the grocery store for $.89 cents, but you don't bitch about paying $1.19 for a 20ounce soda at a gas station. You're paying for convenience. It's like the difference between a 40oz beer and a six pack." He appreciated the beer analogy, and tipped a couple of bucks.

After that, I grabbed Max and Lindsay, the Zombie Front dojo guy and his lady-friend, at Jimmy John's on Broadway. Lindsay was the first to comment on my new mohawk. Max tipped me $4. Thanks, Max.

I made my way back downtown, and had a call at the Wine Cellar, 505 Cherry. I pulled up and waited. And waited. It was an unreasonably long time, during bar rush, but I couldn't pull off. Dispatch called. "They'll be right out."

It wasn't too, too long, but long enough to warrant an acknowledgement or an apology. Which I didn't get. It was a server from the Wine Cellar and her dude friend. Normally I would alter their identities, but not in this case.

The chick was in a bad mood. Fair enough. I don't always like my job, but that doesn't keep me from being nice to people. She was in a bad mood the whole way, which was only a $3.55 fare, but through every flashing red light and 4 way stop in downtown Columbia. This took a while, besides the time I waited for them to get in the cab.

The dude works at Rag Tag. I chatted with him about the True/False Film festival. I pulled to the back of their house for them, over a badly rutted driveway. With the extra passenger, the fare was $4.55. She handed me a $20. "Just give me $15 back." She violated the unspoken server-tipping-server-floating-tip rule.

"Gee, thanks, Elvis. This will go a long way in a toy store."

But, I guess anyone can have a bad night.

Next, I was dispatched to "the corner of Locust and College." As cold as it was, I figured it was someone walking home who had thought better of it. I raced over there. I saw no one at the intersection. I thought it might have been the house on the corner, and pulled in the driveway. Nothing.

I was having trouble getting through to dispatch. They said the guy was on the street. I said he wasn't, but circled back around to check. Locust is one-way there, so I had to circle back down to Paquin. I pulled back up on Locust, where I could see to the end of the street. No one was there. I radioed again.

This time he was supposed to be at Athena. I had seen movement in that direction the first time I passed. I had to circle the block again to get back there. No one. I radioed again.

After a couple of minutes, they called the guy and got me an address halfway up the block, on Locust. I pulled up and he came out. Thank goodness.

I took him down South, on the other end of my street. He kept telling me about the neighborhood. I told him I had lived there since 2001. I told him there had been a home invasion a block from his house, and a dude got shot in the chest. There's some news for ya, fucker.

Actually, he was cool enough. He tipped me $6 or $7. We pulled in his driveway and a young, fat-faced kid with a beard came up to my window. He asked if I could wait around a few minutes, that they might be going somewhere else. I told him I had another call, and gave him a card in case he made up his mind.

I was dispatched to the Martini Bar. It was 3am. I pulled up to the parking lot, and there was a surprising number of people there. I had assumed I had been dispatched for an employee, since it was so late, and Columbia bars are so adamant about getting people out at 1:30 am. The neon 'Open' sign was still on.

As I pulled through the parking lot, I saw a black man of about 40 talking to someone through an SUV window. I pulled up in front of the Martini Bar's doors and waited. The windows are all tinted black. I thought I would wait a second for someone to pop out.

As I put it in gear, the black guy walked past my window, towards the bar. He did a bit of a double-take, and came back to my window. I thought maybe he worked there, and he was going to tell me that my fare had left already, or something. I rolled down the window.

"Garner?" That was odd. I thought maybe he knew my name because someone at the bar had requested me or maybe he knew my friend Zeke, who works there.

"Yeah?"

"Fuck you!" he said, laughing, as if he didn't believe me.

Okay.

"I'm Bluesman." Oh, shit, Bluesman, from comomusic. I forget that there are people on there that aren't 25 year old 5'7" indie white guys or metal-heads. Dispatch radioed, and told me I would have to go in to get the fare. "I'm not talking to them on the phone any more." I thought this must mean that they were pissed at a long wait or something. I hopped out and followed Bluesman in.

I was telling him that I had listened to the No Name Blues Show on BXR for years (though, admittedly, sporadically). As I popped through the door there were two attractive 30something women standing right next to me.

"Are you the cab driver?" They were drunk. I was expecting a tirade and a bitchy ride.

"Yes, I am. Are you excited!" Surprisingly, this comment was met with a positive response. They followed me out to the cab. We got in and I got an address. It was even further South, off of Route K. A straight shot, and I knew there were some nice neighborhoods down there.

Before I got out of the parking lot, the woman behind me was rubbing my shoulders. She said something about a tip and giving me a back rub. I thanked her for her kindness. She also commented on my fresh mohawk, massaging my freshly shorn cranium.

When we hit Route K, the one behind me started talking about how sexy the other one had been dancing, and how everyone was envious of her. They were pretty sharp, fairly funny, very provocative, and a tad obnoxious. The chatter was mostly between the two of them until I got to their street.

The one behind me guided me to the house. I swung in the drive, told them the fare, and started writing on my clipboard. They paid me, and tipped me $3 or $4.

There was some mention of how cute I was. They wanted me to come in. I told them I had to drive, that I had calls waiting on me. It was already 3am, but dispatch already had me stacked three high.

They weren't giving up easily. I'm not going to lie to you. I have a bit of a 35-year-old woman fetish, and these ladies were very sexy. I looked at the clock. I couldn't see any way around having to work for at least another hour. And, then, they would be 25 minutes south of me when I got off of work. I apologized again, and told them I had to drive. I did mention that I could come back.

They seemed game with the idea, but I figured an hour-and-a-half wait at 3am would likely pacify the carnal desires of even the horniest drunk women and would result in two snoozing divorcees and me standing in the cold at a locked door. They said they needed something to tide them over.

"Show us your penis." It kind of came out of nowhere. I laughed. She said she wasn't joking. They were both equally engaged in the endeavor. I politely declined a few times, laughing it off. They were serious, and apparently not willing to take no for an answer. "No, really show us your cock." This went on for a few minutes. "Is it hard?"

I said 'no,' but that they had my attention. I could not seem to change the subject or get them out of the car. I told them that no one wanted to see a flaccid penis.

"Yes we do. Show it to us." I suggested that they couldn't really tell much about a penis in its flaccid state, and I wouldn't want to be underestimated. They insisted that they could, and that they wanted to see it.

"You'd think you would at least offer to buy me a beer, first."

"You want a beer? Come inside. You can have a beer, then you can show it to us."

"I can't--I gotta drive."

"Oh, come on. Just one beer?"

I told them that I thought they were just teasing me, and that they didn't really want to see my penis, and that they just wanted to see if they could make me do it. Then, I said, they would laugh, go inside, and forget about it.

The second one spoke up. "Look, we're not 21. We want to see it. We're not playing games here. I am 30 (something) and I'm horny."

"Well, God bless your heart for that." She said something about me not wanting to show them because I thought they were too old. I promised them that I would like nothing better than to come back.

"Just show us your penis. Come on, show us your cock. Just move that clipboard, and show it to us." There was some mention of fellatio. "Do you need some help?"

"Well, if you're offering to help--that's a different story..."

The chick behind me had long-since shifted to the center of the back seat. She was leaning forward, almost between the front low-back bucket seats. #6 is missing the driver's seat headrest. She reached forward and took the clipboard out of my hands, setting it in the passenger's seat. She paused. I did nothing. Then she unbuckled my belt. Again, I did nothing.

She pulled my belt out of my pants. "Well?"

Again, we were at a stalemate. Dispatch had radioed again. I finally got them out of the car. They acted disappointed. They told me to come back, but I was unconvinced they were serious about staying up. I put my belt back on. There was a scooter and a skateboard in the front yard.

Filthy.

I motored to the Waffle House. It was 3:30 when I got there. This is the brand-new Waffle House, near the Stoney Creek Inn, on the South side, off of Providence. It is the only thing open 24 hours on the South side, so, of course, it is the new drunk-central. I pulled in and the windows were all fogged over, and it was stuffed to capacity.

Surprisingly, my fare came right out. I had just stopped along the sidewalk right by the door. She came right up and got right in. She was a 30something cracker woman, serviceable, but much less attractive that either of the two I just dropped off. She seemed in a huff, and some drunk college student was giving her shit about something. She was still talking to him when she got in behind me, the door open. He joked about going with her. "Well, get in, Honey." He laughed and declined. I asked if it was just her and she bitched about being alone.

I asked where she was headed, She went into a tirade about them not allowing smoking in the new Waffle House. She had been waiting for an hour-and-a-half so she could go to IHOP (a $15 fare) for breakfast because she refused to spend any money at an establishment that prohibited smoking. I checked my mirrors and went to back up. I moved about 18" and felt an impact. God damn.

I pulled forward, put the car in park, and got out in the 5 degree cold. I expected to see an electric green Cadillac Escalade, back fresh from Pimp My Ride, sitting behind me with a smashed grill, pieces littering the ground. Instead, a dull black car had pulled up right behind me, parked, and got out. What the fuck?

I had been distracted with the fare and the commotion. The car's paint had dulled, and spots were spray-painted flat black. It was narrower than the Crown Vic, and didn't show up in my side mirror. The rear window is tinted, and was fogged, and I frankly just never expected anyone to park behind me in 30 seconds while stopped at the Waffle House at 3:30 in the am.

Luckily, there was no damage at all. The obnoxious drunk guy at the door was overjoyed to witness the spectacle, and went screaming into the restaurant to tell everyone that a taxi had just smashed into a parked car. The guy in the car came back out. I hoped he would be drunk, but he wasn't. He looked, and didn't see any damage. It was a $500 car, and all of the paint was already worn off of the bumper cover where one of those classy 80s nose-bras had once covered it. He said it was his friend's car, and took my card just in case their was any friction. I booked.

I headed over to the IHOP. The chick tipped me $5. She wanted me to come back for her, and asked what time I got off. Hmm.

My last call was out on Balboa. It was the nice, attractive girl I had picked up and taken to Shiloh. We talked about the cold and she said she was Canadian. You know how I feel about Canadians.

Well, that was my night. I was exhausted, and shaking a little. I went in and did my paperwork. I asked Virginia about the 30somethings I snagged from the Martini Bar. She said that they had insisted that she was a man and had kept asking for a date.

I had ran about $270 on the meter, with $50 or so in tips. It was a pretty good night. But I was wiped out. I went home and crashed.

I got up just in time to go to work. My drunken shenanigans Thursday had caught up with me, and I felt like a cold was coming one. At least I wasn't hungover, though.

I went to work and waited for a car. I was the last to get issued a ride. Dan got #6. I knew the day driver was still out in #10. I expected to get saddled with her, and was preemptorily pissed, since the heat in #10 doesn't work under 30mph and I didn't want to spend 12+ hours in it in 5 degree weather. Fuck that.

With every car that was handed out, I got madder and madder. Then they told me mine was outside. I went in the office to get a clipboard. Phyllis said Guy was pulling in. Jeff had been in #10. "Which car am I in?"

"You're in #9."

Sweet box nubbins.

I had only driven #9 once before, for a couple of hours. It is a '94 Interceptor. It's the one I had one night that had the headlight problem. Amazingly, they had fixed it properly. Great day in the morning.

#9 had a bad-ass heater. And, not a single noteworthy mechanical problem. It has 179K on the ticker, but doesn't look to have seen much police duty. There's no A-pillar spotlight. The only hint that it was a service vehicle is the aftermarket auxiliary domelight. It has power bucket seats with velour surfaces. Sweet.

My first call was a no-show from a regular at Ryans. From there I jetted for a 5:15 timecall for Miss Jean.

I was about 8 minutes early, but she's usually at least 10 minutes early, seated on a loveseat in the lobby of her retirement home, visible through the door. She wasn't there, yet.

I waited, and 5:15 came and went. I started to wonder if she had died or something. Finally, around 5:23, I saw her shuffling past the door with her cart. I went in and retrieved her. She seemed worn-out and her voice was hoarse. I got her outside and into #9.

Miss Jean smelled like shit. This worried me. I had spoken with a chef at one of the restaurants she frequents, and he said that they had been forced to ban her for a number of years, because she had a bowel/incontinence problem, and "would slam 3 glasses of chardonnay and shit herself" every day at lunch. I had also heard confirmation of this from at least one other source. I had experienced no such problems since I met her.

The smell was offensive, but I fatigued to it along the drive. After I escorted her in, I returned to the car and was hit with a fresh waft of it. Shit. I hope this isn't a sign of things to come. I mean, we're all entitled to the occasional accident. Even I have shit myself at least once since undertaking the blog, though I blame that firmly on rogue shrimp tacos and food poisoning.

After that, I picked up someone at the Mizzou Arena and took her to Paquin Tower. She had been watching her brother wrestle in the state tournament.

Next, I had a call on Park, in the projects. As I was driving up to the address (early--I was right around the corner), I passed a black woman and two girls walking along the street. They flagged me. Great.

I rolled down my window. They were the fare I was sent to pick up, and were walking to the address they had given. It was a mom, her 12 year old daughter, and one of her daughter's friends. I took them the 50' or so to her apartment, and waited while she drug her laundry out and put it in the trunk. Then we dropped the two girls off down the street and headed to the laundromat by the Wal-Mart Supercenter.

As soon as we got headed that way, she said "I like your mohawk." She said she had had one last August, but got tired of people asking her if she was "a black skinhead." She said she was 35. We chatted about the hairstyle on the way over to Trimble Road.

She needed to stop at the gas station to use the ATM. She came out and said that she could only get $10 out of the ATM. She owed me $8.30, and was about $6 away from home. She couldn't afford to do her laundry. I had already got my next call, around the corner, at the Supercenter, going back in her direction. I told her I would take her back for free, and picked up the next fare.

It was a 45-50 year old black woman and her adult gay son. They were going back to the projects. Along the way, everyone talked about how bad crime and the schools were in Kansas City and St. Louis. The mohawk woman had moved to Columbia so her daughter would be safe and go to good schools. She said she worked 48 hours a week as an operating room tech at the hospital. She's the one who holds the heart while someone's being operated on, along with other surgery-related duties.

I dropped off the mom/son and ran the other woman back home. She gave me her $10 and I gave her back $5. I told her I would make it all up by taking too much money from drunk college students who paid with their parents' credit cards. She was very gracious. I even carried one of her ginormous bags of laundry to her door for her.

My next call came out of the projects, too. It was two women headed up off of Paris road. Would get the money when we got there. A dude name Henry came out and asked how much the fare was. I said '$11.55.' The meter read $10.55 ($1 for the extra passenger). He handed me $11 and started to walk away. I was glad to get the $11, and wasn't going to quibble over $.55. He stopped short at the end of the car's hood, turned around, and came back. He apologized, saying he wasn't thinking, that his brain shut off after $11, and the $.55 didn't register until he was walking away. I do the same thing. He counted out $.55 change for me and thanked me again.

And, then, yet another call from the hood. This one was going to the Bear's Breath, which is pretty much a redneck bar. A black woman got in and asked how much it would cost to get there. I said $6-7, guessing high. She freaked out, and said dispatch said between $4-5. I reconsidered, and that sounded close. I got her over there for $4.55. She gave me 2 $1s and the rest in change. How do you go to a bar with no money and no way home? I told her I hoped she made some friends there.

I grabbed two girls out of the Penguin and ran them to Shiloh. I told them it was a $3 minimum and $1 for the extra passenger. The chick laughed and said she could afford it. I told her I liked to lay everything out up front, because having the money didn't always keep people from bitching about how must the ride had cost. They said they would be going to the Martini Bar later, and I gave them a card.

My next call was at the Motel 6. It was some sawed-off runty cop from Kirksville and his wife, who was about 4 inches taller and 40lbs heavier than him, conservatively speaking. They said they wanted to go to Shattered. I headed that direction and they asked me what I knew about Lou's Palace. They had looked it up in the phone book.

I told them all that I knew about it, which was where it was at, and that I had never seen a white person go in or come out. The chick was looking for some place that played 'hip-hop.' They had been to the DeJa Vu and hadn't liked it. I suggested Athena, because they seemed the perfect tacky fit for it. I also pointed out El Rancho and told them that that was about the best place to get a cab during bar rush.

I was driving back downtown without a call when someone flagged me at 10th and Broadway. Turned out to be a well-meaning citizen who wanted to pay me to take a drunk homeless guy to the St. Francis house. The guy had already called and made sure they would take him. I told him it would be about $4 and he gave me $5. The drunk homeless guy got in the back and we took off. The well-meaning guy told him that if he had "a bottle to put it in a bush or something, outside. Don't try to take it in with you. They won't let you stay if you have a bottle with you. It's going to be about 20 degrees below, with the windchill tonight. You don't want to be sleeping on the street."

I asked the homeless guy how he knew the other guy. He said some nice people came outside and gave him some french fries to eat, without him asking. The girl insisted he take them. Then the other guy had ran across him.

When I came up to the next stop sign a phonebook slid down my windshield and hit the cowl. The guy had put it on top of the cab while he was talking to me. I got to the St. Francis House and made sure he got in. I escorted him to the door. He told me that he was from Montana and that he had been born on a record-cold day. Minus 85 F, he said. The guy from the St. Francis House knew him, called him by name, and scolded him to put out his cigarette before he came in.

I drove back down 10th, looking for a coffee house to return the phonebook to. There wasn't one on 10th, but I didn't want to go hunting in the cold on 9th Street, trying to return a free phonebook to an unwitting coffee shop employee. I guess its still under the seat of #9.

My next call was a request at the Campus Bar. I thought it would be a regular, but it was the two girls I had dropped off at Shiloh. I took them to the Martini Bar, and they set up a 12:15 time call with me.

After that, I was called up by the office. I assumed that meant Greyhound, but, instead, it was to go to Darlene's Hideaway, a little cracker bar next to the office. I got some looks when I strolled in with my fresh mohawk. I got a 50some year old good-ol'-boy headed up North. It was a $20.55 fare, the last couple of miles on a narrow paved country road with break-neck corners. He would say it was just up around the corner, then I would slow down a little bit. Then he'd say "you've still got a ways to go."

"Awesome."

"Possum? You better run over that sum'bitch."

He was saying something about how he'd been boning the owner of the bar for some time, but that she had already passed out for the night, so he was going home, instead. He gave me $25 and didn't want any change. Nice.

Then I grabbed a couple of chicks from Shiloh, headed to their car at Stoney Creek Inn. They had been there for a wedding reception.

That took me up to 12:15. I went to the Martini Bar for the timecall. I had pulled in and waited a couple of minutes, and was putting on my jacket to go inside to look for them, when they called to check on me. Dispatch sent them out. They were happy that I was on time. We went through the Taco Bell drive-through. I reminded them of wait time, and the first girl laughed again. She is from Columbia, and was home from college at Indiana University, to go to the Rascal Flats concert. Apparently she is the daughter of someone 'important/wealthy' in Columbia, and I was supposed to know who she was. Still don't. They tipped a total of $10 or so on the three fares. That was fine. They were terribly mild, though.

I had a call from Campus Bar. It was two guys heading to Rolling Rock, but they got a call from a friend, drunk and on foot, on East campus. We were navigating our way to him. The guy on the phone told him we were right around the corner, when we were still a few blocks away. He told him we were sitting, waiting, and that he had better run. He had exhausted himself and was standing on the sidewalk when we came into view, still a block away. "You see headlights? Okay, that's us."

He had on a stupid hat. "You want me to blast past him like we don't see him?" They thought that would be funny. I coasted down to where he was standing, and stood on it, jetting past him. They thought that was really funny. "That's what he gets for wearing that hat." We turned around and picked him up. He was too winded to bitch for a few miles. We hit up a gas station before getting them home. $23 fare, $4 tip.

After that I grabbed the runty cop and his old lady from El Rancho. They had loved Athena, and were very pleased with my recommendation. They had called and requested "Garber." I took them back to the Motel 6.

Next, I was sent to 905 Richmond. That's a short street in Greektown on campus. There are only about 5 or 6 sorority houses on either side. It was just before 2 am. I found the numbers. 901, 907, 915. No 905. I got a phone number from dispatch and dialed it, sitting in between 907 and 915 in the street. It rang several times before a chick answered.

"Are you waiting for a cab?"

"Well we fucking were, but you took too fucking long!" Bite tongue. Fight oh-no-she-didn't reflex. 3-2-1..."We're on our way out."

Motherfucking bitch. Useless fucking spoiled cunt-whore. Son-of-a-bitching cocksucker.

"Where are you at?"

"905 Richmond."

"There is no 905 Richmond. It goes 901, 907, 915."

"Well I don't know, then."

"Which house is it?"

"Richmond is, like, right off of Kentucky..."

"I know where Richmond is. I'm sitting right on Richmond."

"Wait. I see you."

"You see me? Where are you at?"

"You need to back up." The only house behind me was 901, the first one on Richmond. I could see lights on at the top of 915. That was where I figured she was. A Reliable cab minivan had turned onto Richmond, coming towards me.

"You can see me?"

"Yeah. It says 'Taxi' on the top, and on the side. You need to back up." I backed up about a car length. "You're going the wrong way. You're in a van, right?"

"No, I'm in a blue car."

"Okay, you see that van, you need to back up and turn where it just did." The van just turned into 915, in front of me. "You need to back up and turn left." The van had turned right. This stupid fucking bitch was giving the directions backwards, not smart enough to realize that her left was my right.

I was pretty hot when I pulled into 915. She still took two or three minutes getting out. I was ready to leave when she showed up. She was still bitchy. Luckily, her boyfriend was alright. She got in and had forgot her purse. I had to wait for her to back and get it. I asked her boyfriend if she was going to be cool. He apologized for her.

She came back and I started towards her house, out off of Scott Boulevard. It's the same short street I took the last wheelchair to, and I told her I knew right where it was. That didn't stop her from giving me directions the whole way. It was the first time either of them had been in a taxi in Columbia.

After she had paid and tipped me $2, I told her, for future reference, that if she called for a cab at 1am, it would be an hour wait. And, it helped when people gave the right address. She was still bitchy. If you would like to call her from work or from a private number, her cell phone # is 573-819-6161.

My next call was at Hyde Park, just South of Nifong. I found the place and waited. There was a small pile of firewood outside of the door, with a bright red plastic 1 gallon gas can sitting on top of it. I assumed it was used for starting fires. Hack.

A chick came to the door and motioned for me to wait a second. Then a dude came out and got in about a 2000 model Escalade with 22" rims and motored off. After a minute or two the chick came out to the cab. She was about 30, with a bit of a week chin, which made her face look fatter than it really was. Her hairstyle was very Midwestern, and a few years behind, even by mid-Missouri standards. She had on a black leather jacket, a top scooped low showing off her cans, and jeans. She carried a pair of shoes with 3" heels in her hand as she scurried, barefoot, to the cab.

She got in and closed the door, exasperated. She apologized for taking so long. "Does that make me a bad person?" She sounded almost serious. I asked where she was going, and she fished in her pocket and in her purse for the address. She produced a couple of receipts, but no address. "I must have left inside. I'm sorry. Will you wait? Please don't leave." I told her not to worry about it but to be quick, like a bunny. She repeated that, and turned to get out of the car.

As she bent over I got a good view of her red string T-back thong. Where the strings intersected there was a sort of beaded pendant. This was comical to me, because it was visible not because she was wearing some fashionable low-rise jeans, but because her pants were falling off of her ass, like a plumber. She wasn't really fat, but she was one of those women with a stomach and no ass. Lacking in the pear-shaped department.

And, as far as the thong went, it underscored the vain attempt of a 30 year-old trying to dress like a 20 year-old in a college town. Plus, the thong was riding higher than it should have, and the pendant wasn't where it was supposed to be, like when the colors are misregistered on a print. And I got to see it about 10 times before I was done with her.

When she came back out she had an envelope in her hand, and she picked up the gas can from beside the door. I assumed it was empty. She got in the car with it. By the time I smelled the fumes I already had a headache. Geez. Why couldn't she have told me and I would have opened the trunk?

She said she had run out of gas downtown in her car. "So I just parked it in an alley and went to the Penguin, and got drunk." She also said that it was weird that she ran out of gas, because the gauge read a 1/4 tank. Oh boy. I imagine she has car problems and an impound fee by now. Good luck that jug of gas is going to do. I guess the guy in the Escalade had brought her home. Now she was trying to put in a booty call.

The writing on the envelope made no sense. She couldn't read it because she was drunk when she wrote it. "Does that make me a loser?" She gave me the general location, though, so I figured I could find it. I asked if she had a phone number she could call, just in case. I handed her my phone, but she was dialing the wrong digits. She said she had it on her caller ID. I had already started away from the house, but figured it might save me more time in the long run if we turned around and got it.

She went back inside and came back with the number. We headed out again. She tried to put on her shoe. She couldn't pull the strap over her heel. She put her shortish leg up on the dash, and struggled with it. The struggle with the shoe was as epic and futile to her as that boulder must have been to Sisyphus. Then the foot was in front of me, then in my lap. She rested it there for a second. I thought she was either giving up, asking for my assistance, or perhaps making a move. She apologized, and finally managed to get it on when I failed to offer any help. She hadn't had any luck getting anyone to answer the phone.

I would have never guessed it was going to be such a production to get going with her, and I felt kind of sorry for her, so I wasn't running wait time. We were a couple of miles away when she noticed the fare was about $7. "Oh, my. Is that how much it costs right now?"

"Yeah, it's going to be about $20, we're going all of the way across town." She said she was from a small town where you could get anywhere for $2 or $3. "Where are you from?"

"Kirksville." She had moved down here after her divorce. She had at least two kids. While she was in the house the third time, I had deciphered the directions. They had confused me, because, in addition to the scrawled handwriting, they were written from the bottom of the envelope to the top. I had read them backwards.

I got her to where the directions took me. She was looking for 16C. The apartments in that complex were numbered 101, 201, etc., with no letters whatsoever. And there were 6 different buildings. "Will you recognize this guy's car?" She thought so. She got out and went up to a couple of the buildings. Creeping like she was going to get in trouble, carrying her can of gas. I suggested we try the next batch of apartments.

She recognized his car. A crappy 2 door Mitsubishi with some dents. The building in front of it was marked 10. She got out to go look. She went down several steps and crept into the apartment building, with her can of gas. I decided to look at the names on the letter boxes, and walked down the grass bank, avoiding the stairs. I looked in the exterior door and she was standing talking to a very confused and creepy old dude with an Abe Lincoln beard. Great, she had knocked on the wrong door at 2:50am, with a can of gas, followed by a guy with a mohawk.

I was about to spring my mailbox idea on her when she said that that was the right apartment.

What the fuck? The guy lives with his parents? Fucking real classy.

I finally managed to get free of her. The fare had been $17.80, and she gave me a $20. There could have easily been another $15-$20 wait time on it. Oh well, what are you going to do?

So now it was right at 3am. Amazingly, dispatch hadn't radioed once during the whole fiasco. I called clear, but got no answer. I tried two more times before I made it to the QuikTrip gas station at Clark Lane. I stopped to use the bathroom.

I came back out, and still couldn't get anyone on the radio. I tried calling. No one answered. Weird. I pulled to the corner of the parking lot to think about it. I didn't have anywhere to go. No dispatch=no calls. I sat there for a minute, and a black 2-door Ford Explorer pulled in. There was a black guy in his 30s driving, wearing a stocking cap. He pulled right up to the cab and stopped. A 20something college student got out, fat, pink-faced, drunk, with no coat or hat, and walked directly to the cab. The black guy pulled off as soon as the kid got out of the Explorer.

He got into the cab. He smelled like booze, but didn't slur his speech or appear that drunk. Compared with what I deal with every night, he may have been a 3 on a 10 scale..

"Where we headed, buddy?"

"Oh, man. Where am I at?"

"This is the QuikTrip. Clark Lane. Highway 63 and 70." I thought he must have gotten turned around somehow.

"63 and 70?"

"Yeah. Exit 128A. Clark Lane?" It's a pretty well-known intersection in Columbia

"Oh, man. Just head over to 40."

"40?" I think some parts of 70 used to be 40, and I've seen the Business Loop listed as 40 on some old maps. "You mean, like, the Business Loop?"

"Just...well, how far are we from 94?"

"94?" Now I thought he must have broken down somewhere on the highway, and got picked up. "What city is that in? You know we're in Columbia, right?"

"I'm in Columbia? How'd I get in Columbia?"

"I sure as hell don't know, dude. Where did you start out at?"

"I was in St. Louis, player."

"When was that? What's the last thing you remember?"

"That was like, 6 o'clock."

"It's 3am, now. So...you got in a car...?"

"I guess."

"Did you drive?"

"I hope not. I don't know where my car is." He was also missing his coat, his keys, his cell phone, and his credit card. He did have his wallet and debit card. It turned out he was a student in Columbia, and had an apartment down South. He had gone home to St. Louis for the weekend. Since he didn't have his keys, he wanted to go to his brother's frat house, where he could go inside and sleep. I headed that way.

"So how did you hook up with the guy in the Explorer?"

"What guy?"

"The guy who dropped you off at the gas station? A black guy in an Explorer dropped you off?"

"I don't know, player. I was just walking. I was walking down the highway, for like an hour. No one would stop."

By the time I got him to the frat house, he couldn't remember where I picked him up at. I gave him a card, and wrote on it where and how I found him. When I turned on the dome light to write down his card info I noticed he had some tiny scratches all over his face. He leaned forward to look in the mirror, and I saw that they were on the back of his neck, too. "Looks like you went through some bushes, dude."

He tipped $2 on a $10 fare. When he got out I saw some grass stains on the back of his shirt.

Wow.

I was trying to figure that one out when Virginia sent me over to Hickman. It was Bob, 808, from Thursday night. I picked him up with a lady friend and took him to his house. I told him about my two previous fares along the way. I dropped him off and went to take the girl home. Virginia asked if I could grab some people at El Rancho who had been waiting for 2 hours.

They were actually at the apartments upstairs, and had missed their first cab, then kept getting forgotten. I had the chick move to the front seat, since there were supposed to be three of them. A guy came out carrying a wasted blonde chick. Great. Puker. The couple got in and the third guy took off on foot. The chick was laying with her head in dude's lap, so I put the fear of puke on the back burner. She was murmuring insensible stuff. The guy was polite and very lucid. He didn't complain about the wait or dropping off the other chick at all.

I finished the story I was telling the first girl, and dropped her off. Both she and Bob took good care of me on the financial front (thanks, guys). I started the meter for the couple from the girl's house, which saved them a couple of bucks. I ran them out South.

The dude was an Ultimate Fighter. He had fought at the Blue Note Saturday night. He said he was 6-0, with 5 knock-outs. He was disappointed to have won by submission that night. "Man, I tried like hell to knock that guy out. I was so pissed when he subbed out." His nose looked swollen from the fight.

After that I had one round trip on East campus. A guy taking his squeeze home, then returning to his own house. I made $5 or $6 on wait time as they kissed goodnight inside her door.

After that I had to pick up two other day drivers on my way in. I was in the car until after 5am. I worked my ass off, pulling $247 on the meter. That was the best on the night, minus Taxi Terry in the bus, but I was out longer than everyone else. After my $50 or so in tips, I did pretty good.

It's a lot easier to like this job now that I'm making a little money and driving decent cars. For a while there the blog was the only thing that made it even half-way bearable. I'm almost having fun. Now the hours are the only part I don't particularly care for.

I got up today at 3:30, feeling like crap. I went and paid my utilities bill and water bill. I also went and checked out that $300 cop car. It was missing the battery, had some bad body work done on it, appeared to have been sitting for at least a year, and the interior was pretty much ruined by stinky mildew. I decided to pass on it.

I got some lunch at Smokin' Chicks. At least I had a chick waitress this time. I got the fourth episode of Das Karnival and watched it. I also picked up the cheesiest get-well card I could find for Kirk Rundstrom. It has the classic kitten hanging from a branch. And--get this--when you open it up it says "hang in there!" Fucking priceless. If that doesn't make you feel better about your cancer I don't know what will.

Bob asked me when my party was going to be. Let me scare up some funds, first, and maybe we'll have reason to celebrate. Hopefully it will be warmer this week and I can fix Corpsy and finish that Eastside sign.

I'll see all you crackers later.

Ciao,
Garner