It's Okay To Come Home If It Doesn't Work Out

It's 3:23 Monday morning. I am terrified by my life and existence.

Friday was St. Patrick's Day. I hoped this would translate into a big night in the cab, because work had been sucking. Business had dropped off considerably since January. I figured that student loan checks were beginning to wear thin, combined with the approach of mid-term exams at the university and spring break. What used to be $250-$280 nights a couple of months ago had dwindled to $150-$190 nights in March.

On top of that, I had skipped out early the previous Friday night (at 1am, before bar rush, when JW's car went down, and I volunteered mine) and sat out Saturday entirely. Saturday was the first of two days of vicious hail storms. I had awoke to the tornado sirens around 3pm. I called in and volunteered to sit out, since we were down a car. Phyllis didn't sound happy about it, but she told me it was okay.

I didn't want to drive that night for obvious reasons. People drive bad enough as it is, but seem to go completely retarded the instant the first raindrop hits the ground. I envisioned it raining all night, and I didn't want to fight the weather. Most of the Crown Vics have identical glitches in the windshield wiper switches, and pretty much only work reliably when you toggle the switch on and off manually for each wipe. This sucks pretty big-time, and I can't imagine doing it for a number of hours in severe weather. Plus, with the rain and temperature swoons, it's hard to regulate the temperature in the car to keep the windows from completely fogging over when groups of 2 or 3 are constantly getting in and out. You go from perfect to zero visibility in an instant, and fight the defrosters for the duration of the ride. When you're almost clear you unload and the cab is stuffy and too hot.

So, I called in and got out of it. I looked forward to a Saturday night off. Plus, I could spend it with my lady-friend and attend Cully and Xena's party (in anticipation of Amy's birthday--I was insistent on constantly reminding her it wasn't really her birthday yet). Let it pour.

Well, it did. Hailed like a bastard. When it started, I realized that I had left Corpsy in the driveway for the first time in a couple of weeks. I considered going out to move it, but I didn't want to get wet and I had personally never seen it hail bigger than a marble or for more than a couple of minutes in Missouri.

I watched out the window as golf-ball sized hail began pelting the North side of Columbia. Shit, that was big. I again considered moving Corpsy, but I figured it would stop as soon as I tried to go outside. It hailed steady until the yard was almost white. The larger hail looked like incoming bombs as they splashed home in the muddy torrent that had become the back yard.

And, for the first time in my life, I took shelter from a storm. Two 'supercells' were converging on Columbia, and they had been producing tornados. I joked that it was hard-on time for the friendly weathermen I used to watch tell boring jokes about the predictable weather when I dressed to go to work mornings as a mechanic. Supercells.

I still wouldn't have retreated, and would have probably climbed on my roof had I been home, but hunkering down in a closet for those 5-10 minutes ranks as one of the smartest things a woman's influence has induced me to do. It blew over quickly enough and my modest attempts at some afternoon romance on a bed of laundry and pillows in the dark, while confronting mortality, were just as quickly thwarted. Something about the possible severity of the situation.

It sucks, as a male, to have to answer to allegations of "are you trying to have sex with me?" The answer will always be yes, though the you don't want to say, simply, "yes." In this case, my efforts were about a 1.5 on a 10 scale, which is only slightly higher than buying a chick a drink or getting the door for her. Regardless, it was fruitless.

After the storm blew over, sometime after 5:30 or so, I went out to have a peak at Corpsy.

When I first purchased Corpsy, my $250 1992 Chevrolet Corsica, I fell in love with how perfectly ordinary it was. It was simply a car. A grandma car. No frills. Four doors. Gray-on-gray. I used to always insist on a utilitarian four-by-four, and drove a 1975 Ford Bronco from 2000-2005. Far from practical. By 2005 I ran without a top or doors for about 10 months out of the year. No carpet, no plastic. Two bucket seats and a roll cage.

"What do you do when it rains?"

"I get wet, bitch. But, seriously, I drive fast, like a cheetah, and avoid the raindrops."

In the fall of 2004 I was working as a mechanic and bought and sold a ton of low end cars. I drove a 1989 Chevy Corsica all winter, a Chevy Corsica I picked up for $50 off of comomusic.com, after one of my first visits to the site. I leveraged myself into a swank (by comparison) $350 1992 Chevy Blazer after a couple of months, and passed Corsica #1 on to my father, who takes my niece to school in it, 36 miles round-trip, each day. I drove that bitch to Chicago with a Finnish chick and a Chinese dude a week after purchasing it. I took the title with me so I could sign it and leave it with the abandoned car, should it break down.

The 1989 Corsica was calico in color. Corsicas were notorious for paint defects, and this one was shaded and patchy like a tabby cat. It had a few minor dents and dings from having suffered through a teenaged driver who couldn't kill it. The front seats had covers and the headliner was ripped out. But, the bitch still ran strong at 180K, and the cruise control even worked.

So, when I saw an ad in the paper for a "1992 Chevrolet Corsica--$250, needs work, you tow," I was quick to call.

"What's wrong with it?"

"I'm a girl--I don't know."

I got lucky and snapped it up that afternoon. Though I was the third caller, my voicemail was the first she listened to, and I was nice enough to strike an impression.

Unbelievably, Corpsy had nice paint (had been repainted to correct the factory defects), under 100K, new tires, only one door ding, and all four factory hubcaps. If you knew anything about Corsicas, you'd know these fell off the second you drove off of the lot.

Corpsy had only known two prior owners in her 15 or so years. One door ding and some minor sun-scorched fabric peeling off the otherwise-comfortable driver's seat. If you used your imagination, you could believe you had time-traveled back to the George Herbert Walker Bush era. Corpsy was a such a perfectly preserved specimen of a perfectly ordinary car. Something that had survived for 15 years unscathed. No abuse, no reckless drivers, no no-fault ice-storm mishaps, no rust, no fender benders. It could have still posed for the owner's manual cover shot.

So, it was with some minor chagrin that I took Corpsy's first knock, some 2-3 days prior to the storm, when my new lady-friend drug Corpsy's mirror alongside the body of her own car. It just scuffed and chipped the paint off of the edge of the mirror, and bent the housing away from the door. I winced a little, and straightened it back by hand, with all of the due care but brute strength of a doctor popping a shoulder back into socket. No major harm done, still functional, a bit bruised, and maybe a little arthritic a few years down the road.

It must have been a precursor to the storm. Some sort of unrealized warning, like the restless behavior of barnyard animals before a twister. As it was, Corpsy got pelted pretty good. No broken windows or anything, though, just some ball-peen hammer-style dents dimpling the hood and roof, and maybe one or two on the side.

Just another lesson in atrophy, I guess. You can't keep anything nice.

How's that for an aside?

So, yeah, I was back to work St. Pat's day, hoping to make some money. The hail storm had been particularly hard on several A*1 cabs. My first night after the storm I was in #2, a new (to us) '94 or '95 Dodge Caravan (#3's replacement). It had a circular crack in the driver's side of the windshield and lots of severe hail dents. A few cars had broken lights and lenses. On the upside, I think that the storm was the death-knell for old #10, but I hesitate to believe it, like when the horror-movie villain goes down too-quickly 45 minutes into the flick.

So, for Friday, I was dealt #16. Avid blog readers (with peculiar memory quirks) may remember me writing about "Sweet 16" early on. She was a Lincoln that went bad. Had to drive it with shitty brakes that pulled to one side. The last time I was in it was the first night #3 broke down on me. She had been decommissioned shortly after that, around the beginning of the new year. Her number and radio had found its way to another new A*1 cab, one I have affectionately dubbed "Shorty Longback."

Now, those of you who are mullet-acute will recognize this designation, along the same vein as the Neck Blanket or Tennessee Mud Flap. You know--business in the front, party in the back. I call #16 Shorty Longback because he/she is a 20'+ extended Dodge 350 one-ton van. Snub nose with an abnormally long, extended rear portion, hanging several feet past his/her 11' wheelbase. The nose is made even more pug-looking by #16's dapper cap, an oversized van-specific white plastic illuminescent Taxi light up top.

Functionally, Shorty L'back is the mechanical twin to #15, which is the raised-roof wheelchair van I have described. However, #16 retains its original, svelte roofline and has three full rows of bench seats--church van style--in back of the front captain's chairs. All trimmed in muted blue vinyl, save for the sometime-replaced tan driver's seat. Minus a rattly running board and some squeaky brake-shoes, the van is in great mechanical shape, save for a badly grounded gas-gauge and a non-working radio, with a clock that's an hour and twenty minutes fast but won't respond to any of the buttons.

Initially, I was less than thrilled at the prospect of getting the crap beat out of my by driving an unloaded one-ton van over every pothole and expansion crack in Columbia for 12 hours. Never mind that it is a land-yacht, and one not easily docked in the compact-friendly parking spaces of downtown Columbia. However, I had spent an entire night in #2 earlier in the week, and there aren't many things I hate worse than a Caravan for a cab.

Don't get me wrong, I owned (briefly) a '93 Grand Caravan (picked up from Social2 for $300), and enjoyed it. However, there is a big difference in a 130K minivan and one that gets the crap beat out of it on the road 24 hours a day. Those vans just aren't built for the abuse. The suspensions fail quickly, followed by the steering. Front-wheel-drive CV axles get sloppy and noisy. The trannies suck. All of the plastic crap on the dash begins to squeak and rattle mercilessly. The sliding doors are hard to open and close completely, and the locks stick on them. The interiors are usually light gray cloth and stain and age horribly. Nothing to spend 12 hours cruising in.

But, the S.S. Longback is built very much like a truck. So, sure, it's going to ride like a truck, but all of the ergonomics--door handles, etc.--are the tried-and-true base technology employed by Chrysler since the 70s. They are much more durable and can withstand the abuse a taxi full of drunks can dish out.

So, if I wasn’t going to be in a cruiser (Crown Vic), I'd much rather pilot the S.S. Longback. Since it didn't have the wheelchair lift or cavernous aftermarket raised-roof of #15, it didn't suffer the same rattling, clattering, and reverberation. And, passengers would be directly behind me, instead of 12-15" back. Plus, on a big drunk holiday like St. Pat's, having seating capacity of 10 comfortably meant I could pull some big groups and make that money. Watch out, Taxi Terry.

So, I was handed the keys to #16, and given a call right away. When I started her up I noticed that the gas gauge needle was on 'E'. I only had $14 on me (after not working a day or two, having slow nights, and paying my bills). Crap. I couldn't afford to put gas in the pig. I ended up getting $9 from Phyllis, which would at least get me a little further down the road.

My first call was a regular from the mall. He manages the housekeeping department there. He asked if we could stop by the gas station (he pre-pays cash and gets a flat rate). That was perfect, since I need to throw the $9 in it. 87 octane was $2.39 per gallon. You can bet that the needle barely budged, but I could relax a little bit, knowing I wouldn't run out of gas for at least a few calls while I built up some cash. Dude tips me $2 on top of the cash charge, which is pretty cool.

Next, I had a call over on Mehl. I have a regular customer there who is a writer and always tips $5. I had gave him a link for my blog but never heard any word from him. There are only about 5 places on Mehl, and I swung in where I always pick him up, since I couldn't get dispatch back on the radio. I was looking at the door in front of me when a woman walked over from across the street.

I was for her, but hadn't ever got the address. She was only going so far as the Backyard Burgers on Clark lane, a $4.80 fare. Along the way, she mentioned that she had lived in Springdale, Arkansas, where my good buddy Brandon lives. She tipped $1, and apologized for not being able to do better.

My next call was at the Sunset Trailer Park. It's a fairly shitty place South of the AC exit. At least it was still daylight, so I could find the trailer easy enough. It was some older cracker woman with a hole in her sweatshirt. I was taking her to the Gerbes on Nifong.

She had just returned from the funeral service for her ex-boyfriend's sister. She told me of all of the funerals she had attended, including a husband's and two daughters'. The fare was $10.05. I told her I wasn't worried about the nickel.

Next, I picked up at a sorority house and took 9 girls to McGinty's. They were mid-level sorority girls, an 8 or 9 among the best of them, mostly 6-7s, with maybe a 5 bringing up the rear. It was right at 6pm. McGinty's was already full. They were trying to figure out who was paying what on the fare as we neared. "You give me $2. Remember, I bought you Taco Bell. No, I gave you $5 the other night. Remember, I bought you a beer." The fare came to $13.80 and they gave me a $20. Good girls. I'd forgot what tips looked like.

Next I had a call at Providence Walkway in the projects. The apartment number is right off of the Switzler side, but I was supposed to pick them up on the Blind Boone side. I had gone through the same bullshit confusion with the same address the Tuesday before, changing positions and circling for 20 minutes for a no-show. Dispatch kept telling me to park on the Blind Boone side, by the dumpster. But the dumpster is on the Switzler side.

Either way, I pulled up and saw three whacked-out black people. An older black man (56, I would find out), a fat woman with crazy shockazulu hair, and another fat black woman I hated to recognize.

It was the drunk woman who I took to Wal-Mart with her mom a couple of months ago, whose credit card was declined, and I took back home. The return trip had gotten hairy when I picked up another passenger. The were drunk and crazy, talking about the food in jail. The incontinent mom had paid with wet money,

They were more than 50' or so down the sidewalk, with a bunch of Aldi's bags. The one I recognized was gesturing at me, like she expected me to drive my 20' van down the sidewalk in the projects. After a few rest stops, they made it to the van, wheezing and chattering, with all of their shit.

The woman was drunk again, and very demanding. Although there were three of them, carrying the bags, she wanted my help loading them. This is the same woman who has shorted me both times I have dealt with her. The old guy got in the seat behind me, and wanted me to guess his age. They were all drunk. It was just getting dark. I had to pull the fat woman with shockazulu hair into the front passenger's seat. No easy feat. They had a plastic bag with assorted cans of beer, including High Life and Keystone Light. They were drinking cans of High Life when they got in. I had cheap beer spilled in the floor before I could get out of the parking lot.

While the drunk 56 year old was trying to talk to me about his age, the drunk bitch kept saying "we only got $4.50. We told 'em that. We only got $4.50." As if I had banked on a tip.

Our minimum fare is $3. There were 3 of them (2 extra passengers=$2 extra). So, a minimum $5 fare, and the promise of $4.50. Thanks, dispatch.

They were yelling nonsensical bullshit the whole way, which, thankfully, was a short one, a half-mile around the corner. I pulled into the driveway at the apartment building and they were yelling for me to turn around behind the apartment building so they doors would be on the right side. It was just getting good and dark and as I swung the big van around behind the apartments and headed back up the narrow driveway. With the stench of cheap beer and all of the commotion, I scraped Shorty Longback's rear quarter panel along some bizarre phantom retaining wall. Still getting used to it's dimensions.

As if that wasn't infuriating enough in itself, along with the whole ride thus far, I've got a drunk 56 year old giving me shit about my driving. And now they're demanding I help them with their groceries.

I helped get them out of the van, just to get rid of them quicker. Then they said they had to go in to get the $4.50, and demanded I come in with them. I went down into some funky smelling basement apartment. Some other random dude was walking out. The ringleader accosted him for money. He said he didn't have any, and then she disappeared. After a couple of frustrating minutes, Shockazulu came out of a room carrying a commemorative state quarters display, and began snapping quarters out of it. I left with $3.25, High Life running under my feet and on my street guide book, and a 3' scratch on the newly-painted #16.

The scratch wasn't terrible, but it was noticeable. There were a number of creases and dents worse than mine that had been in the van when they purchased it and they had simply painted over them. All of the big vans sport similar pin striping, but I knew I'd have to own up to it. I also knew that I would be enraged if I would be expected to pay for it, as they wouldn't likely fix it anyway and it would amount merely to punishment. But I'd have to deal with that later.

My next call was from Columbia Regional to the Ronald McDonald house. The new mom was pretty hefty and had to use the step-stool provided with the S.S. L'Back to climb into the van.

From there, I grabbed a group-home regular who washes dishes at the hospital cafeteria. He talked about being stressed out, because his boss was always on him to hurry up. His family lives in a quarter million dollar house with a new Tahoe in the driveway. When he goes in the garage I can see a $10,000 John Deer mini-tractor and another $3000 John Deer riding mover, both show-room fresh with unchecked clean pristine black rubber tires, all for a 1/4 acre lawn in a subdivision. And the county pays for his cab ride home.

After that, I had a request on Svvena, a road off of HH on the way to Centralia. I recognized the address as that of a guy I had taken to Chuck E. Cheese's the Friday before. It was a $31.80 cab ride and he gave me a $50. He requested me for the ride home, and tipped another $5. Those two fares accounted for more than a third of my money that night, and made it an easier decision to ditch work early.

The guy had had his 7 year-old daughter with him the Friday before. It was her first cab ride. He mentioned that you could buy beer at Chuck E. Cheese's, but they'd only sell you one every two hours and they kept track of when you ordered. He was an electrician, recently divorced after 18 years of marriage (he was 38), and he took a real liking to me. He was proud of two things in his life: his skills as an electrician and his two daughters.

He was missing his front teeth and had a 3 month-old hair cut from Snip 'n' Clip. When I came back for them, they had walked to the mall and bought some movies. A live-action version of Beauty and the Beast and Sin City. We stopped at a gas station on the way home, and the dad went in. He came back out and got in the car. The daughter asked what he had bought.

"I bought some soda."

"What did you get?"

"I told you, I was getting some soda."

"That's vodka."

"Okay, It's vodka. You want to see my ID?"

This time, dude was by himself. His girlfriend had just kicked him out. He had been crying, and his dirty work clothes were covered in beer, looking like someone had thrown it on him. He got in the cab with some extra clothes.

He didn't really know where he wanted to go. He said he had "fucked up." We stopped at the gas station so he could think about it. He asked if he could change in the van. I said no problem. He took off his shirt, distracted by the drunk speech coming from his own mouth. He slipped on a button-down flannel shirt, and went to button it, as he spoke, staring vaguely into space, tears in his eyes and teeth MIA.

The side of the shirt with the buttons on it was flipped over, folded back, so the buttons weren't immediately visible. He fumbled for them, blindly, still looking straight ahead, talking. He was talking mostly about the girl standing outside, smoking a cigarette, whom he had a thing for or with. His fingers weren't finding buttons, and his hands tried to clutch the garment together, pulling the two halves together as if he were bracing against some bitter cold.

After a minute, he said he had put the shirt on inside out, and yanked it back off. He kept talking. His chest and arms were covered with tattoos. Some prison, some professional. Dragons. Missouri Outlaw. He put the shirt back on, this time really inside-out. He kept fumbling for buttons. After a minute, he concluded it was on inside out. He took it off and put it on about four times before abandoning the unfathomable buttons in favor of a zippered hooded sweatshirt.

He got out and went in for a bottle. Something brown. Whiskey. He tried to talk to the girl outside of the gas station, who was smoking a cigarette and talking to someone else.

He got back in and we took off. The meter was at $12.80. He gave me a $20. He wanted to go, alternatively, 1) to Darlene's Hideaway, 2) the VA Hospital, 3) his ex-wife’s, 4) some place warm. He cycled through these options several times, using my cell phone to call and plead with his ex. He was crying again. He mentioned not taking his medication and being in 'treatment.' After a couple of rejections, we headed to the Hideaway.

We were almost there, and near $30 on the meter, when he tried his ex again and gained clearance to come home. We changed directions and headed to a trailer park off of St. Charles Road. He gave me another $20.

His spirits were lifted a bit by his ex letting him come home. He talked about jail some, tattoos some, his 14 year-old lesbian daughter some. "Can I tell you something?"

"Sure."

"I like black women. I love to fuck black women."

"Who doesn't?"

We were in the trailer park when my phone rang. It was his ex, and asked if he was still in the taxi. I figured she had changed her mind, if she had ever made it up. After a couple of minutes, though, we were at her trailer. The meter was at $38.80.

"I gave you a $20, right?"

"You've given me $40. We're cool. Do you need any change back?" He said no and gave me another $10.

From there I picked up BJ from work and took him home.

My next call was a group of 6 heading downtown. "You guys look like a smart crowd. Lot of import drivers." I made a good impression on them. It wasn't a long call, but there was $5 for the extra passengers, bringing the fare to $12.30. Someone handed me $15 as they piled out. "Do you need any change?'

"No. We're cool." The last guy out stopped and handed me another $5, thanking me again.

After that I picked up 2 at the Heidelberg. One of them was the kid on crutches that I took to the gas station for beer a couple of months ago. He had tipped $6 on a $5 fare that time. His friend was a drunk jackass, and he apologized for him before he got into the cab. They each had a beer and I was counting the seconds before it ended up on the vinyl floor.

The guy rode me a bit about taking Elm to Providence, then wanted to stop for beer. He wanted a break on the wait time. I figured he would be cool and tip well, but his friend was going in and he was a mess. It took a few minutes and I didn't run time. The friend managed to finally spill a beer upon reentry to the van.

Along the way the dude kept singing the praises of the mandolin. He used the work 'dank.' A couple of times. I got them home and got a $5 tip. The drunk jackass thought it was funny to yell "12" penis!" when I was trying to radio in the credit card information.

From there, I grabbed a group of four from a dorm, headed to a party south of town.

Next, I grabbed a group of four and brought them downtown to the Field House. My friends Jerod and Brandon had called me from downtown, and wanted to ride around in the cab. I had seating for 10, so, why the fuck not? I swung by the Artisan and picked them up en route to the Field House.

It was a short trip, just to East campus. They thanked me for picking them up and apologized for the short ride. I told them I was just glad not to be going into the projects. They took it in reference to St. Patrick's day, and said, "yeah, I guess those people don't really celebrate St. Patrick's Day." I said something about maybe smoking green crack. That got them laughing and I snagged a $5.20 tip on the $4.80 fare.

My next call was at Snappers. On the way over, I mentioned the guy with no teeth and the baseball bat, and Brandon, having read the blog, said, "you mean Angel?" It was indeed Angel, though he had no bat in tow. I think the best tip I had got out of Angel was $1, maybe $2, but he tipped me $5 on a $4.05. Nice.

After that I had 4 cancellations in a row, from 11:45 until 12:35. One called in, and the others I had to drive out and wait in vain. Once at the Forge and Vine (had to get out and check), one at the Tokyo Spa (had to get out and chat with the whores), and one at Everett's (the waitress was nice enough to come out and apologize). I blamed the fiasco on dispatch. My friends got a first-hand example of their garbled communication, poor organization, and misdirection. Any other time and I would have been in a blind rage, but I felt better just having people there to empathize with me.

I still wasn't getting anything out of dispatch when I headed back downtown. I pulled out of the street on Broadway, in front of the Penguin. There was a girl about 20' away, and she seemed to be gesturing, in a patronizing manner, for me to drive to her. I was stopped where I was so I wouldn't be blocking traffic or the valet service at the Penguin.

She was a college girl, not overly svelte, wearing a green T-shirt and a few strands of beads.

"If this bitch won't walk 20' to the van she's probably going to be a real cunt. I don't even want her in the van." I went ahead and pulled up to her. She gestured for Brandon to roll down the window, again, a little patronizing.

"We called A*1...for a taxi?"

"This is it. Hop in, it's the fun bus." She collected a much hotter friend and piled in. I thought about waiting for another fare, but, after 4 cancellations, I decided to take what I got and not piss them off. "Where are you guys headed?"

"Take us to Grindstone McDonalds."

"Where do you want to end up?"

"Take us to Grindstone McDonalds."

"Okay, we can do that, but we do charge wait time. It's a $1 a minute, and it could easily be 20 minutes this time of night."

"We don't care. We'll pay. Just take us to McDonalds."

"You want me to leave you at McDonalds, or am I taking you home after that?"

"Yes."

"Where's that?"

"Grindstone."

"Grindstone...? Where at on Grindstone?"

"Grindstone."

"Grindstone...Canyon? Apartments?"

"Yes. Grindstone Canyon Apartments."

We took off, rolling down Broadway. The girl in the Green (Mandy, we found out) immediately launched in on her ex-boyfriend, who was "fucking a 19 year-old." It sounded especially funny coming from a girl who may have been 22 at best.

"I'm going to fuck her with a pit bull."

I looked at Brandon and tried to stifle laughter. "You mean you're going to fuck her with the whole pit bull, or just the pit bull’s penis?"

"The whole thing. I'm going to fuck that bitch with a pit bull. And I'm gonna peel the skin off of it." I looked at Brandon again, quizzically, laughing way too hard. Then she said something about a pickle.

"Oh, pickle. I thought you said pit bull."

"Yeah, I'm gonna make a pit bull fuck her. Then I'm going to make a lion bite off her nipples. Then I'm gonna shove a whole pizza down her throat. Then I'm gonna make a bird eat the pizza. I'm gonna make a bird eat a pizza out of her fucking throat."

It was almost too much. I was laughing my ass off. I couldn't help but think she and Wesley Willis would have made a good pair.

The hotter chick was laughing pretty hard, too, and was now laying with her head in Jerod's lap. Mandy was by herself in the seat behind them. She never slowed down. She said something about needing to buy a guitar or something. I flipped on the dome light and handed the mandolin back to her. She immediately began strumming away at it, improvising some shockingly funny lyrics. This continued all the way to McDonalds and through the drive-through.

I hadn't laughed that hard for that long in a long damn time. I had a coughing fit and thought I was going to die. My head was hot for about an hour afterwards, I had coughed and laughed so hard. It ended up being a $30 fare.

After that, I picked up two groups at the Regency. One was going to East campus, the other to the Reserve. They didn't mind sharing. I got another $5.20 tip on a $4.80 fare and then ended up taking the Reserve couple back to the Best Value Inn. It was a $20 fare and another $4 tip.

I went back downtown and picked up another 2 fares simultaneously, one group of three and another group of two, both going to Bearfield. I got them there and there was some confusion over the fare. I told both groups I would cut them a deal for sharing (even though they picked up and dropped off at the same places--no delays). It should have been $12 and $13, but I told them $10 each, meaning $10 for each of the two groups. The second group of 2 were in the back, and they didn't know why they weren't all just one group. It looked like it was going to get heated, and the group in the middle gave me $13 and bailed. The guys in the back happened to be black, and the guys in the middle wanted to avoid any potential racial tension.

I kept my head and explained it to them, and the guy was satisfied with my explanation. I guess he thought I was trying to hustle them, and we all parted ways with no hard feelings. They even tipped a $1.

I had another call from a fraternity house to Bearfield, and then dropped off Brandon and Jerod. There was a guy passed out on a bench on 9th Street. I honked my horn 5' behind him and yelled at him, but he wouldn't wake up. I saw him, still there, about an hour later, before I went home for the night.

I had one last call, a regular from the Diner, with two extras, going to Rolling Rock.

I ran $288 on the meter. My cut of that was $100. I also pulled about $75 in tips, making for a very good night.

I was in the S.S. Longback again Saturday. Apparently that will be my new ride on Friday and Saturday nights. I am supposed to be the clean-up man, running wild without the aid of dispatch, grabbing all of the flags and calls on Broadway I can. This is something of a promotion, I believe, and I've caught the attention of some of the old crew.

I also told Phyllis about the scratch in #16 when I finished up Friday night. She took it pretty well. I think she appreciated a driver actually owning up for once, so hopefully that is the end of it. She did make a joke about "no more scratches" when she handed me the keys on Saturday.

I'm not going to go into any detail on Saturday night. It appeared as if everyone got it out of their systems on Friday, as I was completely dead. I averaged a call an hour through bar rush, and had less than $10 in tips at 1am. I also had some douchebags and cancellations. Highlights include a group of 6 bankers going from the Stoney Creek Inn to Shiloh. 6 of them and they managed a $1.20 tip on a $12.80 fare, leaving their empty beer bottles to clank around in my van. I also had one girl eat shit on the curb walking to the van. No blood.

After my $288 on the meter Friday, I ran a whopping $125 on Saturday. That's fucking lame. I got like $46 from that, along with about $33 in tips ($13 on one fare), so a little better than $6 an hour. I came home and baked a pineapple-upside down cake while listening to the Meat Purveyors and arranging flowers.

I had a pretty good night tonight (Sunday). Drank some beer. Went to sleep around 1:30, woke up in a sweat at 3:14 to blog.

Hopefully I can get back on track with my blogging. It has been nonexistent for a while because my schedule and routine have been disrupted due to me shifting my hyperfocus onto a female. Honestly, I'm ready to renew my efforts to find a different job. The money has really fallen off, and Spring Break and finals are coming up. And, I can't imagine how dead it will be in the summer. If anyone wants to employ me I'll promise not to write a tell-all blog exposing the seedy underbelly of their business.

Ciao,
Garner