I quit my job. I guess you could say I am recovering. There were some issues with the management. When I started writing this blog my intention was to make at least two posts every month. I wanted to write about people, and the strange nuances that go along with cab driving.
I did not imagine myself being part of the story. Most nights I was too busy trying to sort everything out to put pen to paper. I've got stories, most in notebooks, but so much has happened and I feel like I'm jumping all over the place. I mean I brought up Delilah as a footnote, and then skipped unknown weeks or months ahead to the soul-baser...and you don't even know what that means...fuck, why should you?
The truth is I don't know where this story started and I can't promise much of an ending. Chronology is completely out the window at this point. If you can piece these things together, I congratulate you. Believe what you want.
They don't usually send us too far out of town. If someone wants to take a cab out of Peoria, they can go anywhere they want as long as they have the cash. But sending a cab out of town to pick someone up is always a risk. You never know what you'll find when you get out there.
I was headed to Edwards, a small town about ten miles from Peoria, and it seemed like an opportune time to spark a joint. Bad idea.
You have to understand, weed does very little to impair driving ability, especially on an experienced weed smoker and a professional driver, such as myself. If you're familiar with alcoholics, you may have heard some similar bullshit about their "high tolerance" and "driving better with a buzz." I never drink alcohol before driving, and I never will. If you don't smoke weed, take my word, alcohol is a completely different monster.
Two dark lanes of pavement extended out as far as my headlights would reach, constantly being replaced by another identical strip, every second, like an endless ribbon flowing under me, looping beneath and ending up on the horizon again.
Things started to get creepy out in the country. One minute there were lights, traffic, headaches, and college students, the next...the purple speckled sky towered brightly over the black corn fields stretching toward a solitary tree, barn, or farmhouse. They looked so vulnerable and isolated out there in the black; the open space could either crush or swallow them whole. And me just as easily.
A green highway sign that read Edwards was ominously twisting back and forth in the wind. A barren old tree extended its branches over the road and framed the last portion leading to a rickety old bridge that felt like some sort of border when I crossed it. I remember thinking This is probably what it feels like to be going the wrong direction over that bridge in Sleepy Hollow.
There wasn't much to see of Edwards at night. It was a small town. The upright citizens were sleeping, and their modest homes seemed quite safe and cozy on a cool, windy night. They should be eating soup, I thought. Cooked in a big, black pot. This town needs more fireplaces...and cobblestone.
I should have been thinking about the address I was looking for...I began frantically looking for house numbers, to no avail. The houses were too dark, most of them not at your typical distance or angle from the road. The mailman probably knows where everyone lives in this town anyway. And he doesn't have to work in the fucking dark, in a town where no one uses yard or porch lights.
The street signs were one typical word after another without the benefit of labels like North, South, East, West, Street, Avenue, Boulevard... Just white letters on forest green metal: Elm, Lincoln, Taylor, Main, Second...did I miss First?
A loud clunk from the front passenger side brought the car to a quick stop and scared the living shit out of me. Normally I may have thought it was just a pothole, but weed makes you a little paranoid.
I was immediately certain the same person who'd called the cab had planted some sort of spike strip in the road, blown my tire, and was currently waiting in the bushes with the rest of his inbred family, coven or biker gang. The second I stepped out of the car they'd have me...or worse...my eternal soul. What the fuck?
With my trustee mag-light in hand and pocket knife equipped as secondary, I journeyed out into the darkness. I let my eyes adjust and surveyed an empty street, the silence was paramount. I know I don't usually bust out the five dollar descriptors...but something about the solitude of the country makes you really remember the weight of the fucking Earth.
There was no time to be poetic. I was there to do the god damn job. First thing's first, check the tire...I shuffled over in Sub-Zero fashion, keeping my eyes on the side of the road until I was hovering over the flat...which was not flat at all, but a completely healthy tire.
"Well that's got to be good news," I said to no one in particular, just to break the silence. A woman screamed behind me. I jump-turned and frantically shined my light into the trees on the other side of a white gravel road. Nothing.
There was no one there, and I still could not hear a thing over my own heart. I waited a few long moments to confirm that I'd imagined it, before "Oh my God! No, no, Jesus!"
It was further away than it seemed the first time. She was somewhere in the woods, and without thinking much about it, I started jogging down the street toward the white gravel bordering the forest.
When I got close, I found a cement driveway leading up a small hill, to a large, two story brown house, almost completely invisible among the trees, a single window hovering in yellow light guided me up. At some point I rationalized that they probably called the cab since it was the only light I'd seen. Then I immediately wondered what they would think when I told them the cab was down a few blocks...
I opened the old black metal screen door as quietly as I could, and decided to have a listen before I knocked. I put my ear to the door and heard a struggle...but the woman was not screaming, that worried me.
No time to weigh it over. The cops may never get here in time, we're out in the middle of no where, after all. I went ahead and turned the doorknob, it was not locked, so I pushed it open about six inches. Faded light crept out from another room, and voices, some muffled, at least three people, two of them reciting or chanting something I could not understand.
At this point I can't explain why, but I felt compelled, and I follow my instincts, so I went in.
They were gathered in the family room. It was mostly wood, big stone fireplace, high ceilings, and two grown men repeating the same Latin phrases over and over again, trying to pull a skinny, three foot tall child off of her mother's bleeding neck.
The short, balding man holding the girl's left arm and leg was dressed in black, I could tell he was a minister, probably local. The red haired man in the flannel shirt was her father, he seemed torn between not wanting to rip his little girl's right arm off, and not wanting her to bite through his wife's neck.
I ran over behind the girl, between the other two guys, and did what I could to get my hands beneath her chin. I pushed up and in with my thumbs, between her jaw and jugular, then straight back. She broke her hold and slowly the head started to come back. I didn't know why, but I began trying to put a five year old girl in a head lock.
Without warning she propelled off her mother, and we all crashed backward in opposite directions from the force. I was still holding her back tight against my chest as we hit the floor. Her skin was cold and pale, blue and purple veins striping her entire body.
A second later she was hitting me with everything she could trying to wiggle free. Elbows caught me in the forehead and temple, heels pounding me in the legs. She let out a howl and began shouting and spitting in a language I'd never heard before.
She slammed her head straight back into my nose and it hurt worse than any punch I've ever caught. Vision went blurry, disoriented, bleeding into my mouth, fuck not easy to breath...
I didn't even know I still had her when the Preacher was on top of us shouting "Hold Her! Hold Her!"
"No problem," I garbled.
He started repeating the Latin again and the girl's father joined after tending to his wife. They each placed a hand on her chest and kept praying. She kept fighting, I didn't know if the blood would make me puke or pass out first, but I just pretended I was at the dentist's: hold the fuck on and hope like hell they know what they're doing.
She started to slow down and the Preacher put a cross on her forehead, which cracked and sizzled until she collapsed, motionless.
"She's subdued. We must get her to the River."
"I'll start the truck."
"Hurry."
"Oh, no, please, take your time. I'll just chill here."
"Hey, just who in the hell are you, anyway?" her father finally asked.
"I'm just the driver. Did you guys call a cab?"
They just looked at each other before he left to start the truck. The Preacher kept praying. He didn't say much to me, except when he asked if I'd been baptized. I said "Yeah, sure" because I thought he was just making conversation. Turns out he wasn't.
"Lift her," he said, and I did my best to get to my feet while holding a broken child against my chest. The Preacher kept his right hand on her, but he seemed too scared to get any closer.
We stumbled through a hallway, out another door and right into the bed of a pick-up truck. The second the Preacher was on board I felt the need to use the opportunity to say "Go! Go! Go!" The tires spun and we shot down the driveway, twisted and peeled around the gravel, hit the bump of the cement, around the top light of my cab and back through Edwards toward the bridge. It only took about thirty seconds doing sixty. I slid forward and my head hit the frame as we skidded to a stop on the bridge.
The Preacher began preparing to perform a Baptism. He said a few prayers, blessed the child and it was all going fine until he commanded the Demon to leave. I actually heard her eyelids snap open.
She thrashed around and growled like a beast. Her father helped me up and we were able to get a grip on her again before she could get out of the truck. The Preacher was speaking as quickly as he could to finish up.
"Get her in the water! Get her in the water!" he shouted. It was slow moving to the corner of the bridge, every step was like trying to push through an NFL lineman and there were two of us. We were two steps away from turning the corner when she broke free.
With a quick leap she was on the shoulders of the Preacher, trailing behind us, then she hopped off, behind him, on the edge of the bridge. Before he could even turn around, she had her right hand around his neck and beneath his chin. Snap. He dropped that quickly.
I ran toward her. I looked her in the eye and I saw it, not a child at all but something thousands of years old. I jumped head first and caught her square in the chest with my bony shoulder. We seemed to hover there for a minute, and I can still see that moment in my mind from all angles, just before we hit the water.
When I woke up freezing in the bed of a dark river I saw a father holding his child and I knew everything was alright.
Chasing the Dragon, With a Return.
"Rob, where you at?" The deep voice of dispatch said from the radio.
"Clearing right now," I responded.
"Alright, where at?"
"Over here on East Washington."
"Go get the Dragon."
"Aight."
The Dragon is a notorious, cheap motel in Creve Coeur. I was pleased with the trip since I was already on the East Side of the River.
I know the East Side well, it ranges from Wasp Yuppy to White Trash, but it's all relatively safe. There's a very low probability of catching a stray bullet or getting jacked, no matter how poor the neighborhood. The police forces are well funded, don't have shit to do, and laws are strictly, yet selectively, enforced. It's also worth mentioning that several communities East of the River have been accused of deep seated racism.
Five minutes and thirty seconds later I was skidding into the narrow entryway of the Dragon Motel. The heat was finally starting to let up more than two hours after the sun set. I was happy to park in front of the red door marked fifteen and enjoy the breeze. "Hot Summer Nights" by Miami Sound Machine played low from my speakers as I enjoyed a cigarette. The evening traffic was dying down, a loud motorcycle fired up down the road and moved further away as a steady train whistle cried back from East Peoria.
I don't know where he came from, but suddenly he was three steps from me. An old, rock bottom biker with a long braided beard and leather clothes. His hair was as black as the half circles beneath his eyes. Old, weathered, yet somehow powerful. The guy almost startled me.
"Where'd you come from?"
"Hell, I guess!"
"Did you call for the cab?" I asked, knowing damn well he had.
"Yeah, goin over on Garden," he let loose a fit of laughter and I noticed a few teeth missing. "Don't you realize you're dealing with the reaper, son?"
"No, they just tell me where to pick up."
Garden is on the South End of Peoria. This was probably a crack run. Dangerous, but it paid well: long trip, with a return, plus charge for time and possibly a tip.
"So is that Garden, with a return?" I asked.
"Let's hope so, bud!" He said, handing my right shoulder thirty dollars.
I always try to take the fastest possible route. If the customer wants to go their own way, I'll abide. I took a right toward the Cedar Street Bridge. We were out of Creve Coeur, halfway to the bridge before he asked, "Which way you goin, bub?"
"The quickest way I know. Which way did you want to go?"
"Could have grabbed 474."
"Nah, the address on Garden is just past Western. And 474 takes you way further South than you're trying to go."
"Good answer. If you'd turned around I would've had to slice a piece of your ear off."
"What?"
"A piece of your ear, as a trophy. Then it'd be settled."
When we hit Garden Street from Jefferson I glanced to the left and saw a thirty something tough guy in an unzipped winter coat, sweatpants, white sneakers and nothing else, kick a garbage can into the street, which I had to avoid. That was interesting since I was still drifting from the quick right turn.
The can bounced off my back left tire as the rear end drifted toward the kicker. The can skidded harmlessly to the curb, not far from where it started. I can't say it was intentional...but who calls these things accidents? I knew we'd arrived.
It's like this: you could get robbed or shot on Main Street in Peoria if you have a unique combination of bad luck and stupidity. With the exceptions of the East Bluff, the North End, and low income housing like Pierson Hills, there aren't many places North of Main that I need to worry about.
Now to anyone familiar with the Peoria area and how segregated it is, you probably realize there's an undeniable correlation between areas I've just labeled as "dangerous" and high minority populations. I'm no sociologist, but I'd say the link between poverty stricken communities and crime is universal, regardless of race. I'm just a cab driver, I'll give anyone a ride, it's not the color of skin that puts me on edge, it's the nightly sound of gunfire.
South of Main you see more empty buildings, abandoned lots, over grown yards, garbage, neighborhood bars, liquor stores with bars over windows, and whatever. Among all of this, there are plenty of decent, hardworking people who have lived on the South End their entire lives and may never move out. Yet, I doubt even they could deny what their neighborhoods are turning into, especially at night.
South of MacArthur is rough. South of Western is bad. South of Griswald is no mans land. Laramie, Nevada, Idaho...no thanks.
A block short of Western there was a loose line of young black guys walking double file down Garden. There were fifteen or so, ranging from thirteen to twenty five years old, some had their shirts off, a couple were carrying clubs. No one was dressed for the club, all scrubs, and judging from their pace they had work to do.
We passed a guy more dressed for straight ballin a couple blocks up the road. He was standing in his front lawn, frantically discussing something on his cell phone and looking off in the direction of the gang. They were still out of sight. His house was an old Victorian with a big porch, nice for that block. It looked as if the trim was partly done in real copper, but had been hacked years before. Even from the cab I could see the sparkle of his jewelry, and the fear in his eyes.
I went up another block and a half, flipped a U-Turn and pulled over.
"I'll only be a minute," the Biker said before walking into one of the houses. He was five minutes actually. In that time I saw three squad cars, and two K9 unit SUVs flying down garden. Then a few minutes later an old blue Camaro darted past on one of the side streets.
"Let's go," he said, slamming the door. I was happy to.
Sometimes they give me a story. They have to pick up a paycheck or drop something off to their sister. I know what's really going on, but there's no need to point it out. I'm just the driver. I don't need to know.
They're not terrible people, most of them. Troubled, tortured even -- by what they've become, the inevitable result of a lifetime of hardship and bad decisions. But they must go on as the monster...because it's all they know and beyond the sorrow, there's no remembering what it was like before...
"You want to get higher than you've ever been man?"
"No, I don't do that shit."
"What shit?"
"Crack."
"This aint no fuckin rock!" He sounded somewhat offended. He opened his vest and I saw the head of a bald Eagle with a banner in its beak that read "Born to Fuck."
The Biker pulled a Crown Royal bag from somewhere inside. I knew it instantly from the purple velvet and gold trim. The bottle was long gone. From the shape of the bag, it was being used as a makeshift satchel.
He put his hands around the neck of the bag, and stuck his thumbs inside. His eyes smiled up at me for a moment before the bag was open and light poured out like a star had exploded inside the cab. It was a pure, white light, so intense I felt my heart pounding and fingers ripping into the seat cushions before I realized I wasn't in any pain.
There seemed to be music, but not music, more like long, powerful, somewhat melodic notes. The noise was deafening, but I didn't feel my ear drums blowing. And somewhere in the distance, miles or inches away, the biker was laughing, I could see his silhouetted face hovering over the source of the star. He seemed to be inhaling it.
As I focused on him the image became more clear. A vein pulsating from one side of his forehead to the other. His skin became yellow, and something dark squirmed beneath. The skin wasn't actually turning yellow, I realized, but transparent, it looked like rubber makeup on top of the exoskeleton of a giant ant. But this was no bug...I've read enough William S Burroughs to know what that would look like.
He closed it suddenly, the light was gone, and I realized we were in front of his room again. The Biker was no longer in the car. Had he left? Was he here?
"I'm clear."
"Clearing right now," I responded.
"Alright, where at?"
"Over here on East Washington."
"Go get the Dragon."
"Aight."
The Dragon is a notorious, cheap motel in Creve Coeur. I was pleased with the trip since I was already on the East Side of the River.
I know the East Side well, it ranges from Wasp Yuppy to White Trash, but it's all relatively safe. There's a very low probability of catching a stray bullet or getting jacked, no matter how poor the neighborhood. The police forces are well funded, don't have shit to do, and laws are strictly, yet selectively, enforced. It's also worth mentioning that several communities East of the River have been accused of deep seated racism.
Five minutes and thirty seconds later I was skidding into the narrow entryway of the Dragon Motel. The heat was finally starting to let up more than two hours after the sun set. I was happy to park in front of the red door marked fifteen and enjoy the breeze. "Hot Summer Nights" by Miami Sound Machine played low from my speakers as I enjoyed a cigarette. The evening traffic was dying down, a loud motorcycle fired up down the road and moved further away as a steady train whistle cried back from East Peoria.
I don't know where he came from, but suddenly he was three steps from me. An old, rock bottom biker with a long braided beard and leather clothes. His hair was as black as the half circles beneath his eyes. Old, weathered, yet somehow powerful. The guy almost startled me.
"Where'd you come from?"
"Hell, I guess!"
"Did you call for the cab?" I asked, knowing damn well he had.
"Yeah, goin over on Garden," he let loose a fit of laughter and I noticed a few teeth missing. "Don't you realize you're dealing with the reaper, son?"
"No, they just tell me where to pick up."
Garden is on the South End of Peoria. This was probably a crack run. Dangerous, but it paid well: long trip, with a return, plus charge for time and possibly a tip.
"So is that Garden, with a return?" I asked.
"Let's hope so, bud!" He said, handing my right shoulder thirty dollars.
I always try to take the fastest possible route. If the customer wants to go their own way, I'll abide. I took a right toward the Cedar Street Bridge. We were out of Creve Coeur, halfway to the bridge before he asked, "Which way you goin, bub?"
"The quickest way I know. Which way did you want to go?"
"Could have grabbed 474."
"Nah, the address on Garden is just past Western. And 474 takes you way further South than you're trying to go."
"Good answer. If you'd turned around I would've had to slice a piece of your ear off."
"What?"
"A piece of your ear, as a trophy. Then it'd be settled."
When we hit Garden Street from Jefferson I glanced to the left and saw a thirty something tough guy in an unzipped winter coat, sweatpants, white sneakers and nothing else, kick a garbage can into the street, which I had to avoid. That was interesting since I was still drifting from the quick right turn.
The can bounced off my back left tire as the rear end drifted toward the kicker. The can skidded harmlessly to the curb, not far from where it started. I can't say it was intentional...but who calls these things accidents? I knew we'd arrived.
It's like this: you could get robbed or shot on Main Street in Peoria if you have a unique combination of bad luck and stupidity. With the exceptions of the East Bluff, the North End, and low income housing like Pierson Hills, there aren't many places North of Main that I need to worry about.
Now to anyone familiar with the Peoria area and how segregated it is, you probably realize there's an undeniable correlation between areas I've just labeled as "dangerous" and high minority populations. I'm no sociologist, but I'd say the link between poverty stricken communities and crime is universal, regardless of race. I'm just a cab driver, I'll give anyone a ride, it's not the color of skin that puts me on edge, it's the nightly sound of gunfire.
South of Main you see more empty buildings, abandoned lots, over grown yards, garbage, neighborhood bars, liquor stores with bars over windows, and whatever. Among all of this, there are plenty of decent, hardworking people who have lived on the South End their entire lives and may never move out. Yet, I doubt even they could deny what their neighborhoods are turning into, especially at night.
South of MacArthur is rough. South of Western is bad. South of Griswald is no mans land. Laramie, Nevada, Idaho...no thanks.
A block short of Western there was a loose line of young black guys walking double file down Garden. There were fifteen or so, ranging from thirteen to twenty five years old, some had their shirts off, a couple were carrying clubs. No one was dressed for the club, all scrubs, and judging from their pace they had work to do.
We passed a guy more dressed for straight ballin a couple blocks up the road. He was standing in his front lawn, frantically discussing something on his cell phone and looking off in the direction of the gang. They were still out of sight. His house was an old Victorian with a big porch, nice for that block. It looked as if the trim was partly done in real copper, but had been hacked years before. Even from the cab I could see the sparkle of his jewelry, and the fear in his eyes.
I went up another block and a half, flipped a U-Turn and pulled over.
"I'll only be a minute," the Biker said before walking into one of the houses. He was five minutes actually. In that time I saw three squad cars, and two K9 unit SUVs flying down garden. Then a few minutes later an old blue Camaro darted past on one of the side streets.
"Let's go," he said, slamming the door. I was happy to.
Sometimes they give me a story. They have to pick up a paycheck or drop something off to their sister. I know what's really going on, but there's no need to point it out. I'm just the driver. I don't need to know.
They're not terrible people, most of them. Troubled, tortured even -- by what they've become, the inevitable result of a lifetime of hardship and bad decisions. But they must go on as the monster...because it's all they know and beyond the sorrow, there's no remembering what it was like before...
"You want to get higher than you've ever been man?"
"No, I don't do that shit."
"What shit?"
"Crack."
"This aint no fuckin rock!" He sounded somewhat offended. He opened his vest and I saw the head of a bald Eagle with a banner in its beak that read "Born to Fuck."
The Biker pulled a Crown Royal bag from somewhere inside. I knew it instantly from the purple velvet and gold trim. The bottle was long gone. From the shape of the bag, it was being used as a makeshift satchel.
He put his hands around the neck of the bag, and stuck his thumbs inside. His eyes smiled up at me for a moment before the bag was open and light poured out like a star had exploded inside the cab. It was a pure, white light, so intense I felt my heart pounding and fingers ripping into the seat cushions before I realized I wasn't in any pain.
There seemed to be music, but not music, more like long, powerful, somewhat melodic notes. The noise was deafening, but I didn't feel my ear drums blowing. And somewhere in the distance, miles or inches away, the biker was laughing, I could see his silhouetted face hovering over the source of the star. He seemed to be inhaling it.
As I focused on him the image became more clear. A vein pulsating from one side of his forehead to the other. His skin became yellow, and something dark squirmed beneath. The skin wasn't actually turning yellow, I realized, but transparent, it looked like rubber makeup on top of the exoskeleton of a giant ant. But this was no bug...I've read enough William S Burroughs to know what that would look like.
He closed it suddenly, the light was gone, and I realized we were in front of his room again. The Biker was no longer in the car. Had he left? Was he here?
"I'm clear."
Downtown.
Peoria is a place for passing through, not settling...At least according to the Native Americans who populated central Illinois only a few hundred years ago.
I think I already mentioned this. Seems true enough now.
You feel it more on some nights than others. That great magnetic pull, tugging you at the chest, rolling across the plains, like ninety mile per hour winds, completely beyond obstruction, until it comes crashing into the cracks of the Illinois River Valley. It rips above the muddy waves of the river, fighting all the way to the Mississippi.
I suppose you could say Peoria is right in the middle. It’s your typical mid-sized, Mid-American, test market city that sits in the middle of this perfect storm. You can feel it in the air. It pulls you in every direction.
I think I already mentioned this. Seems true enough now.
You feel it more on some nights than others. That great magnetic pull, tugging you at the chest, rolling across the plains, like ninety mile per hour winds, completely beyond obstruction, until it comes crashing into the cracks of the Illinois River Valley. It rips above the muddy waves of the river, fighting all the way to the Mississippi.
I suppose you could say Peoria is right in the middle. It’s your typical mid-sized, Mid-American, test market city that sits in the middle of this perfect storm. You can feel it in the air. It pulls you in every direction.
We're supposed to sit in front of the Hotel Pere Marquette on Main Street, the center piece of downtown Peoria's nightlife. Hoops, The Adams Apple, Judges Chamber, and the Gin Joint are all right across the street, in plain sight of the three spots reserved for taxis.
On a Friday or Saturday night those spots can turn into valuable real estate...until three thirty or four, when the bars close and total chaos ensues. It doesn't matter where they started. The college bars on Farmington Road. The neighborhood bars in West Peoria, The Heights, Belleview, and of course the hood bars on the North and South Ends. If they're still standing when those bars close at two or whenever, they end up downtown where the neon lights don't shut off until after Four AM.
Hundreds spill into the streets, in rare form, fighting off drink and fellow drunks for one of the two dozen cabs that can take them far away from this carnage, toward home, or at least some sanctuary where the booze can run its course, and the outside world can go to hell.
If the Pere is full of Yellows, or void of any trips that are worth my time, I'll cruise down the street and look for some that are. You must be careful. Flaggers who feel a cab is ignoring them are known to go to some lengths to get the driver's attention. This includes: walking into the street, jumping up and down, frantically waving, screaming, cursing, throwing objects, and throwing themselves in front of the cab. Just avoid them, and move on.
When it's busy downtown you can make a lot more money if you carefully choose your trips. I just trust my instincts and it usually turns out well.
I come down Main Street, check it out, if nothing's biting, I proceed toward Jefferson to check out Eamon Patrick's and Carbon. Eamon Pats is a cool bar, lots of hippies. Carbon is the closest thing to a dance club you'll find in Peoria. It's "hidden" in an alley between Jefferson and Adams, just South of Main.
I hate driving through the alley that leads to Carbon.
You must understand this is the place to go for young women, mostly Bradley and ICC Students, if they say something like "where can we go to DANCE?" And of course, this means, dress up in the sluttiest thing they own (so they'll measure up to all the others doing the exact same thing elseware,) so men will get them shitfaced, so they'll feel OK grinding and making out with these total strangers, before a sloppy game of tug of war is played between friends and one night stand candidates.
It's a great place to pick up trips. But weaving through this madness, avoiding the people, flooding out the doors, into the tightly packed alley...the fighting, flirting, laughing, screaming, and crying. The egos and the alcohol. I could do without it. If I don't get a trip, I won't sit there long before moving on just for the sake of getting the fuck out of there.
Abouy fifty yards South of the alley on Adams there's another popular Irish bar called Sully's. Adams is a one way running North, so I'm usually content just to glance down the street and see if there's anyone walking toward me.
There weren't any takers from Sully's. There was, however, a thin, dark haired girl looking frantically across my hood at two thugs walking in our direction. The stocky one was dressed to impress, mostly in white, with a white on white fitted Yankees cap tilted forward and to the left. He asked where the girl thought she was going. Her eyes were wide, filled with tears. She didn't move much or answer. She just quietly repeated "Oh my god, oh my god..." like her car just rolled over twelve times and she'd wandered off to the side of the road.
"Is everything OK?" I asked, through the passenger window. She seemed to suddenly become aware of my presence.
"No, I'm in over my head here. I don't even know where I am."
"What?"
"Hey Baby, I thought we was gonna party?"
"Oh god."
"You want to get in the car?" I asked. She opened the door and slid in.
"Hey man, that's my bitch!"
"Do you know this guy?" I asked. She shook her head no. The slick thug was already busy fanning out his gangster roll padded with 20's.
"Straight up. You wanna give her a ride, or you wanna give us a ride?"
"I'm gonna give her a ride."
They weren't happy. "What kind of bullshit is you on? I was here first. You a fuckin faggot, you suck dick."
"Yeah," I nodded thoughtfully. "That's why I'm taking the chick."
I gunned it and spun the wheel hard left, squeeling the tires a little, allowing the back end to drift toward the right.lane before I released, let it spin itself straight, and took off like a bat out of hell.
I picked up the radio, pressed the button then released it immediately. I didn't know where we were going.
"Do you know where you live?" I asked. She stared straight ahead, searching for some answer in the road. "Just a street name or a general direction will do for now..." It isn't unusual to have trouble getting vital information out of a potential customer, and on some rare occasions trips will come to a quick end when you realize you may never find out where you're going.
I've always wondered what would happen if I just kept driving. Even if I didn't turn the meter on, if I just drove around with some random person until the plan changed. Just see where the road takes us. Admittedly, the idea seemed more interesting with her riding shotgun.
"I don't know where I'm going." she said. "Do you know somewhere safe?"
"Do you have any money?"
"I think so," she said, slender fingers tearing into a small, black handbag.
A wad of hundreds spilled into her lap. She was dressed for a wedding, a simple black dress. Maybe a funeral.
"You won't have any trouble getting a hotel room."
"No, I can't."
"Why not?"
"They'll find me. My friends left me. I can't let them find me...they'll kill me."
"Why are your friends mad at you?"
"No, nevermind. Do you live alone?"
She got right to the point. It seemed insane, but all the same...I called it in. I didn't even know her name, she looked to be at least four years younger than me. Harmless, and seemingly helpless.
I slept on the couch...the first night. After that...well I guess I'm not that noble.
She wasn't a random girl I met in the cab...she was Delilah this mysterious, girl next door, somehow equally cute and clever enough to make you forget about the Martha Stewart of DJ's who shares her first name. I felt like I was being Punk'd. This was far too cliche' to be true, where was Ashton Kutcher? But he never showed up. Just Delilah, and that's the way it was for awhile.
Then one day, for no particular reason at all, she was gone. She took some cash, a bag of clothes she'd aquired, one of my knives and was gone when I came home from work. The note said I couldn't protect her anymore. I'd already learned more about Delilah than she wanted me to. I didn't know if I'd ever see her again.
Delilah and I were close, I missed her. I kept expecting someone to find her body somewhere I wished I'd done more to help her. You think you have all the time in the world, until she's gone, then every moment and opportunity wasted seems so precious.
After awhile, I stopped noticing she wasn't around, I didn't care who she was, and I realized the trip was over. I had to let go.
You can't save everyone.
Pimp Jerk
A rough looking black man in yesterday's clothes opened the back door and let the pale, pigtailed woman climb in ahead of him. I knew right away they had a business relationship.
It was not the first time I had a prostitute and her pimp in my car. They aren't as easy to spot as you may believe, at least not in Peoria. We don't have guys walking around in five inch platforms, and psychadelic sports coats, carrying canes.
"Hey, what up young blood?" he asked enthusiastically.
"Not shit, how you doin?" I responded.
"Good, good, good, good, good. Chillin. Shit. Don't I know you man? You look familiar, aint we had you before." I glanced at him in the rear view mirror, but I didn't expect to recognize him.
"Nah man, I don't think so." I've learned not to be overly friendly with the pimps, drug dealers, and hustlers who seem all to eager to befriend a total stranger. Everyone is looking for an angle.
"Yeah maybe not. You new ain't you?" he asked.
"I've been around a little while."
The ambiguous small talk continued like a friendly game of chess until it centered around the oldies station playing in the background.
"I really like your music," the girl said. "Not like all those other guys, listenin to that metal or classical. Seems like that's all you cabbies listen to. And talk radio-oh god."
"Yeah-yeah-shit. Not this cab though. Nah-uh, got this good shit here, boy," he said to clarify that it was a compliment.
"No, your music is great," she said, since it clearly hadn't gotten through the first time. But I did appreciate it. They sang along with The Capitals.
We know a cat who can really do the Cool Jerk
We know a cat who can really do the Cool Jerk
They might have been hoping for a deal on the next ride. Some people always want something for free. Others want to barter with whatever it is they're pushing. Yet, I felt compelled to indulge them anyway. They were friendly, and they made an effort. What more can you ask of people really?
A relevant piece of trivia floated to the surface of my mind and without considering the context I said, "When this song first came out, it was originally called the Pimp Jerk..." I trailed off immediately, as I realized who I was talking to.
There was an awkward silence and the last two words seemed to linger somewhere between me and the backseat. I ignored the thought that I might get stabbed for upsetting a pimp's delicate sensibilities, and recovered the ball.
"You know, when everything was still considered too risque' for radio. The Pimp Jerk was a popular dance around Detroit at the time." Pimps are too cool for regular dancing, you see. It means a lot of movement, and sweating and they aint tryinta hear that shit, Jack. So the pimp jerk requires only the bare minimum of steady, cool jerking movement.
"Motown, hell yeah."
"Right on. Well they named the song after the dance but they couldn't say it on the radio, so they had to change it."
Neither of them seemed to like that. They were quiet as the song played over the noise of the early evening traffic.
"That's bullshit," he said.
"Hell yeah. It's just funny. You can get away with anything now." He laughed in agreement.
"They gonna act like it's a bad word," he said.
"I guess it used to be," I said sarcastically.
Pigtails looked to her pimp. "It never was."
It was not the first time I had a prostitute and her pimp in my car. They aren't as easy to spot as you may believe, at least not in Peoria. We don't have guys walking around in five inch platforms, and psychadelic sports coats, carrying canes.
"Hey, what up young blood?" he asked enthusiastically.
"Not shit, how you doin?" I responded.
"Good, good, good, good, good. Chillin. Shit. Don't I know you man? You look familiar, aint we had you before." I glanced at him in the rear view mirror, but I didn't expect to recognize him.
"Nah man, I don't think so." I've learned not to be overly friendly with the pimps, drug dealers, and hustlers who seem all to eager to befriend a total stranger. Everyone is looking for an angle.
"Yeah maybe not. You new ain't you?" he asked.
"I've been around a little while."
The ambiguous small talk continued like a friendly game of chess until it centered around the oldies station playing in the background.
"I really like your music," the girl said. "Not like all those other guys, listenin to that metal or classical. Seems like that's all you cabbies listen to. And talk radio-oh god."
"Yeah-yeah-shit. Not this cab though. Nah-uh, got this good shit here, boy," he said to clarify that it was a compliment.
"No, your music is great," she said, since it clearly hadn't gotten through the first time. But I did appreciate it. They sang along with The Capitals.
We know a cat who can really do the Cool Jerk
We know a cat who can really do the Cool Jerk
They might have been hoping for a deal on the next ride. Some people always want something for free. Others want to barter with whatever it is they're pushing. Yet, I felt compelled to indulge them anyway. They were friendly, and they made an effort. What more can you ask of people really?
A relevant piece of trivia floated to the surface of my mind and without considering the context I said, "When this song first came out, it was originally called the Pimp Jerk..." I trailed off immediately, as I realized who I was talking to.
There was an awkward silence and the last two words seemed to linger somewhere between me and the backseat. I ignored the thought that I might get stabbed for upsetting a pimp's delicate sensibilities, and recovered the ball.
"You know, when everything was still considered too risque' for radio. The Pimp Jerk was a popular dance around Detroit at the time." Pimps are too cool for regular dancing, you see. It means a lot of movement, and sweating and they aint tryinta hear that shit, Jack. So the pimp jerk requires only the bare minimum of steady, cool jerking movement.
"Motown, hell yeah."
"Right on. Well they named the song after the dance but they couldn't say it on the radio, so they had to change it."
Neither of them seemed to like that. They were quiet as the song played over the noise of the early evening traffic.
"That's bullshit," he said.
"Hell yeah. It's just funny. You can get away with anything now." He laughed in agreement.
"They gonna act like it's a bad word," he said.
"I guess it used to be," I said sarcastically.
Pigtails looked to her pimp. "It never was."
A Place to Visit
There's an element to this work I've neglected to mention. Actually, there's a lot about driving a taxi I haven't gotten to yet in these anecdotes. Maybe it's the job, maybe it's this place...maybe I'll just tell the stories and let you judge for yourself.
There is something funny about Peoria. You can't really put your finger on it, or articulate it...but you can feel it. I heard a rumor that even the Native American inhabitants of the Central Illinois River valley labeled it a place for passing through, not settling. Strange vibes.
Sometimes you pick up on things. Little windows into worlds you've never known. Mostly the customers take you there, to their respective worlds. I've found the key to surviving is adapting to whatever you find there. Strut fearlessly like you're wearing a big fucking shirt that says "Don't hassle me, I'm local." If you believe it, so will they.
No two trips are exactly alike, but some are extra special. Weird shit happens so regularly, I have lost sense of it. It's all weird, and most of the time I don't realize it until I'm remembering what happened.
I picked up a black guy I don't remember well and a muscular white guy with a shaved head and a goatee. He did most of the talking, which is why I remember him and not the black guy...I'm not racist.
"Hey, what's up, my man?"
"Not much. Where you headed?"
"Don't worry about it, just head up to OSF."
"Is that all?" I asked, because I knew it wasn't.
"No, we're picking up a friend," he said. He was direct when he spoke, almost impatient. Like he wasn't completely pissed off yet, but he was on the verge of it all the time.
"Well I need an address."
"Just say OSF. Here's a twenty," he said, handing it to me. "Just get going."
I took the money and we sped a few blocks over to the Hospital. I wasn't worried, but the guy was intimidating. Not in his size, he was ripped, but not huge. Intimidation is in the eyes. One look from him and I knew he was an unstable and probably violent man.
We picked up a petite, short haired nurse and all I could think was "What the fuck is she doing here?"
"Where is it?" he asked. From the moment she got in there was an unspoken sexual struggle going on between the two of them. He acted like her possessive asshole boyfriend but she certainly wasn't his girlfriend. She was timid toward him, politely evasive, yet submissive.
"In the North parking deck."
"North parking deck," he echoed.
"Alright," I said.
There was silence for a brief moment, I was hoping it'd last the duration, I wasn't so lucky.
"We're going to pick up my car," he said proudly.
"Is that right?"
"Yeah, that's right. She parked it right over there for me. In the North parking deck."
"Oh," I said, trying to come up with a proper response. "What kind of car is it?"
"Chevy..." he trailed off looking to her.
"Cavalier. It's a white cavalier on the second level," she said.
I knew he was a criminal and I was starting to think she owed him a lot of money. Maybe for drugs. Maybe for something else.
They directed me around the concrete maze to a white Cavalier and I parked behind it. I gave the total, he told me to keep the twenty and they began piling out of the backseat. The girl was the last to get out and at the last moment I asked "Are you alright?"
"I'll be fine," she said, closing the door. I wanted to help, but as i drove away, part of me was grateful the trip was over. Maybe it's better not to get involved.
There is something funny about Peoria. You can't really put your finger on it, or articulate it...but you can feel it. I heard a rumor that even the Native American inhabitants of the Central Illinois River valley labeled it a place for passing through, not settling. Strange vibes.
Sometimes you pick up on things. Little windows into worlds you've never known. Mostly the customers take you there, to their respective worlds. I've found the key to surviving is adapting to whatever you find there. Strut fearlessly like you're wearing a big fucking shirt that says "Don't hassle me, I'm local." If you believe it, so will they.
No two trips are exactly alike, but some are extra special. Weird shit happens so regularly, I have lost sense of it. It's all weird, and most of the time I don't realize it until I'm remembering what happened.
I picked up a black guy I don't remember well and a muscular white guy with a shaved head and a goatee. He did most of the talking, which is why I remember him and not the black guy...I'm not racist.
"Hey, what's up, my man?"
"Not much. Where you headed?"
"Don't worry about it, just head up to OSF."
"Is that all?" I asked, because I knew it wasn't.
"No, we're picking up a friend," he said. He was direct when he spoke, almost impatient. Like he wasn't completely pissed off yet, but he was on the verge of it all the time.
"Well I need an address."
"Just say OSF. Here's a twenty," he said, handing it to me. "Just get going."
I took the money and we sped a few blocks over to the Hospital. I wasn't worried, but the guy was intimidating. Not in his size, he was ripped, but not huge. Intimidation is in the eyes. One look from him and I knew he was an unstable and probably violent man.
We picked up a petite, short haired nurse and all I could think was "What the fuck is she doing here?"
"Where is it?" he asked. From the moment she got in there was an unspoken sexual struggle going on between the two of them. He acted like her possessive asshole boyfriend but she certainly wasn't his girlfriend. She was timid toward him, politely evasive, yet submissive.
"In the North parking deck."
"North parking deck," he echoed.
"Alright," I said.
There was silence for a brief moment, I was hoping it'd last the duration, I wasn't so lucky.
"We're going to pick up my car," he said proudly.
"Is that right?"
"Yeah, that's right. She parked it right over there for me. In the North parking deck."
"Oh," I said, trying to come up with a proper response. "What kind of car is it?"
"Chevy..." he trailed off looking to her.
"Cavalier. It's a white cavalier on the second level," she said.
I knew he was a criminal and I was starting to think she owed him a lot of money. Maybe for drugs. Maybe for something else.
They directed me around the concrete maze to a white Cavalier and I parked behind it. I gave the total, he told me to keep the twenty and they began piling out of the backseat. The girl was the last to get out and at the last moment I asked "Are you alright?"
"I'll be fine," she said, closing the door. I wanted to help, but as i drove away, part of me was grateful the trip was over. Maybe it's better not to get involved.
Good tunes, good times.
The hours go faster since I invested in an MP3 player. I put as much free music on it as I can in my time off when I'm not sleeping. I only say it that way because that isn't much time at all. So that rotation has been pretty steady lately, with a few songs being added whenever I get a chance.
I feel I've assembled a pretty good list of songs to be played randomly throughout the twelve hour shift. I have ecclectic taste, so I can usually find something the customer can relate to. "Good tunes, man," they say. Yes they are.
How can you not enjoy weaving between cars at high speed with Danny Elfman's Spider-man score blasting all around you? Windows down, wind rushing past, you barely make a yellow about to turn red, changing lanes and whizzing past the timid brake lights of a mini-van just as the song peaks...and it could be Batman or Back to the Future, or Indiana Jones, they all work.
There are other obvious choices like Radar Love, Ruff Ryders Anthem, Wanted Dead or Alive...it's really quite a spectrum. Lots of Beatles and Creedence. Also, a lot of ironically awesome choices thrown in there just to keep people on there toes. There's nothing like blasting Age of Aquarius in downtown Peoria at 3:30 AM with a hundred drunk crazies running around. And then you pick up the one Bradley dude who actually knows that song and loves it, and you get a fat tip. That's how it works.
At first I didn't have an adapter, so I couldn't share the wealth with the customers. But I used headphones when they weren't in the car...cops didn't seem to mind, but it just wasn't working out. So, I bought an adapter with an FM transmitter that plugs into the cigarette lighter. The only problem was none of the lighters functioned in the cabs, so that was money well spent.
Soon enough they started putting me in a cab with a tape deck, I bought a ten dollar piece of plastic and I was in business.
I still have trouble remembering to charge it at the end of the night. It sucks when I run out of juice...the radio now leaves this reporter cold, and empty.
Late one night, after the mp3 player was drained and useless, I had it sitting in the passenger seat when a young Hispanic and his vivacious girlfriend got in the back. Their friend was in a sport jacket and he sat up front, much to my dismay. He was in his late 20's, possibly gay, as white as they come, with a Northern dialect.
"We're going to the Radisson," the guy in the back said firmly.
"The fucking castle," the white guy said, "take us to the fucking castle." Which isn't quite as crazy as it sounds since that hotel does look kind of like a castle. "Is there alcohol?" Clearly, he didn't feel the night was finished.
"No."
"Fuck that. Let's FUCK!" he yelled. By this time I was already well on my way down Martin Luther King despite the non-stop hysterical screaming that was going on beside me.
"Where the fuck are we going? Where's the god damn party cabbie?!"
"I don't know, man."
"What do you mean you-don't-know--man?! This is fucking Peoria! P-Town! Party Town! Do something! Whip your fucking cock out!!"
"What's that noise?" I asked, slowing down. There was a clear clanking noise coming from outside the rear passenger door. They heard it too, so I quickly pulled over and they opened their doors.
At precisely the same moment the guy in the front seat grabbed a black wire hanging outside his door and the girl picked up what was left of the tape deck adapter and they played a short lived, blind game of tug of war, until the wire snapped and they handed me the pieces. I was just happy the player was unharmed.
Despite this minor tragedy, the comments and screaming kept up the rest of the trip. "Oh my god where are you taking us? Where are we going? What time is it? Are you going to kill us? Oh my god, where does this road go?" We pass a sign pointing toward the airport. "Why are we going to the Airport?! Are you fucking deporting us? Are you serious?!"
When we finally reached his hotel, he was kind enough to pay for his ride, the couple's ride to their destination, and a healthy tip...but only after insisting that the couple be allowed to fuck in the backseat. "How much would that cost?" he asked, switching to negotiation mode.
I told him I couldn't put a price tag on something like that, and I won't take any responsibility for what they do. He gave me a wad of money and the couple proceeded to dry hump and make out to appease him. Good times.
I feel I've assembled a pretty good list of songs to be played randomly throughout the twelve hour shift. I have ecclectic taste, so I can usually find something the customer can relate to. "Good tunes, man," they say. Yes they are.
How can you not enjoy weaving between cars at high speed with Danny Elfman's Spider-man score blasting all around you? Windows down, wind rushing past, you barely make a yellow about to turn red, changing lanes and whizzing past the timid brake lights of a mini-van just as the song peaks...and it could be Batman or Back to the Future, or Indiana Jones, they all work.
There are other obvious choices like Radar Love, Ruff Ryders Anthem, Wanted Dead or Alive...it's really quite a spectrum. Lots of Beatles and Creedence. Also, a lot of ironically awesome choices thrown in there just to keep people on there toes. There's nothing like blasting Age of Aquarius in downtown Peoria at 3:30 AM with a hundred drunk crazies running around. And then you pick up the one Bradley dude who actually knows that song and loves it, and you get a fat tip. That's how it works.
At first I didn't have an adapter, so I couldn't share the wealth with the customers. But I used headphones when they weren't in the car...cops didn't seem to mind, but it just wasn't working out. So, I bought an adapter with an FM transmitter that plugs into the cigarette lighter. The only problem was none of the lighters functioned in the cabs, so that was money well spent.
Soon enough they started putting me in a cab with a tape deck, I bought a ten dollar piece of plastic and I was in business.
I still have trouble remembering to charge it at the end of the night. It sucks when I run out of juice...the radio now leaves this reporter cold, and empty.
Late one night, after the mp3 player was drained and useless, I had it sitting in the passenger seat when a young Hispanic and his vivacious girlfriend got in the back. Their friend was in a sport jacket and he sat up front, much to my dismay. He was in his late 20's, possibly gay, as white as they come, with a Northern dialect.
"We're going to the Radisson," the guy in the back said firmly.
"The fucking castle," the white guy said, "take us to the fucking castle." Which isn't quite as crazy as it sounds since that hotel does look kind of like a castle. "Is there alcohol?" Clearly, he didn't feel the night was finished.
"No."
"Fuck that. Let's FUCK!" he yelled. By this time I was already well on my way down Martin Luther King despite the non-stop hysterical screaming that was going on beside me.
"Where the fuck are we going? Where's the god damn party cabbie?!"
"I don't know, man."
"What do you mean you-don't-know--man?! This is fucking Peoria! P-Town! Party Town! Do something! Whip your fucking cock out!!"
"What's that noise?" I asked, slowing down. There was a clear clanking noise coming from outside the rear passenger door. They heard it too, so I quickly pulled over and they opened their doors.
At precisely the same moment the guy in the front seat grabbed a black wire hanging outside his door and the girl picked up what was left of the tape deck adapter and they played a short lived, blind game of tug of war, until the wire snapped and they handed me the pieces. I was just happy the player was unharmed.
Despite this minor tragedy, the comments and screaming kept up the rest of the trip. "Oh my god where are you taking us? Where are we going? What time is it? Are you going to kill us? Oh my god, where does this road go?" We pass a sign pointing toward the airport. "Why are we going to the Airport?! Are you fucking deporting us? Are you serious?!"
When we finally reached his hotel, he was kind enough to pay for his ride, the couple's ride to their destination, and a healthy tip...but only after insisting that the couple be allowed to fuck in the backseat. "How much would that cost?" he asked, switching to negotiation mode.
I told him I couldn't put a price tag on something like that, and I won't take any responsibility for what they do. He gave me a wad of money and the couple proceeded to dry hump and make out to appease him. Good times.
"Excuse me" is the word.
I walked into Walmart on University, the worst Walmart in the city, trying to use the restroom once again. I walked right in, looked to my right (where the restrooms are typically located near the front and center of the store) and saw nothing helpful. There were two employees standing near the entrance talking.
"Hey," I said loud enough that they could hear me, "where's the restroom?"
One of them pointed dispassionately toward the left corner, past customer service. I could tell she was upset that I'd interrupted the conversation. But there's time to be polite after I know where to take a piss.
"Excuse me is the word," she said with a tone of indignation.
"Actually, it's two words, and you're on the clock so shut the fuck up."
"Hey," I said loud enough that they could hear me, "where's the restroom?"
One of them pointed dispassionately toward the left corner, past customer service. I could tell she was upset that I'd interrupted the conversation. But there's time to be polite after I know where to take a piss.
"Excuse me is the word," she said with a tone of indignation.
"Actually, it's two words, and you're on the clock so shut the fuck up."
Driver's Mentality
Someone tole me a story once and it seems relevant to cab driving. No one involved drives a taxi, and this story didn't happen behind the wheel.
Two friends had a mini BBQ going in the bed of their pick-up at a college tailgating party. They overloaded the coals with lighter fluid and before long it was a blazing inferno. The flames were too high to get a grip on the handles without melting your face off. The grill was pushed back far enough on the truck that you couldn't reach it with any hope of picking it up from your feet without tipping it over. Lifting it from inside the bed put you in an awkward squatting position, directly over the fire.
Out of nowhere this third guy walks past my friends to the truck. He bent forward and grabbed the foot of the grill and slid it carefully about eight inches toward him. He then picked it up by the handles, lit his cigarette in the flames and set the grill on the pavement. "You boys wanna go to the titty bar?" he asked taking a drag.
He could have been a cab driver. Not because of the titty bar thing, or not just because of that. There's something about that mentality: you see a problem or obstruction and you act quickly with what you feel is the best course of action. No questioning yourself, or distracting fears. Confidence is key, or you'll get burned.
I've heard a lot of negative bullshit about drivers, but the most common criticism I hear acts as a fair summary for all of it...as it was once uttered by a pizza cook in a downtown bar: "Cab drivers are driving cabs because they can't do anything else." We are regarded as the bottom of the barrel. As Morgan Freeman once said "garbage men of the human condition." I don't know if it applies to us, but I like the way it sounds.
There are drivers who have earned the seedy reputation, but they are a minority. Most of the drivers I know, the good ones, could be doing a lot of other things but they choose to keep driving for one reason or another.
Ironically, I find the opposite to be closer to the truth. The guys who stick around do so because they're one of the few people who can handle it. Most new night drivers don't last two months. It's not that it's a hard job exactly, but not everyone can do it, and most wouldn't want to.
Two friends had a mini BBQ going in the bed of their pick-up at a college tailgating party. They overloaded the coals with lighter fluid and before long it was a blazing inferno. The flames were too high to get a grip on the handles without melting your face off. The grill was pushed back far enough on the truck that you couldn't reach it with any hope of picking it up from your feet without tipping it over. Lifting it from inside the bed put you in an awkward squatting position, directly over the fire.
Out of nowhere this third guy walks past my friends to the truck. He bent forward and grabbed the foot of the grill and slid it carefully about eight inches toward him. He then picked it up by the handles, lit his cigarette in the flames and set the grill on the pavement. "You boys wanna go to the titty bar?" he asked taking a drag.
He could have been a cab driver. Not because of the titty bar thing, or not just because of that. There's something about that mentality: you see a problem or obstruction and you act quickly with what you feel is the best course of action. No questioning yourself, or distracting fears. Confidence is key, or you'll get burned.
I've heard a lot of negative bullshit about drivers, but the most common criticism I hear acts as a fair summary for all of it...as it was once uttered by a pizza cook in a downtown bar: "Cab drivers are driving cabs because they can't do anything else." We are regarded as the bottom of the barrel. As Morgan Freeman once said "garbage men of the human condition." I don't know if it applies to us, but I like the way it sounds.
There are drivers who have earned the seedy reputation, but they are a minority. Most of the drivers I know, the good ones, could be doing a lot of other things but they choose to keep driving for one reason or another.
Ironically, I find the opposite to be closer to the truth. The guys who stick around do so because they're one of the few people who can handle it. Most new night drivers don't last two months. It's not that it's a hard job exactly, but not everyone can do it, and most wouldn't want to.
The Magnificent Seven
The shifts are twelve hours. I go in at six pm and get off at 6 am five nights a week. We go in, pick up our keys, trip sheet, and envelope and hit the road.
There are usually a few other drivers standing around when I walk in. Day shift guys dropping the cars off, paying out at the end of their shift, and night drivers smoking cigarettes waiting patiently for their cars to arrive. There isn't much conversation. "How ya doin" and "have a good one," is all you really need. Sometimes we trade stories and joke around. For the most part I save my breath for the customers. twelve hours of even minimal polite conversation can take a toll.
I know which of the Crown Vics I have that night from the names and numbers written in large print on the dry erase board. I find my keys hanging from one of the hooks on the wall and walk out the door.
The engine roars to a start, I put it in reverse, back through the bottle neck end of the parking lot lined by a steel framed body shop and a six foot chain link fence.
Once I have space to straighten out, I park it, fill out my trip sheet, arrange my stuff (beverage, cigarettes, pens, etc). I hold the trigger on the black mic and say "3 is rolling zeros."
There are usually a few other drivers standing around when I walk in. Day shift guys dropping the cars off, paying out at the end of their shift, and night drivers smoking cigarettes waiting patiently for their cars to arrive. There isn't much conversation. "How ya doin" and "have a good one," is all you really need. Sometimes we trade stories and joke around. For the most part I save my breath for the customers. twelve hours of even minimal polite conversation can take a toll.
I know which of the Crown Vics I have that night from the names and numbers written in large print on the dry erase board. I find my keys hanging from one of the hooks on the wall and walk out the door.
The engine roars to a start, I put it in reverse, back through the bottle neck end of the parking lot lined by a steel framed body shop and a six foot chain link fence.
Once I have space to straighten out, I park it, fill out my trip sheet, arrange my stuff (beverage, cigarettes, pens, etc). I hold the trigger on the black mic and say "3 is rolling zeros."
Trespassing.
I picked up the BP Station on Knoxville around 3:30 AM. Two hood rats, one white, one black, climbed in the back and gave me an address on Humboldt. That’s on the South End, at least three miles from our starting point and into a dangerous neighborhood. On the bright side, the trip was going to run over ten dollars.
“Alright,” I said.
The girls were young, somewhere between sixteen and eighteen I’d guess. They had the standard ultra-greased, super shiny hair, pulled back tight into pony tails. They were both clad in the standard oversized t-shirts. I never got names because they didn’t talk much and it soon became apparent they were drunk and disoriented.
The white girl seemed to be the drunker of the two; she spent most of the ride leaning out the window in case she needed to throw up, but that never came to pass. We found the street relatively quickly and without incident.
Instead of turning down it, the black girl told me to drive down a block to Latrobe so they could go through the back door.
“Alright,” I said.
I stopped the car in front of a small white house, as they instructed, and the black girl told me they had to go get the money from their friend and she’d bring it back out.
“Alright,” I said.
I watched as she helped her eye-brow ringed friend along the fence line of an all dirt front yard, and disappear into the shadows beside the house.
Ten minutes later I knew there was little chance I’d ever see them again. I was still very new at that point; I hadn’t even bothered to ask for ID or any sort of collateral. They were too young to make me overly suspicious and maybe it was just too early in the damn morning.
Still, for some reason, I decided to knock on the door of the house they appeared to stumble toward. I followed a path of large cement tiles that cut the dirt yard in half from the sidewalk to the porch.
After a few aggressive knocks an older black man walked out to greet me with a steel plated pistol in his right hand.
“Who the hell are you,” he asked. He reminded me a lot of Chappelle’s character Leonard Washington, he looked like him, he talked like him, and so for the purposes of this story, this guy is also called Leonard.
I took a step back. “I’m a fucking cab driver, man,” I said, gesturing to the cab parked in the street.
Leonard grimaced and squinted at me. “You see that?” he asked, pointing to a US Marine Corps bumper sticker above the door, in the middle of the frame. His eyes got wide, and he wrapped his lips around the words “That’s what the fuck I am.” He gestured wildly toward the street as if it were imaginary, “The fuck is that?”
“That’s my cab…I’m just the driver, I don’t want any trouble.”
“I didn’t call you. Gimme your cigarette,” Leonard said, taking the cigarette out of my mouth.
“I know, I just dropped two girls off here and they haven’t paid me.”
“Not at this house,” Leonard insisted.
“Well I must be mistaken then.”
“Yeah, you must be mistaken.”
“They probably ran through your yard.”
“Crackheads.”
“Yeah.”
Leonard got pretty friendly after that. He was still holding the gun, but we shared a high five and he told me I could be on my way.
"Can I have my cigarette back?" I asked.
"Fuck naw. You trespassing," he said and turned to go back inside. His ten year old son was begging him to come back in (and not shoot me) and I could see his round wife calling him from the living room floor. "Stay on the path when you walkin outta here," he continued. "Booby traps."
“Alright,” I said.
The girls were young, somewhere between sixteen and eighteen I’d guess. They had the standard ultra-greased, super shiny hair, pulled back tight into pony tails. They were both clad in the standard oversized t-shirts. I never got names because they didn’t talk much and it soon became apparent they were drunk and disoriented.
The white girl seemed to be the drunker of the two; she spent most of the ride leaning out the window in case she needed to throw up, but that never came to pass. We found the street relatively quickly and without incident.
Instead of turning down it, the black girl told me to drive down a block to Latrobe so they could go through the back door.
“Alright,” I said.
I stopped the car in front of a small white house, as they instructed, and the black girl told me they had to go get the money from their friend and she’d bring it back out.
“Alright,” I said.
I watched as she helped her eye-brow ringed friend along the fence line of an all dirt front yard, and disappear into the shadows beside the house.
Ten minutes later I knew there was little chance I’d ever see them again. I was still very new at that point; I hadn’t even bothered to ask for ID or any sort of collateral. They were too young to make me overly suspicious and maybe it was just too early in the damn morning.
Still, for some reason, I decided to knock on the door of the house they appeared to stumble toward. I followed a path of large cement tiles that cut the dirt yard in half from the sidewalk to the porch.
After a few aggressive knocks an older black man walked out to greet me with a steel plated pistol in his right hand.
“Who the hell are you,” he asked. He reminded me a lot of Chappelle’s character Leonard Washington, he looked like him, he talked like him, and so for the purposes of this story, this guy is also called Leonard.
I took a step back. “I’m a fucking cab driver, man,” I said, gesturing to the cab parked in the street.
Leonard grimaced and squinted at me. “You see that?” he asked, pointing to a US Marine Corps bumper sticker above the door, in the middle of the frame. His eyes got wide, and he wrapped his lips around the words “That’s what the fuck I am.” He gestured wildly toward the street as if it were imaginary, “The fuck is that?”
“That’s my cab…I’m just the driver, I don’t want any trouble.”
“I didn’t call you. Gimme your cigarette,” Leonard said, taking the cigarette out of my mouth.
“I know, I just dropped two girls off here and they haven’t paid me.”
“Not at this house,” Leonard insisted.
“Well I must be mistaken then.”
“Yeah, you must be mistaken.”
“They probably ran through your yard.”
“Crackheads.”
“Yeah.”
Leonard got pretty friendly after that. He was still holding the gun, but we shared a high five and he told me I could be on my way.
"Can I have my cigarette back?" I asked.
"Fuck naw. You trespassing," he said and turned to go back inside. His ten year old son was begging him to come back in (and not shoot me) and I could see his round wife calling him from the living room floor. "Stay on the path when you walkin outta here," he continued. "Booby traps."
Free Falling.
I had a girl up in Chicago three months ago. Flaming red hair, and big lips that curled up around a big laughing smile. That's how I thought of her, even when she was crying...raindrops, sizzling and popping in the campfire. It doesn't matter why it ended, it did, and it was my fault.
I left the city about four hours after it happened. It only took an hour to gather my things...mostly t-shirts, jeans, books, dvds, and other essentials. The ticket was easy to book online, and not as expensive as I'd expected for the last minute. Then it was forty-five minutes on the Red Line, twenty on the Purple Line, and a few long blocks of walking to Union Station.
It was freezing, the wind never failed to live up to its reputation, pushing me the entire way. Dragging my gear down the street, standing on the platform, waiting, shivering, fingers going numb...I deserve it, I thought. As the train slowed, paused, sped up, stopped, and crept down the line I realized there was a very real possibility I would miss my train out of the city. I wished for a distraction...conversation...nothing.
Couples on the train mocked my singularity and I thought about sharing the headphones plugged into an mp3 player, the tiny kind that are supposed to stick in your ear, but are like Teflon without the foam covers, so every time one head would move, the other's speaker came flying out...
No music until I reached Union Station, and even then, I knew I was too late as Tom Petty's "Free Falling" played from somewhere. Maybe only my head...and I'm a bad boy, cause I don't even miss her...I'm a bad boy for breaking her heart...
I was able to convince the man behind the counter to exchange my ticket for one on the next train to Champaign at no further cost. There's no direct line to Peoria, that would make too much sense.
That's how I ended up at Steak n Shake in Champaign Illinois at 3:30 AM on a Monday. No ride back to Peoria. Panic hadn't set in, I'd already started to numb to the uncertainty surrounding my future and perhaps my very survival. These things have a way of working themselves out.
I was smoking a cigarette, reading Hell's Angels...since you could still smoke, read, and drink coffee legally in a public place at the time...
"Have you read On the Campaign Trail '72?" a slender old man asked me from his booth across the aisle.
I had read it, in fact, it is one of my favorite books of all time. We consolidated space and struck up a conversation. Names didn't come up for some time, but when they did he introduced himself as Reginald Cadberry the Third, I shit you not. He was pale and boney, cloudy eyes behind a white beard and matching long hair.
We talked for nearly an hour that day. He was an old traveling mystic, a true eccentric, road maps and potholes tattooed in the whites of his eyes and the wrinkles leading away in every direction, forever. He was a liberal, I liked him and he talked about like you'd expect a survivalist hippie to.
We shared an interest in the supernatural and all things out of the ordinary, and the conversation went that direction. Reginald's experiences stood in sharp contrast to my own, in that he'd actually had them. I'm no skeptic, but I've never seen any definitive proof of ghosts or anything beyond this world.
I had my ideas, but Reg knew. He claimed he could see and communicate with certain inter-dimensional beings. Most people would regard someone like Reggie as a bum or a psycho, but after sitting down with him, and listening to his stories, I know better.
Everything he told me was true, and he told me quite a bit more as time went on, but the most important thing he said to me that night in Champaign was just before I was ready to leave. I told him I didn't know how I was going to get anywhere, and that I might be in trouble.
"No way man, you're protected. For the next..." he seemed to focus on something out in the distance, well beyond my scope, "three years at least. It gets murky after that, not bad...I just can't see past that. Use your skills," he told me, "you'll know what to do."
People ask me how I can drive a taxi. It's a dangerous job, no doubt about it. I see weapons, drugs, prostitution, and god knows what else every single night I'm behind the wheel. Drunk drivers, idiots on cell phones, deer, all just dying for a head on collision with my cab...me worry? Never. I'm protected.
I left the city about four hours after it happened. It only took an hour to gather my things...mostly t-shirts, jeans, books, dvds, and other essentials. The ticket was easy to book online, and not as expensive as I'd expected for the last minute. Then it was forty-five minutes on the Red Line, twenty on the Purple Line, and a few long blocks of walking to Union Station.
It was freezing, the wind never failed to live up to its reputation, pushing me the entire way. Dragging my gear down the street, standing on the platform, waiting, shivering, fingers going numb...I deserve it, I thought. As the train slowed, paused, sped up, stopped, and crept down the line I realized there was a very real possibility I would miss my train out of the city. I wished for a distraction...conversation...nothing.
Couples on the train mocked my singularity and I thought about sharing the headphones plugged into an mp3 player, the tiny kind that are supposed to stick in your ear, but are like Teflon without the foam covers, so every time one head would move, the other's speaker came flying out...
No music until I reached Union Station, and even then, I knew I was too late as Tom Petty's "Free Falling" played from somewhere. Maybe only my head...and I'm a bad boy, cause I don't even miss her...I'm a bad boy for breaking her heart...
I was able to convince the man behind the counter to exchange my ticket for one on the next train to Champaign at no further cost. There's no direct line to Peoria, that would make too much sense.
That's how I ended up at Steak n Shake in Champaign Illinois at 3:30 AM on a Monday. No ride back to Peoria. Panic hadn't set in, I'd already started to numb to the uncertainty surrounding my future and perhaps my very survival. These things have a way of working themselves out.
I was smoking a cigarette, reading Hell's Angels...since you could still smoke, read, and drink coffee legally in a public place at the time...
"Have you read On the Campaign Trail '72?" a slender old man asked me from his booth across the aisle.
I had read it, in fact, it is one of my favorite books of all time. We consolidated space and struck up a conversation. Names didn't come up for some time, but when they did he introduced himself as Reginald Cadberry the Third, I shit you not. He was pale and boney, cloudy eyes behind a white beard and matching long hair.
We talked for nearly an hour that day. He was an old traveling mystic, a true eccentric, road maps and potholes tattooed in the whites of his eyes and the wrinkles leading away in every direction, forever. He was a liberal, I liked him and he talked about like you'd expect a survivalist hippie to.
We shared an interest in the supernatural and all things out of the ordinary, and the conversation went that direction. Reginald's experiences stood in sharp contrast to my own, in that he'd actually had them. I'm no skeptic, but I've never seen any definitive proof of ghosts or anything beyond this world.
I had my ideas, but Reg knew. He claimed he could see and communicate with certain inter-dimensional beings. Most people would regard someone like Reggie as a bum or a psycho, but after sitting down with him, and listening to his stories, I know better.
Everything he told me was true, and he told me quite a bit more as time went on, but the most important thing he said to me that night in Champaign was just before I was ready to leave. I told him I didn't know how I was going to get anywhere, and that I might be in trouble.
"No way man, you're protected. For the next..." he seemed to focus on something out in the distance, well beyond my scope, "three years at least. It gets murky after that, not bad...I just can't see past that. Use your skills," he told me, "you'll know what to do."
People ask me how I can drive a taxi. It's a dangerous job, no doubt about it. I see weapons, drugs, prostitution, and god knows what else every single night I'm behind the wheel. Drunk drivers, idiots on cell phones, deer, all just dying for a head on collision with my cab...me worry? Never. I'm protected.
Stepping out to use it.
"Stepping out at the Freedom to use it," I said into the microphone. The restroom in the Freedom Station next to Club Cabaret is among the grimiest holes I've ever pissed in. I involuntarily take a whiff and expect to find a load in the toilet. Strippers have been fucked here, I think.
There's a small bump of cocaine on the soiled edge of the bowl, in the center, between the round ends of the toilet seat. It's right next to a pubic hair. I wondered how long it'd been there. Did they drop some, or was this a cruel test? How long could it last?
I look to my left at the picture hanging from the wall. There's a landscape featuring a large white barn, concealing a farm house backed by tall, thin evergreens dotting the Great Smokey Mountains. The corn in the foreground is harvested, half stalks bend to the weight of the frost, and the mist smells like Winter.
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Walked into CVS with a fare who was picking up a six pack to go with his Nascar jacket. The big haired woman standing behind the counter belonged in a Hallmark store.
"Where are your restrooms?" I asked. This CVS was noticeably larger than several I'd been to and used toilets in.
"We don't have one," she said firmly, which I knew wasn't true. I looked at her like she was speaking in a foreign tongue for another moment before she told me Big Lots had one next door.
"How generous of them, thank you," I said, walking out the door.
There's a small bump of cocaine on the soiled edge of the bowl, in the center, between the round ends of the toilet seat. It's right next to a pubic hair. I wondered how long it'd been there. Did they drop some, or was this a cruel test? How long could it last?
I look to my left at the picture hanging from the wall. There's a landscape featuring a large white barn, concealing a farm house backed by tall, thin evergreens dotting the Great Smokey Mountains. The corn in the foreground is harvested, half stalks bend to the weight of the frost, and the mist smells like Winter.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Walked into CVS with a fare who was picking up a six pack to go with his Nascar jacket. The big haired woman standing behind the counter belonged in a Hallmark store.
"Where are your restrooms?" I asked. This CVS was noticeably larger than several I'd been to and used toilets in.
"We don't have one," she said firmly, which I knew wasn't true. I looked at her like she was speaking in a foreign tongue for another moment before she told me Big Lots had one next door.
"How generous of them, thank you," I said, walking out the door.
Going Nowhere.
I was sitting in the cab, downtown in front of the Hotel Pere Marquette. There are three parking spots there on Main Street that we're supposed to occupy when we're free...if they aren't already taken by three of the dozen other cabs downtown.
A haggard blond sort of fell into the back seat and took a few minutes to decide where she wanted to go. Her eyes were glossy, and distant...her face tough. There was a bit of padding beneath her gray sweatshirt, but she wasn't exactly fat.
"You got money?" I asked.
"Yeah, I got money...just have to see how much," she said, gaining limited composure.
It looked like nine dollars. Not enough to reach her first stated destination in East Peoria. I didn't think it would be enough to get her near Northwoods Mall either.
"No," Grant cracked in over the mic.
"Well, you heard him. Grant's the man."
After a two minute delay, she got out and tried Jay's cab, parked directly in front of mine. We're with the same company so he heard the entire conversation over the radio. Immediately after she sat down, he opened the door for her and she was back on the street.
A haggard blond sort of fell into the back seat and took a few minutes to decide where she wanted to go. Her eyes were glossy, and distant...her face tough. There was a bit of padding beneath her gray sweatshirt, but she wasn't exactly fat.
"You got money?" I asked.
"Yeah, I got money...just have to see how much," she said, gaining limited composure.
It looked like nine dollars. Not enough to reach her first stated destination in East Peoria. I didn't think it would be enough to get her near Northwoods Mall either.
"No," Grant cracked in over the mic.
"Well, you heard him. Grant's the man."
After a two minute delay, she got out and tried Jay's cab, parked directly in front of mine. We're with the same company so he heard the entire conversation over the radio. Immediately after she sat down, he opened the door for her and she was back on the street.
False Flag.
I was driving up North St, on my way to make a pick-up when a skinny black kid in a dark, puffy, winter coat tried to wave me down. He couldn't have been much older than thirteen. I slowed to about twenty but motioned that I had to continue on my current course.
"Sorry," I lipped, before he lost his straight face and wide, desperate eyes. He laughed with the five or six girls of various sizes standing around him. He never really needed a cab, but I wasn't really sorry.
"Sorry," I lipped, before he lost his straight face and wide, desperate eyes. He laughed with the five or six girls of various sizes standing around him. He never really needed a cab, but I wasn't really sorry.
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