I'll bite yer arm off, Sasquatch.

Shit balls. Man, does time fly.

It's Sunday Sunday night. I slept until about 3:15 today. I threw some laundry in and picked up some BBQ from Smokin' Chicks over on John Garry drive. My drunken Wednesday night renewed my cold. All that whiskey didn't help my immune system, nor did running from Jimmy John's to Mojo's in the cold night air. I had a serious head full of snot this morning. Spent a long time in the shower trying to exorcise the demons. Between that and not having eaten I was about to start shaking when I finally scored some food. Then I watched part of the Dobro video I picked up from the library, since it was due today. I ran that back and did some pickin' until about 7, when I went to see 'Walk the Line,' the Cash biopic.

Other than Wallace and Grommit, I hadn't been to the theater in some time. It was a decent flick. Joaquin Phoenix impressed, Reece Witherspoon was alright. Some old fuck behind me wanted to sing along with all the songs. Fucker. Like everyone in the theater didn't know the words; I need this guy trying to impress his old lady with his savant-like musical knowledge.

Lets see: cab.

One day last week I had a fare from the Wal-Mart Supercenter to some apartments north of Vandiver. I picked up a man of about 30 and his wife, presumably Japanese. I was in #3, a early nineties Dodge Caravan. The first thing the guy asked when he climbed in, pretty much as an aside, was if I knew where there was a Caravan for sale. I myself have a '93 Grand Caravan, that I bought from a comomusic user several weeks ago. It was a steal at $300, needing only a taillight and some minor stuff to be a $1200 van. My plan was to give it to my dad, but I broke the ignition switch and hadn't had the $100 or so to fix it properly. I had been driving it by starting it with a jumper wire under the hood. I would turn on the ignition, open the hood, and touch a wire to the battery. It could also use some valve cover gaskets and some cleaning, as well as the taillight.

I turned down an offer to sell it for $600 the day I bought it. It was my somewhat creep-o ex-manager from the transmission shop. I didn't really want to sell it, since I have a K5 Blazer that is essentially useless to me that I would rather sell. But, this guy caught me off guard, I could use the money, and he seemed like he could really use a car. I told him about the van, and he told me that he owned a '91 Caravan, which was broken down with a bad transmission. Thus his use of the cab. He and his wife had walked the 3 or 4 miles to Wal-Mart to do some grocery shopping, and it was pretty cold. He had a very un-Midwestern demeanor, which was a bit disarming.

I mentioned that I had just quit working at Mr. Transmission, and he said that was where his van was at. They told him it needed a complete overhaul, and would easily cost more than $1000 to fix. He said the van wasn't worth the cost of the repairs, and that he would like to replace it with another Caravan so he could have spare parts. I told him that was good, since my van needed some parts and that we could both come out ahead, since I wouldn't have to pay retail for the ignition switch and taillight, thus I could reduce my asking price accordingly. I told him I'd take $800 for it and would swap the parts for him, and I could probably arrange transport and storage for his broken down van. This was a very hurried conversation. We exchanged names and numbers. His name was Gene, actually Eugene. My middle name is Eugene, and I'm named after my father, who goes by Gene. I told him I would bring the van by for him to look at on Wednesday. I didn't get around to it.

If you recall, I spent Thursday in a hangover stupor. Gene called and I took the van over for him to look at that evening. I hadn't driven it since it got cold. The heat wasn't working very well. I figured it was a cheap, easy-to-replace valve under the hood. I could use the one off of his van, but its still embarrassing to have to bring stuff like that up when you're trying to sell a vehicle. The van was on empty, so I stopped by the gas station and put $10 in it. I had just paid my electric bill, so I only had about $50 to my name, which sucked because I need about $30 to start with (for change) driving the cab, for Friday. I showed up at his apartment and left it running, since you have to start it under the hood (a bit ghetto) and I thought he'd want to drive it right away, because it was freezing outside.

I thought I had smelled some gas while driving, but I figured I got some on my hand when pumping it, or something. As I was trying to apologize and explain about the heat I realized the van was pissing copious amounts of petrol onto the ground in front of Gene and his Japanese wife. This was a great start for selling a vehicle.

I apologized, and told them I'd fix it and bring it back. I hadn't had any problems with it whatsoever. I figured a fuel line must have been rusty and broke while driving. I raced home in panic, waiting for the van to explode suicide-bomber style. At stoplights I wanted to shut it off so a huge puddle wouldn't form, but the ignition switch was fucked and that would mean getting out to start it under the hood. On top of that paranoia, I was losing so much fuel that I thought I might run out before getting home. I just made it, having lost 6-8 gallons in less than 10 miles. At least it was fucking cold.

I stayed up late Thursday catching up on the blog. I felt myself grow sicker as the night got longer. The last thing I would want to do Friday morning (actually early afternoon) would be to get up early and fuck with a car. Plus, my garage is packed full of tools, equipment, and my dismantled '67 Scout, which no longer has any floors in it. Even if I wanted to try to roll/drive it out, I have 3 more cars in the driveway, and it would be a chore to move everything out and then back in again. And, to move the van would mean to start it, leave a trail of gas, and a puddle wherever I would be laying under it. And the fumes would suck, especially since I was already ill. I didn't want to go to work reeking of gas.

So, I would have to fix the van in the elements, on the vacant neighbor's side of the driveway. I said fuck it, and slept right in. I was ready to go to work, with about ten minutes to spare. I felt guilty, so I thought I would at least roll under the van to look at it, to get an idea of the extent of the necessary repairs.

Well, fuck if it wasn't just some loose hose clamps at the fuel filter. I think someone removed the factory high-pressure fittings in the name of convenience, and the remaining hose clamps had worked loose enough over time to begin spewing gas. 5 minutes with a screwdriver and it was perfect. I could have fixed it with my pocket knife and saved the $10 worth of gas and worry. Balls.

Well, at least I got to call Gene and tell him it was working. He had walked to the Gerbes on Paris Road (grocery store) with his wife and their baby. I told him I would bring the van to him and he could drop me off at work, and take his time driving/evaluating the van. I figured he could take care of some much needed errands. I caught him there and drove to the taxi shack, surrendering the van. It occurred to both of us that we were two trusting individuals. There are just some times when you meet someone so entirely genuine you have no doubts as to their character. Besides that, statistically speaking, most people do the right thing. I wasn't concerned about the well-being of my van.

I knew that Gene was from Alaska and had lived in Taiwan. On the short drive to the taxi dispatch I found out he, too, had gone to law school, and that we had very similar experiences. He had even tried driving a cab for a short period of time. He dropped me off and I told him I would have a morning driver drop me off at the van at his house when I got off of work.

I got to work with no time to spare. I hadn't eaten and I only had $18. I hoped to get some early cash calls to build a stash. Tuesday night I ran charges for the first several hours, and didn't take in any cash. I was worried about having enough change if someone sprung a big bill on me, not having money to putt gas in the cab if the day driver hadn't refueled, and not having money to eat. Plus I was sick.

Surprisingly, I got into a car as soon as I got to work, trusty old #10. On top of that, I had a call waiting for me. Actually 3 calls. To the Columbia Regional Airport. For those of you who don't know, Columbia's airport is about 2 minutes away, south of town. We charge a flat rate of $25 one way. This was awesome, because it was guaranteed $75 start on the night, and I'd probably take in some cash. I hadn't slowed down once since getting out of bed when I picked up my first 2 fares, headed to the airport. The third was a no show, so I left without them. I hadn't yet realized it was Friday and all of the students had begun the mass emigration from Columbia. These two students were flying to Dallas and Jersey, respectively. I was a little bummed about the cancellation, but $50 in the first hour was still a lot better than I often do.

I chatted with the kid from Jersey. He didn't seem at all east-coast. We talked about the overwhelming marginality of New Jersey and the complete lack of regional pride on the part of it's residents. This struck me in comparison to the fierce pride exhibited by one carny from Maine that I had driven the week before.

I also learned in route that I had another fare coming back form the airport which made up for the cancellation. I had an extra $82 or so after tips to bank on. Sweet.

The Indian Summer and last week's home game seemed to combine for a larger transient population downtown than I had seen in a while. They usually live in camps in the woods up off of I70 and generally only venture as far as the business loop to steal stuff, pawn stuff, and hit up the food pantry. On game day weekends they fight for spots on the off-ramps from 70, to hit up all of the people coming into town for football weekends. Several had made it downtown to panhandle in the streets the week before.

I saw one particularly disheveled panhandler, who looked completely rub-shit-in-your-hair nuts. He was dirty, with a thick, scruffy grey beard and somewhat unmanageable hair. I thought he may have been the guy with the take out box from the week before, when I ran into the drugged out Mexican on 6Th and Broadway. But, if it was, he had gone on a bender. The guy from the week before seemed very calm and orderly, and this guy was apparently drunk, as well as crazy, and it was barely dark outside (maybe 5:30). He was staggering on a street corner and asking someone for money, somewhat belligerently, as I drove by. I figured he'd get picked up soon enough, at the pace he was going.

While driving down Broadway I experienced another unusual phenomenon--Christmas caroling. There was a group of high school students singing carols as I whizzed by in my cab. I thought I might get a chance to hear more later, when I slowed down, if their voices hadn't faded by then.

I caught a flag outside of Shakespeare's. He had a guitar in a gig bag on his back, and was wearing a stocking cap. You can often spot crazy people in the early winter by their overly warm dress. College students are too vain to wear a hat or bulky coat, and don't want to forget it in a bar or have it reek of cigarette smoke when they get home. So, they are usually shower-fresh and in a hurry to get indoors, bristled against the wind. After all, they are only bolting from the car to the bar, and will be equipped with liquid sleeves when they leave.

Crazy people, though, know what its like to wait on slow-ass Midwestern public transportation, and what its like to tramp their happy asses all the way across town. The often seem to have on every winter item they own, including hats, gloves, scarves, etc., well before its cold enough for the public to adopt them en masse. It's similarly not unusual to see them carrying large packs or bags, because they don't have a car to leave their stuff in when they are out, and they may not want their stuff getting horked at the group home.

So this guy looked like he might be crazy, but not in the homeless/transient sort of way, more of a slightly mentally disabled sort of way. He was neat, clean, wearing contemporary fashions--though more for their utilitarian sake, and carrying, as I mentioned a guitar. I hate to say crazy, but its a bit of a catch-all term. In the Midwest, if you can't get a driver's license, there's probably a little something wrong with you. Your best case scenario is just poverty--can't afford a working car, or vice--one too many DWIs.

So this guy was pretty normal, and a delightful passenger, but not just like you an me (the normal people). He was going to Temple (?) and had missed his bus while lost in conversation with someone. He was relieved to catch me because he didn't know how he was going to get there. He had a thin wavering voice with a Mr. Roger's good-with-children-childlike quality. Not as pederast as Mr. Rogers but not as neurotic as Emo Phillips. The gig bag told me he was probably in the emotional problem end of things and not the psychopathic end, which was comforting. I asked him if there was a guitar in his bag.

He said there was. "Can you play that thing?"

"A little--I'm learning." We had a very nice conversation about learning the guitar. I have been picking the banjo for about 10 months now and flirt a little with the guitar. I could tell that it was a real challenge for him, complicated in some sense by whatever particular ailment he suffered. He was very complimentary when I told him about my relative progress, saying that it was still very difficult to him. Though it will sound very patronizing on my part, I was very happy for him and his decision to tackle such a complex goal. He asked me if I knew about Ironweed, whom I had seen the previous week. He knew the banjo player and told me that he offered lessons.

As we reached the 'Temple,' some sort of religious-based support center, as far as I could tell, our conversation neared its end. I wasn't completely sure if he understood that I was charging him, or if he would have the money (a little over $10). Not that there was anything to suggest he lacked the intelligence, it was just that I couldn't completely read him and he was so gracious for the ride I thought he may have considered it complimentary.

"You got $10.05 for me, Buddy?" I felt a little awkward phrasing it and I think he may have felt so receiving it. I imagine he gets patronized often, and have no doubt now that he is fully intelligent enough to realize it. He may have been slightly embarrassed as he paid me. I picked up the conversation a bit, and it turned out we had a mutual acquaintance. He knew a paraplegic who I went to law school with. My guess is they shared a government program or housing together at some point. I told him to send him my regards and bade him farewell.

Somewhere after ten I had a call at the Penguin. They were two sorority girls who had become separated from their friends through a change in plans and were heading back home to regroup. The had been drinking some but discounted it. They spent most of the duration of the ride talking between themselves about a roommate and some ridiculously egocentric petty bullshit. One of them belched mid-sentence at one point. They were talking about the third roommate's neurosis with boys, which was unfounded because she was totally hot. At one point the hotter of the two said "I mean look at me, I have stretch marks and a beer gut and I don't have any problems with boys." Ah, the neurotic dysmorphia of 115lb college girls. The missing girl also had a drinking and driving problem and often hit cars while driving drunk and habitually left the scene. The speaker was enlightened, though, because she was taking a cab. Apparently, it only took her one "d-dub" to figure it out.

I got one bizarre call from dispatch, to head out to the gas station by the HyVee supermarket. Once I got there, I was told to turn on wait time, go inside, buy a pack of Winston regular shorts in a box, get a receipt, return to the cab, turn off wait time, and run a regular far to a certain address. Once there, I was to take the cigs and receipt to the house and get paid.

I pulled up to a nice-ish house in a nice-ish subdivision. The garage door was open, the light was on, and there was the usual variety of garage clutter prohibiting it from being a useful parking spot. There was a late model work truck in the driveway. Before I got to the front door I heard a stirring in the garage. A thin woman in her 40s with jeans and a pink hooded sweatshirt had entered the garage from inside the house. She was wearing a baseball cap with long locks of dark hair falling from under the sides. She or the garage smelled faintly of stale beer and she was a bit of a basket case. She asked me how much it was.

"It's $3.10 for the cigarettes and $9.55 for the fare."

She started digging through all of her pockets, which isn't easy with snug fitting jeans. She produced a $5, four $1s, and, apologetically, 6 rolls of pennies. She was scolding herself as she paid me, saying "I always do this," saying she would have to get me back on the tip next time. I was entertained by the whole charade, and took her for her word. The only thing that puzzled me was how she so casually carried and produced 300 pennies. They weigh a good bit and are not easily carried in any pocket, and seemingly appeared effortlessly from no where.

I saw my old neighbor Jerod walking from Broadway onto 9Th street with some Jimmy John's in his hand while I was in between calls. I had told him on the phone about my new job but hadn't seen him since. I thought it would be worth a laugh to pull up and honk at him. By the time I got turned around he had disappeared. I guessed correctly and spied him walking into the parking garage behind 9Th Street Video as I passed the alley. I circled the block, pulled into the garage, and caught him before he made it to his car. I was pleased with myself to correctly guess his path.

I picked up another regular later in the evening. She is a white lady in her 50s who lives in a little rental house in the hood. She has a super Aqua Net bouffant hairdo and looks quite out of place where I pick her up at. The previous time she had been concerned about the window, which was stuck about 3/4" down and whistling. Though we were only going 30 mph, and for a few blocks, she slid to the other side of the back seat, saying "that wind will blow my hair clear to Jerusalem."

Not hardly.

She had told me about her song writing and that she had sent off to have one of her songs recorded professionally (presumably by a nameless studio band), payable in four monthly installments totaling $160. She said it was worth it to hear one of her songs recorded. She told me that she wrote from her own experiences, and about a song called "Dandelion Wine." We were already pulling into the bar but she was miles and years away, recalling her sister's confusion as to why her mother wanted the dandelions they had collected. The sly, shocking reveal was that they were for making dandelion wine. As if to quickly defend her mother's pure heart, she went straight into another story.

"She used to carry a Bull Durham pouch pinned to her bra. We'd pick up soda bottles and cans and she would always have a nickle or a quarter in their to give us to buy a little something when we walked to town, you know..." I watched as her gaze was snatched back to modern day and the Hoot-N-Anny's parking lot.

She had told me that she like live country music but hated the flashing disco lights at Hoot-N-Anny's. Her doctor had given her medicine for vertigo and she just knew she was going to be sick.

I asked her this time how her song writing was coming. She retold the same story about the mail order tape she was waiting on. She also told me she had written a poem for two friends of hers who got married because she had nothing to give them.

"It was a white lady friend of mine and a black lady what that got married and I've been carrying around that damn poem for months now and I still haven't seen them to give it to them." I assumed she misspoke when she said black lady, but I'm not entirely sure. It would make for a more interesting classic country and western song.

This time I took her to the Bear's Breath, where she was excited to see her favorite group play, "The Family Jam Band." They have a little boy that can play a number of instruments and is apparently the cutest thing. She had offered to pay her daughter's cab fair home if she could find a ride into town, but she wasn't able to afford to pay for her to come round trip from her trailer park north of town.

At some point in the evening I had a pickup downtown. As I pulled up in front of Village Wine and Cheese, I spied the crazy drunken bum from before, standing in the street, blocking traffic, and screaming hysterically. The focus of his ire was the same group of fresh-faced angel-voiced carolers from before. He alternated between shouts of "fuck you!" and a very imperative "you go to Hell!" He possessed a fire-and-brimstone authority that would make Jonathon Edwards seem impish and punctuated his commands with firmly set feet on spread legs and one hand thrust triumphantly toward the heavens. I waited for lightening to strike, as did everyone apparently, mouths agape and uncertain what to do. The drivers of the upheld cars would not even honk their horns. My fare was a slightly disabled woman, quite sheepish, and, quite terrified. She had been 'accosted' and asked for money by the man only moments before. The cops rolled in and I rolled out.

Other than that, I didn't have too many other characters Friday night. I did have one totally shit-canned intern who had gone to see Lisa Marie Presley ('I went to see ...some art...being made') and a vet student who knew a lovely young lady I met at a bar once. He's supposed to shout at her for me.

When I finished up I had Clyde drive me over to pick up my van. I didn't remember if I had tipped him when he picked me up drunk on Wednesday. I had assumed he had had to come inside the bar to get me. Apparently he didn't, though his memory seemed no more reliable than mine. He didn't think I owed him anything, but I made him take $3 to credit toward the next time, when I might. I think he considered it stupid tax and took it. He was in a mood and spent the entire ride cussing the dispatchers for their shoddy efforts.

I was pretty tired when I got home and tried to thread the minivan through the tangled morass of cars in the driveway. In making sure I was clear of Ely's car I hit my own Blazer. I was so tired I tried to gas it and bully though. The damn Blazer was too heavy, so I had to go inside and get the keys to move it forward. The van survived with a minimal new character line in front of the rear fender on the driver's side.

When I got inside I thought I'd watch a few minutes of TV before retiring. I saw Sling Blade was on and thought I'd watch a bit of it while petting my cats (so the little fuckers wouldn't try to wake me up while I slept). I was so tired and I had the volume down low, so it took me a minute to realize it was dubbed in Spanish. My Spanish is very minimal, but, in the scene where Doyle sends Linda out to get some Chicken Champ so he can lay down the new house rules, instead of saying "and get some extra gravy" he says "get some extra salsa."

Saturday I was still sick when I woke up. I had talked to Gene Friday night about the van. He said that when he told Mr. Transmission that he didn't want to have them fix the van they offered to buy it from him for $150. He didn't want to sell it, because he was going to rob parts off of it to put on my van. After that, they got testy and their mood changed dramatically. They were pretty uptight about getting paid the $40 for the tow bill (which wasn't mentioned when the told him they would tow it in) and were demanding that he get it off of the lot. I told him they were posturing and that I would help him tow it on Sunday.

When he went to pay the $40 on Friday, something magical had happened. The van that he had towed in--that needed well in excess of $1000 in repair--now magically moved under its own power. Now the offer of $150 seemed pretty odd. The only explanation was that they had put a new gasket on it, added fluid, and that it worked. The truth is quite likely that they knew it would work by fixing a couple of small leaks, they fixed the leaks when Gene said he didn't want to fix it, thinking they would get it for $150 and resell it for $1500 or so, rather than offer to repair the leaks for the actual cost of the labor. Shifty. So, now Gene has a working van for the cost of a $40 tow. Nice turn of events.

I went to work and got #10 again. It's a good running car, and, with the exception of the 3 non-working windows, is a fine enough taxi cab. It even has a working CD player. Luckily, after I bashed in the old girl's starboard door, they replaced it with one with a good window regulator. So, one-for-four. Unfortunately, I felt like shit again. Those damn cats had woke me up every hour on the hour. I threw shoes and sprayed them with water. The little bastards were smart enough to run when they heard me get up, so I had to hunt them out downstairs to kick their cat asses before returning to bed each time. Crap indeed.

Things were very slow, I had about one fare an hour until 10 pm or so. After 8 hours in the cab I had ran about $105 on the meter. I tried to nap a few times, but it didn't work out. I saw the crazy homeless guy from the night before, back on the beat.

One of my first calls was at a crappy rental house in one of the old neighborhoods on the fringe of the projects. There in the driveway was my old Isuzu Trooper. I had bought in in Springfield in 1996 and drove it up until 2000, when I sold it here in Columbia. It still had the stickers I had put on it nearly a decade ago. One said 'Question Yourself.' I laughed. It was the fare's roommate's and she said it was broken down with a cracked radiator. Nostalgia took me back to all of the camping, biking, moving, and entertaining I did in it back in my glory days. I entertained the notion of buying it back, but then I started remembering about all of the little crappy things wrong with it at 211,000 miles almost six years ago.

I picked up another group home individual at the Hollywood Theaters. He had seen the newest Harry Potter movie and didn't know if the bus was running. We had a conversation about comic book and fantasy-themed movies, and he a very thorough and detailed knowledge of them. He had a speech impediment and it took some getting used to to understand him. We talked about the upcoming Superman release. When asked about the Potter flick he volunteered that the actress who played Hermione was "becoming a very beautiful young woman."

While I was driving around aimlessly for hours, hunting flags, I spied my new favorite piece of Columbia graffiti. My old favorite used to be outside of Glenn's seafood restaurant and said "Plastic--must you conform?" Sadly it fell victim to remodeling. My new favorite is on a red brick warehouse off of Orr Street (which runs from D Sport to Mojo's) and says "Paris Hilton should be spayed."

I had a call at Hoot-N-Anny's sometime before closing time. I usually get out and go in there, because you can't really see in through their door and most people I pick up there are complete middle-aged souses who grow into their bar stools and have no perception of time or space. I walked into the bar and exchanged smiles with the bar-back, a chubby Mexican fellow who only speaks "un poquito Ingles." I pantomimed a steering wheel and said 'taxi.' He got the bartender for me. He said the man who called for me was wearing a wool beanie and someone said he was in the bathroom. As I waited I saw a drunk I had taken home the night before.

When I picked him up Friday he was completely shit-hammered. I think all of his brain had ceased function except for his medula oblongatta, though he did maintain a rigid, vacant smile and an upright posture on a bar stool. I asked him how he was doing, and, after a minute, he said "well how do I look." I said fabulous and we didn't have much more conversation. I took him to a trailer park south of town where he took several agonizing minutes to extract his wallet and pay. He was slightly less drunk this night, but working diligently at it. I asked him how he was doing. He asked if he knew me and I told him I took him home the night before. There wasn't a hint of recognition and no further exchange.

About this time my fare emerged. He was dressed like a bum and swilling Miller High Life in 12 oz bottles, clasped in a fingerless-gloved hand. He was dirty, not so much from sleeping in the woods but from wearing the same clothes for several days. He had a few days' beard, a weak chin, and a thin glaze of snot on his upper lip from being out in the cold. He had on a weathered wool beanie cap and what looked like a cheap 3/4 length cloth woman's coat. And he was drunk.

He sat up front and was very personable, and mostly coherent. He started stories, stammered and broke off from them, but eventually remembered and finished them, though few had strong narratives or plot resolutions. We rode nearly to Hallsville, and, again, I wasn't completely sure he would have money, though I had the impression he did. After all, bums and homeless people don't buy bottles of beer in bars. They drink cheap vodka in parks and on sidewalks.

He was extremely gracious, thanking me several times for picking him up. He was quite impressed with the old Lincoln, and kept remarking that it had a Hell of a motor. He started into some story about getting into the Holley 4 barrel on his dad's truck, but reiterated that he was a motorcycle guy on several occasions. He would say " I was like, well, look, okay..." to usher in nearly every new line of duologue. He told one story about sliding his motorcycle in between a truck and a 'gravel rock' to avoid an accident that he anticipated might meet with disbelief but that did actually happen.

He was telling me some story about some black lady showing him "her tits, you know, she was showing me her bra, and her tits you know" and about having left his girlfriend's car at the bar. He said something about having gone to some AA meetings earlier that day. He broke off and revisited the story about the black lady's tits, and I think it was someone from Club Vogue, next door. He tried to negotiate a price for a 'knob job' and some bouncer got mad at him. He said he was a big dude and "I called him Sasquatch. I was like, um, er, okay, Sasquatch." Only Sasquatch came out more like 'Susq'ch'.' He retold it a few times, and I believe in one variant he told 'Susq'ch' "I'll bite yer arm off, 'Susq'ch'."

We got to his 'old man's place,' a trailer park up off of Route B. His trailer was an old 60s model. There was a cheap weight bench and some old weights siting next to the trailer. I said "is that your weight bench?" which confused him a bit. As best as I could tell, he wasn't really sure. He pulled out his wallet to pay. It was an old, tattered black leather billfold literally falling apart around the 8 or 10 shiny plastic Platinum and assorted credit cards. They were the only thing about him that were not worn and dirty. He fished through a wad of cash and paid the $20+ fare with an appropriate tip. At one point I remember him saying he worked for a bond company.

I had a call at the DeJa Vu at about 12:30. I had just picked up a girl from there who had turned 21 and taken 25 shots in 3 hours. Her friends got her a bacon cheeseburger from Hardee's and I thanked her for not puking. The dispatcher told me the bouncer had called for some girl, and to have him point her out to me. I figured this was another sorority girl who had lost her fight with balance, motor skills, and the maintenance of an upright position. I expected to have to carry her wherever she was headed.

When I pulled in a drunk woman of about 30 jumped in the front seat of the cab. I asked if she had called and she said "yup, just go." I figured she hadn't, and fares get pretty testy when they have to call back because someone stole their cab. And I figure this particular drunk girl probably can't call for herself and will lay passed out in the bar until closing time. I asked the woman in the cab again and she said "just go."

I asked her if she called or if the bouncer called for her. She said a bouncer called. I didn't believe her. I left her in the cab and went in. I asked the door guy if he called a cab and he said yes. He came back out with me, peered through the windshield, and identified her as the woman, like a suspect on COPS. I felt pretty shitty and watched my tip sublimate into the atmosphere.

I got back in the car. She was at that point where you're trying to figure out just how shit-faced you are and you don't want to talk too much because you're afraid if you open your mouth puke might come out. Luckily, she wasn't that drunk, or at least maintaining focus settled her stomach. Fortunately, she was in the right seat if she was a puker.

As we were pulling out a group of four guys tried to flag me. I had dissed them the night before, and they recognized me. They were in good spirits and laughed it off. I tried to ask them where they wanted to go, thinking I could double up if they were on the way. But, they were going south and she was going north. As the conversation unfolded one dude raised his shirt up to show his man boobs. The drunk woman gestured for him to come closer so she could touch his nipples. Then the guy proffered to show his asshole for $10. I pulled away before she could tender the purchase price. I realized that even if they were going the same place it was not a good combination for my cab. Like the riddle with the farmer who has to cross the river with the fox, chicken, and a bag of grain.

I sensed I had narrowly dodged a perilous situation as I sped away, when she spoke her first non-transactional words to me:

"So what do men really want from a woman."

I played my best evasive/supportive amateur pop-psychologist, speaking only in generic terms and broad generalizations. She asked me why I was driving a cab and told me she could tell I was highly intelligent, before I could say much. She said she was a scientist, doing stem cell research at the university. I asked her how she liked it and it devolved into some scientific terms and drunk slurs I no longer understood.

She asked if I was a Virgo. I told her I was a Sagittarius. "Ah...December."

She asked if I had ever been married. I said no. She asked why. I said "I guess I've never met the right lady." She told me I was full of shit. I asked her if she had ever been married.

"Yes. Twice."

"So that didn't work out for you?"

"What does it look like?"

She told me she was on her second divorce, that she had a three year old son, that she loved her ex-husband, but that he didn't love her. I asked why, she said he was a narcissist. I asked if she had bad taste in men and she said she did.

She told me that I looked like a Garner. And that I had to change my glasses.

"You don't think these work for me?"

"No."

We got to her house, a nice one her ex-husband had bought her. After I ran her credit card and our transaction was complete, she took a long hard look at me, staring, inches from my face.

"What time do you get off work?"

I looked at the clock. It was 1 am.

"Not until 4."

I watched the gears turning, as she did the math and evaluated her options, still studying my face. She broke off, and said, "well, I'm going to cook my pizza," and went into her house.

Story of my life. Coming in second to a damn frozen pizza.

After the bars closed things were pretty hurried. I had a call for the Penguin. It was 2 late 20-something , clean, professional looking ladies. They were having a polite fight over a guy they were out with. The first was trying to orchestrate the cab ride to get her friend out of the picture so she could rendezvous with 'her' man. Her initial plan was for me to take them both south, drop her off, then take her friend back north in the cab while she got some. But, they were bickering outside the cab, ever so politely, masking their blatant motives with thin veils of social dialog. The first girl altered her plan, wanting me to just take the second girl away in the cab. But, the second girl and the dude were standing at the open back door, discussing something. Then, in a pout, the first girl wanted me to just take off with her, but I couldn't go, because they were standing holding the open door.

Meanwhile, I had another group who said they called fighting for the cab. It's prime-time and I am losing money waiting. Finally, somehow, I ended up with girl #2 in the cab, driving away. Girl #2 tried to call #1, under the pretext that she shouldn't drive, and we would pick her up in the cab, thus keeping her from shagging said dude. #1 wouldn't answer her phone. Dude wouldn't answer his phone. I headed north. #2 finally got ahold of #1, and basically asked if she should not bother calling dude. #1 intimated yes, and I had an upset #2 on the verge of tears in the cab. May I interest you in a cab driver? The only decent thing about the deal was that #1 gave me about an $8 tip in her excitement to get #2 out of the picture.

I made it back in time for the group I shunned at the Penguin. It was a group of 3 drunk 20-somethings, with one of their dad's in tow. Dad didn't seemed too impressed as we sat in front listening to crude tails of oral sex and misogyny all the way home.

After 2am I got a call to go to college party USA on the south side. It was one girl, apparently completely sober, probably not much over 21. She was extremely upbeat and perky for 2 am. She sat up front and we talked about drunk driving and DWIs all the way home. She had been tagged with a DWI after 3 beers over 4 hours and lost her license. She didn't bat an eye at the $28 fare and gave me a $7 tip.

Dispatch said I could call it a night at 3 am, but I decided to troll downtown and the strip club once more. It was raining and I thought I might snag a fare. I saw one guy who was so bombed he was having trouble walking. I thought about riding him for free for his safety, but he was a big mess. I had decided not to when I got one last call. I rode a guy from D.Rowes way up north, with a drive-through stop at Steak and Shake. $32 fare, $8 tip. Those last few calls made my night.

On the way back to the shack I saw the bombed out white guy. He had made his way to the edge of the hood and was standing in the rain, confused, ready to fall down at any moment. I called it a night and went the fuck home.