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

Pucker Up, Buttercup

Well, well, well.

Greetings, good people. I am coming to you after an unanticipated week-long absence. I have missed two updates. My sincerest apologies.

I got my last update up early, a week ago last Thursday. That Thursday night I went and saw The Greencards at the Blue Note.

It was a pretty good show, with a tiny crowd. The Greencards are a four piece: (from right-to-left) a Chicagoan on acoustic guitar, and Aussie chick on electric bass, an Aussie dude playing mandolin/bouzouki, and a Brit on the fiddle. They formed in Austin, Texas, and were pretty good. Very tight and precise, musically, though their aesthetic was a bit too polished and pretty for my particular tastes.

I tried to chat them up a bit, after the show. I wanted to offer them some encouragement and some kudos from a genuine Ozarks hillbilly. They seemed to think that the people here were more in tune to the kinds of music that they had coveted from abroad as the grew up. I hated to burst their bubbles, but told them that people in the Midwest listedned to Toby Keith and Britany Spears.

At first it appeared that Carol Young was only going to fan the flames of my older-woman fetish. But, I had to take points off for the elctro rig. She had on some dark indigo dungarees that bunched up on the tops of some square-toed brown leather cowboy boots.

"Tell me those aren't harness boots you're weraing?"

"What's that, love?"

"You know, with the straps and buckles on the ankle?"

"Yes, yes they are," she said, pulling up a pants leg for the reveal.

"Damn, I've looked all over for a pair but can never find the ones I'm looking for." She proceeded to tell me in too much detail about some catalogue or other I could find them in. That helped kill some more mystique.

I was about five Bass beers deep, so I called for a cab. Virginia told me it would be about 2o minutes. I looked at my watch. It was only 11:30. I had been feeling a cold coming on, and figured I should curtail my drinking. Ah, fuck it, might as well do it up right. I cancelled the cab and trod on over to Eastside.

I played 21 or more songs on the jukebox, and drank some more Bass beer. Steam was there, and I met Sawyer from comomusic. I also met a lady-type.

When I woke up the next morning, I heard a droning tone coming from somewhere. I thought it must have been Peat's alarm clock or something. When I got up I realized it was my computer. One of the scrooby-kittles had knocked over a soda, which had spilled in my keyboard. I was trying to resurrect compy, but, since the keyboard was malfunctioning, it tried to open 22 or more programs at once. Compy crashed pretty hard. The power button is messed up on the CPU case, where my buddy broke it while trying to fix it for me. I thought it might work again when the soda dried out.

But it didn't. I decided to let it go to hell for a couple of days.

So, here's a week ago last Friday:

I got saddled with #10, and went by Streetside, where I purchased a Wanda Jackson CD.

I started off with a CMAAA. I've bitched in the past that these are usually like $3 and $4 calls. This one was actually pretty decent, 8 miles for $16. Not a bad start. Some old woman going home up North from her chiropractor's appointment.

On my way back in on Paris road, I was dispatched to the Family Pawn. I pulled up to a black guy with something big in a box inside a plastic garbage bag. I guess he had road his bike in and got it off of pawn. I loaded his bike--a Wal-Mart cheapo with rusty chain--into the trunk, and headed back North to the Crescent Meadows Trailer Court in Prathersville. It was a pretty good fare, no tip.

Next, I worked my way over to Smithton Middle School for a time call. It was a light-skinned black girl, 12 or 13. I can't help feeling a little creepy rolling up to a middle school with a mohawk, picking up adolescent girls.

I took her home to Columbia Square apartments, where her mother was waiting, sitting on the sidewalk outside their apartment. She paid the fare. The girl had stayed late for rehearsal for a play she was in. It was fun talking with her.

Next, I was dispatched to an address on Coats. I pulled into the driveway a couple of minutes early, and waited, since it was a time call. And old woman dottered out and found her way to the back door of the Lincoln. She said, for future reference, that she preferred to be picked up at the street, rather than her driveway, because she didn't like walking in the gravel. Or some such shit.

She opened the door and inspected the seat for a seat belt. I told her there was only the one in the center, but that she could sit up front if she preferred. Which she did. She noticed the mandolin bag. "Oh, do you play banjo?"

The rule of thumb is this: if it has strings and is not a guitar, 70 percent of people will call it a banjo. About 10% will still call it a guitar. Perhaps 15% will ask if it is a violin, and maybe 5% will correctly guess that it is a mandolin. But, when someone askes if I play banjo, I say "actually, I do, though this is a mandolin."

She said that her son had played guitar and banjo, though he never took naturally to the banjo. I speculated that it is easier to transition from the banjo to the guitar, than vice versa.

She was headed to Jesse Hall. I asked if she was seeing a show. She said she was, "42nd Street." The fare was $5.o5 and she tipped $1.

Then I had a call in the hood. West Sexton. I picked up two people there, and took them to the Best Value Inn.

From there, I grabbed my regular from North Anne, and took him downtown.

Then I had a call on North 6th. It would be a round-trip. I pulled up and a black guy got in. We went over to Lakewood Apartments to pick up his lady. "You're not going to keep that thing running when I go in, are you."

"Gotta run wait time. It's a $1 a minute. 5 minutes is $5." He grumbled a bit and went in. $4.50 or so in wait time clicked off. I saw him come back out, follwing a petite black girl wearing a micro-mini that barely covered Christmas.

They got in and he immediatley acted shocked at the meter. I told him it had been four and a half minutes. The chick said something about there was no way, that he hadn't been in there two minutes, but then the dude said, no, it did take a while, though he was nonetheless unhappy about it.

I turned the Lincoln around and started to pull out of the parking lot. "Uh, we need to get there. We live here, we ain't sight-seein'." This was the chick.

On the drive back over the guy was bitching about spending money to pick her up. "What are you fittin' to do with that little-ass skirt on?" She mouthed something or other. "I'll make you think, little-ass skirt. I'll put my cigarette out on your leg, wearin' that little-ass skirt."

I got them back to their casa and the chick jumped out. The fare was $16.80. He gave me a $20, I gave him 3 $1s. He waited. "You want me to dig that $.20 out?"

"Hell yeah, I do. I can't be short with you, so you can't be short with me."

I dug in my cargo pocket and found a dime and 8 pennies. "I got $.18."

"You ain't got change? You out here driving a cab an you ain't got the right change?"

"Don't got it."

"You gonna come back and bring me my $.02?"

"I'll come back and bring you your $.02."

"Man, I'm just fuckin' with you. I don't care about no damn $.02."

Then I grabbed two people from Southpark and shuttled them over to South William. The guy had me cutting through parking lots at the dorms and stuff on East Campus to get him there the cheapest. He smelled strongly of coffee.

From there, I picked up a guy who's quickly becoming a regular. He's the one who works for a florist downtown. He has a handlebar moustache and dense tattoos on his forearms. He said he was going to meet his girlfriend at Hoot-N-Anny's. He said that he had been dating her for six months and had got no play. Apparently she had got knocked up before and was paranoid about getting pregnant. He said that he was going to giver her one more chance to give it up, or he was moving on. I wished him luck.

After that, I was dispatched to Patricia's IGA to pick up Marilyn. Marilyn is a pretty cool old lady who lives in Boone Landing, less than the $3 minimum away from the IGA. She doesn't want to pay the wait time while she's shopping, but we'll usually wait a couple of minutes for her if she just has to grab something quick and we're slow. The driver who had dropped her off was off on another call, so I was dispatched to pick her back up.

She tipped me $2 on the $3 fare. She said she hadn't tipped me as much as she had intended the last time because she didn't have much cash on her then. I hadn't cared enough to remember.

Then I grabbed a guy at the Fairfield and shuttled him to Cody's. He said he was going there to meet up with some chick he had met earlier at Everett's. He was some half-assed salesman. Not really personable or interesting, but the type who reads those books on how to win friends and influence people and then tries to employ the practices described therein.

He asked me if I was a student and and I mentioned law school. I said something about getting "burned out" and he went on a little tirade.

"It just frogs me to death to hear someone in their 20s talk about getting burned out. You don't get burned out. If you don't want to do something, that's different. But you don't get burned out."

Fuck you, Dr. Phil. I didn't ask your fucking opinion. And maybe you should try something like law school and/or the corporate legal world before you dispense advise on job stress, douchebag.

He tipped $4 on a $6 fare and asked for my card.

Then I grabbed some kids from Parkade and took them to Eastside. A couple of them had gone to school with Cully. I had them laughing with my shtick about how shitty #10 was.

After that, I took some dude on Sylvan round-trip to the Citgo for beer.

Next, I was dispatched out off of Scott Boulevard for some people going to Truman's. I couldn't understand half of what dispatch had been saying all night. I was a little tired and somewhat short-tempered. I didn't recognize the street name and had to look it up in my book. Dispatch broke in 2 or 3 times to ask if I was close or not. That wears me out. I'll get there as soon as I can, and I can't give you an ETA if I don't know where I'm going.

He was saying something about having another call out there, going the same way. But, he said I was picking up 4 at the first address, so I didn't think I'd have room for two groups. In addition to Derek not making any fucking sense, the mic on #10s radio sucks and it was a pain in the ass to get through to him. Then he was slow with replies.

I found the first group and headed to Trumans. There were only 2 of them, but dispatch hadn't given me the second address, so I figured I would just run them first and come back. It was a brother and sister, in their mid-40s. The chick had flown in from Alabama. Their Aunt Fannie had died, but they weren't too upset over it. I guess Aunt Fannie had been something of a pain in the ass. I dropped them off and set up a time call for them to go home. Dispatch asked me if they had requested me, but I told them not to save the call for me, since it was out of the way and they didn't tip much.

Then dispatch asked me if I had the second fare picked up yet. How the fuck could I pick them up when no one had given me the address? I got the address and headed back. Again, dispatch was on me 2 or 3 times before I could get there. Apparently the guy kept calling back and was threatening to call another cab company. So?

I pulled up and found a drunk dude wearing painter's clothes standing in a driveway. Some white-trash bitch was watching from the porch, her arms crossed in disapproval.

Apparently, this was the wife of his friend, and she had kicked him out of the house after they got in an argument. The guy was on the phone because he was in a big hurry to get out of there. He was over it by the time he got in the cab, though.

He was pretty fucked up. He asked me if I smoked weed. "All the time." I don't, but it's easier to just say that than make them feel awkward or like I'm going to narc them out or something. He fired up something or other in the car, but it didn't smell like any weed I ever smelled. It smelled like ass.

He couldn't really decide where he was going, or in what order. Potential destinations included: the liquor store, his pot dealer's, and his house. He stammered through each possibility before deciding to 1) stop for beer, 2) get dropped off at his dealer's, and 3) to walk the rest of the way home from there. He paid the fare, which was around $18, and tipped a couple of dollars.

After that, I was dispatched to the Super 8 over on Clark Lane. It was two guys who had been driving through Columbia on their way to Mardi Gras at Soulard. They decided to stop and party for the night in Columbia, though I figure they had started some time before, along the drive on I-70. Apparently, their friend couldn't wait to get into a room at the hotel before releiving hiomself, and was pissing in the parking lot when some cops rolled by. He had taken off running and they had lost contact with him. All they knew was that he had made it to a bar somewhere, but they couldn't understand him on the phone when they called him.

They thought he had been picked up at the Quick Trip accross the street. They wanted to go downtown. Along the way, their buddy called. He was at Silouette. They asked me what the place was like, and, upon telling them, they decided to leave his ass there and find something to do downtown. I gave them a quick rundown and dropped them off at Eastside. I think I got about $7 tip out of them.

Then the dude called back from Cody's. He didn't have much to say on the return trip, pretty deflated. I asked him if he ran into the chick from Everett's. He said he did, but with no further comment. He tipped me another $4.

Dispatch sent me from there out to the Lake of the Woods exit. It was a woman of near40 heading all of the way across town, off of Scott Boulevard. It was a hefty $28.80 fare or so.

Then I grabbed two guys from outside of the Penguin. Their buddy is the guy who has the hot dog cart set up on Broadway. They had been drunk and trying to help sell hot dogs, which had annoyed their buddy. They bitched about him most of the way home.

Sometime after 2am I had a call to pick up at Dominos on South 9th street. The Dominos employee unlocked the front door and a drunk college student came to the car. He said he wanted to go to the Reserve and that he wanted to go through a drive-through along the way. He asked what it would cost to get to the Reserve and I estimated $10-11. I also warned him that the wait time at the drive-through would be $1 a minute, and that it could easily take 15 minutes at that time of night. I hadn't pulled out of the parking lot yet, and the Dominos employee came out towards the cab. "Everything alright?" The kid said he wasn't worried about the money and I drove him to Hardees.

Luckily, for him, there wasn't much of a line at Hardees. Just one car and Cully in front of us. We made it through in good time, only costing $6 in wait time. He bought about $12 in food.

I turned and headed for the Reserve. We were climbing the hill up Old 63, about a 1/2 mile away, the meter showing about $13.80, when the dude said "I think you're trying to scam me." Let's review the facts: I said $10-11 cab fare to the Reserve, and there was $6 in wait time (about 1/3 what I had estimated). When I got him to the apartment, the fare was $16.80. Which makes my estimate pretty fucking accurate. I re-explained it to him, and he was still adamant that I was ripping him off. No tip.

My last call for the night was out of Grindstone Canyon Apartments. It was a young married guy, who had just lost all of his money playing poker. He had borrowed cab fare to go home, and he expected his wife to be very pissed at him, because it was so late and he was drunk. Even after telling me about losing all of his money, he managed a $4 tip on a $12 fare.

Here I am a bit confused. I think I am missing my little card-of-notes from Saturday. So, I am going to fast-forward, I think, to Monday.

Monday: I was in #9, a very clean and fully-functioning '94 Crown Vic Interceptor. My first call was a short one, from downtown to Cliff Drive. $1 tip, on a $4 or $5 fare.

Then I was dispatched to pick up a regular from dialysis. She has all of her limbs, though she is typically very weak after dialysis and I escort her into her apartment and unlock her door for her.

After that, I jetted over to Paquin. It was a heavy-set SoCal looking guy, going to class at Columbia College. He was winded from the jaunt to the car, and wheezed for most of the trip. "It's been a long time since I've seen a real mohawk. I think the last time was in 1984."

He said he had played bass in some garage bands in Southern California. He paid the $4.55 fare with 2 $1 bills, a Susan B. Anthony dollar coin, a Sacajawea gold dollar coin, 6 quarters, and one nickel.

Then I had an out-of-town call, from the University Med Center to Bowling Green, Missouri. I wasn't really sure where Bowling Green was at. When I finally found the fare, after 10 minutes or so of idle mandolin picking, she didn't know how to get there, either. She had only lived in Missouri for a year-and-a-half and had came to Columbia via ambulance. I asked dispatch how to get there. "Go to the Kingdom City exit, take 54 to 19, then watch for Bowling Green signs."

We headed that way. At the Kingdom City exit I asked if she minded if I stopped to get a soda. She said 'no,' and asked if I could get her a Mountain Dew. She said she didn't have any money on her, but that she would repay me when we got to her house. No problem.

It had just got good and dark. She fell asleep and slept most of the way.

19 and 54 are the same highway in places. I missed a turn onto 'Old 54' and took 19 all of the way to 61, some 16 miles north of Bowling Green. That was about 20 minutes and 20 miles out of the way. No big deal, really, but I only got paid for the 86 or so miles it should have been, which only amounted to a $81.80 fare.

She woke up and I got her to her house. I had assumed she lived alone, which was why the social services was paying to transport her home. When I pulled up to her trailer, there were 3 cars in the driveway. She had to pay me the $3 co-pay and the $1 for the soda, and told me to come in. She was wearing the socks the hospital gives you, with the rubber-tread stuff screened on the bottom. She had them on upside down, with the tread portion on the tops of her feet. She steadied herself along the hood of the car to her porch, treading carefully on the gravel.

The trailer was all lit up. She opened the door and I followed her in. I heard voices from a back room down the hallway. It sounded like 3 or so people, at least one dude and a couple of chicks. They were doing some dirty-Southern-white-trash-talking about something or other. No one seemed to notice that we had entered. The woman went down the hallway to get her money, leaving me standing unattended in the living room.

I studied the decor. Mounted on the wall was a wooden CD rack. It was rectanglaer, with two vertical rows for holding cds, which were to rest perched on the wooden dowels that broke it into 8 individual storage cubes. Instead of CDs, it held beer coozies. Not really a collection for a collections sake--most of them appeared to be well-used. I counted about 20 of them.

There were also several fishing poles on a rack about head-high in the hall way. After a minute or two, some cracker of about 20 walked into the living room from the hallway. I'm not sure he had realized anyone had came in, but he didn't look too overly surprized to find a strange guy with a mohawk standing in his living room.

"I just drove your...I just brought a woman from the hospital in Columbia..."

"Oh, my mom?"

"Yeah. I was just waiting for her to come back. She had some money for me."

The mom shuffled back into the room. "Have you seen my purse? I had $10 in it."

"How much is it?"

"Four dollars."

The dude opened his wallet and counted out $4. I told the woman to get to feeling better and left.

I took my time getting back. Determined not to waste the 20 miles back-tracking the way I came, I took a different road out of Bowling Green. I somehow got fucked up and ended up driving all of the way to New Florence. I knew I should have looked at a map before I left.

It ended up being about a 4-hour round trip, in all. When I got back, I needed to fuel up. I stopped at my regular gas station--the big Phillips 66 on Rangeline--and topped off the Vic. I was looking at my clipboard, still parked at the gas pump, when I felt someone bump into the car.

I looked up, and a green Saturn 2 door hatchback had backed into the front corner of the Crown Vic. He pulled forward, about 5 feet, and stopped. He turned and looked at me. I already had my pen in hand, and wrote down his licence plate number, as I could tell he was going to rabbit.

He was pulling away when I stepped out of the car. The impact had been ever-so-slight, and there was barely a scuff on the front bumper cover. The chick who worked at the gas station was outside talking to someone and watched him back into me. She walked over and expressed her disbelief that the guy had backed right in to me. The guy looked at me as he pulled slowly around the lot, turned onto Rangeline, and drove away.

He was Mexican, and, I figured, an illegal. There was no harm done to the Vic, but I didn't want anything coming back on me. I radioed dispatch, and he said he had to call it in as a hit-and-run. So, I had to wait for CPD to come and give a statement. After all of that, combined with the Bowling Green fiasco, I had made only $80 in nearly five hours, which only amounts to $28 for me.

When I finally got that cleared up, I was dispatched to the MU Alumni Center. It was the same old lady I had taken to see 42nd Street. She was pleased to find that #9 had working seat belts in the rear. On the way home I debated her on Missouri seat belt laws for commercial vehicles.

From there, dispatch sent me over to a house on Garth. A woman and 4 kids got in the car. I estimated the oldest to be at least 15 or 16. I said it would be "$1 extra for the second adult passenger."

"What second adult passenger?"

"Anyone over 13 is an adult passenger."

"She's only 12."

"Only 12? I guess she's growing like a weed, then, ain't she?"

I dropped off two of the kids at a house, where one of them went in and retrieved some cash. I took the woman and the other kid to the Med Center ER. Along the way, she told me that my transmission was slipping.

My next call was at the Lake of the Woods. When I got to the exit, I asked where i was going. Derek said the gas station at the exit. I sat there for a minute and didn't get anyone. He called the person, and told me that he was headed my way on a bicycle, and for me to drive and meet him.

I drove down St. Charles Road, turned onto Lake of the Woods Road, and, there, by Limoges, I saw a guy riding a bicycle carrying a backpack. He was a cracker, and was wearing shorts. He shoved the bike in the trunk and climbed in.

He had been drinking at TPs, and pissed off his wife. She had told him that if he wasn't home in 15 minutes that she was locking him out. So, he wanted to go to Hoot-N-Anny's. I drove him there, he paid by credit card, and tipped $2.

After that, I went to Booches. I got a young couple (presumably married) headed to Chapel Hill. As we headed down Locust to Providence, the guy asked the chick where she had parked. She said "in front of Tiger Columns, like you said." As we passed, he saw the car and said she had to move it.

They were both drunk. It was an older BMW 525. I offered to move it for them, since we had just passed an MUPD making someone do the perp walk about a half-a-block back. "That would be a pretty bad way to get a DWI."

They were pretty gracious. The guy was talking about the film festival that past weekend, and, I think, Taxi Driver. They tipped $4.

From there, I had a call from Providence Walkway, in the projects. It was a young black couple, headed to Gatehouse Apartments. Along the way, the girl commented on my hair. "What made you cut your hair like that?"

"Boredom, I guess."

"Does your girlfiend like it?"

"Actually, yes, she does." This was a bit of an exageration, at least on the 'girlfriend' part.

About 1am I had a call out of Otto's Corner Bar. That's a fairly upscaled place, so I thought there may be a good tip in it for me. I saw some people get up and start putting coats on when I pulled in front of the door. I waited a few minutes, and was beginning to get a bit impatient, when a wasted chick dressed in punk garb came out, clutching a drink.

She got in the cab, and apologized for the other guys taking so long. She had shocking fried black hair and was wearing a miniskirt with socks and tennis shoes. She said she was from New Orleans, and was bereaving Mardi Gras here in the Midwest. After a couple of minutes, she got impatient, and staggered back inside. It was a further unreasonable 3 or 4 minutes before they came back out. I recognized one of the guys, though, as a semi-regular. I described him once as wearing Edward Scissorhands 80s punk garb. He's got a bit of a Sid Vicious methadone stupor going on.

Some of you probably know him. He's got an arachnid nickname and freelances as a tattoo artist, I believe. There was a third guy, named Austin, from Mississippi.

They were all wasted, and were making a stop on East campus before going to their final destination. I pulled up at the house on Bass and Scissorhands and the chick got out. He was trying to see her safely inside, as she was fucking wasted.

But, it was kind of like the blind leading the blind, as he wasn't much better off. He pleaded with me not to run wait time, since it would only be a second. Of course they were a mess, and it took a couple of minutes to even get in the door.

From there, the door opened and closed a number of times, before Scissorhands stepped out. Then the chick tried to follow. Then a dog ran out. Then scissorhands chased the dog, caught it, and carried it awkwardly back up on the porch. He must have shut it in the door or something, as I heard it let out a yelp.

Next thing I knew, Scissorhands was staggering off of the porch in search of the dog. I hadn't seen it come down the stairs, and thought it might have been hiding under the benches on the porch. Scissorhand seemed pretty distraught, though, and started hollering for the dog. Then the chick came staggering back out.

"What's your dog's name?" Scissorhands was asking the chick.

"I don't have a dog."

Scissorhands started hollering "come here, Jawbone" or "Jumbo" or some varient. The chick didn't seem to know what was going on. I guess the dog belonged to someone else at the house. Even though I was taking a beating on wait time, I couldn't help but laugh, and got out to try to help find the dog. But, it's awkward to call for a strange dog in a strange neighborhood when you don't even know it's proper name.

They finally gave up on the dog, and I got Scissorhands and Austin back in the cab. Scissorhands was stuck on the poor dog's fate, in that stumbling obsessive drunkard's way, where you keep repeating something over and over, unable to get past the thought. I got them home, and the fare was something like $16.80. The Austin cat gave me a $20. "Just give me $3 back."

Scissorhands dug in all of his pockets, and managed to produce five dissheveled and crumpled $1 bills. A good tip. As he got out of the cab I heard a pocketful of change cascading into the back seat and floorboards. "You can keep that, too."

After that charade, I was dispatched over on Highview, in the hood. It was LiLi, the woman I picked up the one time who had thrown all of her old man's clothes away, and had asked me about cold sore remedies. She was with her daughter and grandchildren (2), and they were headed to another house on Leeway.

My last call was to pick up at CPD. I rolled up to see 3 guys, one talking angrily on a cell phone, one running into the street to flag me, and the third taking a hearty beer piss, all over the side of the wall, about eight feet from the door of the Columbia Police Department.

They all piled in. They guy in front, the one who had been on the phone, had been popped for DWI. He was in a bad mood. "You guys all three going to the same place?"

"Yes."

"Where's that?"

"Rolling Rock. You know where that is?"

"Yes I do," and I proceded to roll out. Within a couple of blocks, one of the guys asked how much the fare would be to Jefferson Commons. "Wait, are you going to Rolling Rock, or Jefferson Commons?"

"Yes."

"Well, which is it?" Now, apparently, we were going to Rolling Rock and then Jefferson Commons.

"Turn left here." That would be North on 10th Street from Broadway, completely in the opposite direction of either Rolling Rock or Jefferson Commons.

"Where are we going?" Now the third guy was wanting to go to North 9th Street. I was on Park and 9th when he said to stop. The meter was at $3.55. We'd made a big circle. He put in $5. Then the second guy, who was heading to Jefferson Commons, bailed, too. He said he was going to walk home (~4 miles), since all of his money was at his house. He had already got out and I didn't want to try to explain to him that I would wait at his house for him to get his money.

So now I was down to the original guy, the one who had been arrested. I started to head to Rolling Rock and he said he wanted to go by the Petro Mart at College and Paris, to make sure his car was still there. "Do you just want to drive by, or are you going to stop and buy something?" He had been trying to bum cigarettes up until that point, and had broken and discarded the two they had given him. He said he just wanted to drive by.

When I drove by, he decided he wanted to stop. He went in for cigarettes, but they wouldn't sell him any because he didn't have his ID. He had had to surrender his driver's license when he got the DWI.

So, we drove back across downtown, to Walgreens, where I went in and bought him a pack of cigs. Then we finally headed to Rolling Rock. His buddy had given $5 up front. When we were turning onto Rock Quarry, about a mile and a half from Rolling Rock, the fare was at about $13. He handed me two bills, in the dark. "Here's $20."

One was a $10 and the other was a $20. "That's thirty, you gave me a $20 by mistake." I handed both bills back to him, and he gave me back the $20.

I got him home, and the fare was about $14.05. He thanked me, collected his shit, and got out of the door. The $10 was laying in the seat where he had missed his pocket. I pointed it out to him. "You're determined to give me that $10 yet, aren't you?" He didn't but I still pulled an $11 tip on the deal.

Well, that's two days worth of cab content. I'm afraid that that is the best I can do for you good people tonight. I apologize agian for the week-long hiatus. I got my compy fixed (new keyboard), but also got sick again. I worked Friday night but called in sick yesterday (Saturday). I'm over the hump, cold-wise, though. And, yes, there's a lady-type in the works, so you can look forward to all future blogs being about teddy bears and rainbows.

Ciao,
Garner

Are You Being Served?

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

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

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

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

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

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

No charges were filed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So, cab:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But that's just me complaining.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tuesday:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Did you have a birthday?"

"Nope. My birthday's next month."

"Well, you're all set then."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like I fucking need this shit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Who's dog is this?"

"That's my dog."

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

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

"Ain't got it."

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

"I said I don't have it."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

From there I was dispatched to Columbia Square Townhomes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, and check out some mohawk pictures, below.

Ciao,
Garner.