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.
