Thursday Afternoon
-by Alex Farr

    It's a funny thing, driving a cab.  You do it, but you don't think about it.  You're better off if you don't think about it too much.  But people keep asking... "I bet you've got a lot of stories...".

    Well, not at first I didn't.  I drive in Oakland, CA.  The dayshift is largely old ladies... going to the beauty shops, and the doctor's offices... but there're plenty of lunatics that slip through... Yeah, I guess I've collected some stories over the years.  But, is it anything that the public wants to hear?  It's not usually Hollywood style happy endings... It's usually gritty bits of weirdness... and if people really enjoyed that sort of stuff, then we'd all be down in the trenches, rolling along the avenues in cabs, risking our lives in search of amusing anecdotes... despite the fact that any city police force's Intro. Course for a new cab driver points out that it is the most dangerous job in the country.  Period.  More dangerous than being a cop, or a fireman, or even a fucking 7-11 night manager.  It is the most dangerous job in the country.

    That's not to say it doesn't have its share of amusements.
 
 
    It was a while back, I was working around Pill Hill and I got a call to pick someone up in the back of Easter Seals.  As I pulled into the cramped parking lot a white woman in her fifties fought her way to her feet, and limped over to the cab with the exaggerated limp of a B-movie Frankenstein.  Then again, a lot of the old women around this town limp like B-movie Frankensteins... so I didn't think too much about it.

    Once she'd climbed into the cab, it was hard to ignore the overwhelming smell of cat piss though.  I lit a cigarette, and fought valiantly.  If she had a problem with me smoking... well then she could just get the hell out of the cab, and take her cat piss with her...

    Instead, she leaned into me and asked "Oh, dear... can I bum one of those from you?..."

    Now, ordinarily, I try to avoid giving out free cigarettes to anyone who isn't A) very good looking, or B) going so long a way that a quarter for a cigarette for them isn't a big deal.  But, in this case, I was willing to make an exception.  I figured- the more smoke in the cab, the better.

    "Ohh, you're such a dear.  And, I really mean that.  I'm not just blowing smoke up your ass... I mean, not literally, or figuratively I guess... or, ahh Fuck, I don't know.  You know what I mean."

    I just nodded, and clicked on the meter.  "So, where to?"

    "Ahh shit, is it alright with you if I just sit her for a second and smoke? Would that be alright?  My hip's just so fucked up, pardon my French, ahh Christ, it's fucking killing me.  And I just ran out of cigarettes, and ever since my truck died, I haven't been able to get up to Rockridge to find anymore..."

    "You know, they're usually cheaper at gas stations, even, than they are at Safeway..." I muttered.  I couldn't help it, I was just plain offended by the prices the supermarkets charge for their cigarettes... and ever since I had an Lucky's manager explain to me why they don't give out matches either... "Well, we don't give you a free mug when you buy beer... why would we give you free matches when you buy cigarettes?..." he'd explained.  I don't know whether the guy behind me, or I, wanted to punch the putz in the face more.  Lucky's has too many security cameras though, so we both just leered at him, and prayed fervently that he'd die from emphysema due to exposure to bus fumes...

    Anyway, I really liked to suggest people buy their cigarettes elsewhere, whenever possible.

    "Safeway?!" she suddenly asked though, turning to stare at me like I was crazy. "You think I can afford to buy cigarettes at Safeway?!"

    I just shrugged.  Christ, I sure hoped so.  If she couldn't afford to buy cigarettes at Safeway, how the fuck was she planning on paying me?... "What, you go to Thrifty?..." I asked, eventually.

    It was still a Thrifty back then.  I think.

    "At the beginning of the month, yeah.  Sometimes.  The rest of the time I just go cruise the parking lot looking for butts that're only half smoked.  You'd be amazed what people throw away!  Christ, they must all be living on easy street!..."

    I... just nodded.

    "You know what the best way to do it is?..." she asked me, as she took another greedy drag, "You go on a weekend.  People all throw away more butts on weekends.  Like it's some sort of fucking indulgence..."

    I just nodded.  I nodded, and I waited patiently for the supporting arguments.  A bad habit left over from my University education, I suppose... judging by the fact that she didn't feel that any further supporting examples were necessary to illustrate her point. 

    "Ok..." I finally said, "I'll... remember that..."

    And I just sat patiently, rolling down all the windows, and watching the meter run.

    "Ok kid," she finally said, "I need to get some food for the wuppies."

    "Wuppies?..."

    "The wuppies.  The animals.  You know, wuppies..."

    I just nodded again.  I took a deep breath, trying to gauge how many more cigarettes I could smoke in a row before my sinuses started to swell and throb.  I just had a feeling it was gonna be that kind of run...

    "Here you go kid," she said suddenly, handing me a $20.  "I need to go to that pet food store on Broadway.  The one that gives out shot medication too..."

    "The one by the Vet over there?..." I asked.

    "How many others are there?..."

    "I'm not quite sure," I answered calmly, "I haven't got any... wuppies."

    It was the right place, and I took her.  I waited patiently as she limped into the store.  I waited patiently as she shopped, and even helped her load the bags of dog food, and cat food, and kitty litter, and the little baggie of pet drugs and syringes.

    "The wuppies need their shots..." she explained...

    "Ok... So, where next?"

    "I need some cigarettes.  I been rolling Top in newspaper for the last week and a half, kid... I think I deserve a break... So, take me to that gas station on Piedmont and MacArthur..."

    I just nodded, and drove.

    "Ok," she said, handing me a $20, "get me a pack of GPC menthols, and get something for yourself..."

    "GPC menthols, and Camels... no problem."

    "GPC menthol 100s.  You get more cigarette that way..."

    "Well," I answered, having tried that trick once or twice before myself, "Most of the extra length is filter..."

    "No, it's longer..."

    I just stared for a second.  She seemed to genuinely believe it though... and she was buying me a pack, so who was I to give enough of a shit to argue?...

    The next stop was to go back up to Rockridge so she could do some shopping.  I just shrugged, and backtracked us back up to the supermarket, and waited.  I smoked the cigarettes that she'd bought me, and I read whatever book I had with me at the time.

    "Ok, kiddo," she said, about an hour later, as we loaded her groceries into the car, "Now back to Walgreen's.  They've got Pepsi on sale for 79 cents a 2-liter bottle."

    I just stared at her for a moment.  I couldn't help wondering if she realized that cab fare to get to Walgreen's would more than offset any savings that such a half-assed sale would confer, unless she was willing to buy about 300 liters of Pepsi.  I just shrugged though.  It was her money... I was just here to drive, and take it away from her.

    What did I care if she'd have to go scrounging parking lots for smokes later in the month...

    So I drove us the 10 blocks out to Walgreen's and sat and did some more reading while she shopped some more.

    I smoked, and I read, and I got up and paced a bit, and then I sat back down and stared at the girls that walked by, and then I read some more.  After a while, waiting and reading gets to be a drag though.  I get impatient, anxious for some of the action that cab driving can bring.  Of course, seeing that the meter was up around $60 makes it all better... it reminds me that sitting and smoking and reading and bringing in $20 an hour to do it really ain't a bad way to make a living.

    Once she got back and we'd loaded her groceries though, things got really strange.

    "I'm hungry.  You hungry kid?"  she asked me.

    "Uhh, maybe a little..."  I answered.  It wasn't like I was doing any hard labor that required any nutritional fortification... but then again, a 99 cent burger really isn't much food to last a man through a 12 hour shift, even if he's just driving.

    "Why don't we go get a burger."

    "Uhh... Jack in the Box?, McDonald's...?" I asked, running through the extended list of minimum wage foodstuffs nearby.

    "Make it Jack in the Box... They've got all those wonderful options.  Wait, they've got tacos!  I want some tacos!"

    I just nodded some more.  I'd lived in Mexico  And I've spend a lot of time in East Oakland, in the Fruitvale District, where the taco trucks are more plenteous than the liquor stores... getting this excited about Jack in the Box tacos was unnerving me.

    I'm a cab driver though.  I'd seen worse, I reminded myself... and so I cowboyed-up and drove.

    "The one at 45^th, I assume."  I said.  It was six blocks away.  It didn't really occur to me she might say no...

    "What?, are you kidding?!"

    "Uhh... you don't want the one at 45^th?"

    "Hell no!  Go to a burger place in Oakland?!  No fucking way!  I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm white."

    I just nodded.  "Uhh, so am I.  Mostly."

    "Well, you shouldn't be going to restaurants in Oakland either then."

    "Why... not?"

    "Are you kidding me?  Because they'll spit in your food.  Don't tell me you didn't know that!  Christ are you naive!..."

    "Uhh, well, yeah... maybe... I mean, if you piss 'em off enough.  But, if you're just ordering some food, no special order or nothing, but just ordering some run of the mill food... well, shit, they can't spit in it all.  They'd run out of spit.  Before the end of their first day."

    I hate to admit it, but I know it's true.  I worked in a McDonald's myself once upon a time.  Not in Oakland, but hell, everyone subjected to one of those jobs is liable to show up in the papers as the guy or girl who snapped and went on a killing spree.  The biggest reason it doesn't happen more often is that McDonald's doesn't pay enough to afford a gun.

    And most of the employees aren't 18 yet.

    "Jesus Christ, you are naive!"  she sputtered as I tried to explain the basic biological limitations of her theory.  "They don't have to spit in everyone's food!  Christ, you think they're gonna spit in another nigger's food?!"

    I just stared at her as she gave me a moment to digest her new nugget of information.

    Aside from my objections to her resorting to racial epithets... I prefer to call an annoying black man an asshole... unless, of course, the dumbshit has just called me a niggah 8 - 10 times in the course of one run-on sentence... but I was tired that day, and he'd just been calling me niggah over and over, and, well, I guess it just got stuck in my mind... and he was just so ignorant... but, Christ did he get pissed off when I used his word...

    Anyway, the biggest objection I had to her reasoning was the simple fact that I ate at the one at 45^th 3 days a week, and I happened to know that the cooks were Mexican.

    "Uhh, the cooks on 45^th are Mexican..." I tried to explain.

    "No, they're not."

    I just stared at her for another moment.  "Yes, they are."

    "Jesus Christ, you really are young!  I didn't think anybody was that naive anymore..."

    I just stared, watching as she lit another of her 100s.  I'd just been into that Jack in the Box a couple of hours earlier.  I'd overheard the cooks speaking Spanish...

    I didn't waste my breath though.  A little while in this job had built me up a thick skin when it comes to racism.  It'd even gotten to the point where I didn't usually bother with the ignorant sons of bitches who'd bitch about the I-ranians to me... not realizing that my father's side of the family still lives in Tehran.  I just don't usually have the energy to spare to tell them off.  Although, when I do have the energy, it's always amusing to throw out that I'm Iranian to some mother fucker, and then listen to them squirm and back pedal and try to tell me it isn't so much the Iranians as the... Indians, or Nigerians, or whatever... that they were talking about.

    "So, what?..."  I asked her,  "you wanna pay to drive out to Hercules and have some white kid cook you up your frozen, deep fried tacos?..."

    I couldn't help hoping she'd say yes.  I'd worked fast food in Livermore.  Hercules would be about the same... and I knew that the white kids out in the suburbs, the ones who worked fast food, were most likely past racism... We were all about equal opportunity when it came to spitting in people's food.

    I just wanted more of her money.

    "Hell no, I can't afford that!  Take me to the one in Berkeley."

    I thought that one over for a few seconds.  "What?, the one on San Pablo and Allston?"

    I happened to know that one well, it was across the street from my favorite mechanic's shop.

    "What?, no dear.  The one on Telegraph.  Christ, you haven't been driving very long, have you?"

    There was just one little problem with that.  "Uhh, the one at Alcatraz?  That's actually Oakland."

    "Like hell it is.  That's Berkeley.  I been around this town for 20 years, I think I know..."

    I just smirked.  Nobody pays any attention to the details, like the fact that the address followed the Oakland system.  But that was just a technicality... and besides, she wasn't one to listen to logic, reason, or anything else that didn't conform to what she "knew".

    "Ok, if you say it's Berkeley, then it's Berkeley." I said, and I drove.

    "Christ, you are stubborn, aren't you?"  she muttered.

    "And naive."  I added.  "Don't forget naive."

    "Don't you worry, kid.  We'll get you some tacos.  You'll be alright..."

    By the time we got there I'd abandoned any idea of getting a Jumbo Jack with cheese.  If these kids were gonna spit on anyone's food, it was gonna be this annoying crippled old white woman's.  I got a couple of tacos, figuring they could spit on 'em all they wanted, the deep fry would take care of it.

    "Ok, where to now?"  I asked, once we were through the drive-thru.

    "Well, now we park so we can eat."

    I'd been picturing driving her back to her house so she could eat in the company of all those cats that seemed to enjoy pissing on her so much.  I'd been rather looking forward to it actually.  The meter was pushing $75... and still climbing.  I didn't mind it climbing, but I wasn't sure $20 an hour was worth it to have a leisurely drive-thru meal with this old broad and her cat piss.

    Then I remembered something- eating tacos while driving can be a messy business.  And Jack in the Box tacos aren't the sort of thing it's advisable to keep in the car for an hour or two, and then take home and microwave...

    So I swung the cab around and parked in Jack's parking lot.

    "You know, I'm so glad you picked me up."  she began, lighting a cigarette, laying it in the ashtray, and then pulling out her first taco.

    "It's so rare that I can talk to an actual human being.  I love the wuppies..."  and she took a bite, and went right on talking, little bits of Jack's taco lettuce trying their damnedest to shimmy their way out the corners of her mouth.  "... the wuppies are just so adorable, I don't know what I'd do without them... but real conversation with an actual human being... I don't know how long it's been... those niggers around where I live, they're just not human, they're so ignorant, it's just amazing... I mean, I can hardly believe it... and you know, that's just the way they want it.  Those assholes in the government are doing it on purpose.  They want us all like that!"  A little shred of lettuce got free then.  It leapt, and landed on her cat-hair encrusted leggings.  She saw it though, out of the corner of her eye, and without pausing in her tirade, she licked a finger, and reached down with it to re-capture the errant hunk of lettuce.  She popped it back into her mouth, barely pausing her chewing in the process, pausing just enough to smack her lips... and reach down and take a drag off her cigarette to wash it all down with...

    I put my second taco back in the bag.  Suddenly I wasn't so hungry anymore.

    I needed a cigarette.

    "They encourage all this ignorance.  They want us all to be niggers, so they can sell us their shit.  You can't blame them for being such useless pieces of shit though... it's not their fault.  I pray for them though.  I pray for them every night!"  And another little bit of lettuce, accompanied by a little pebble of meat, jumped.  These two bits landed on her hand, and she licked them off, and took the last bite of her taco too, and as she chewed it all up, a tear came into her eye, and she took another drag off her cigarette.

    "I pray for them.  I really do.  And I'll pray for you tonight too.  And you know what, you should pray too.  Pray for them, and for you, and even for me.  Christ, you'd better pray for me too.  I don't know what I'm gonna do...  Say, you don't know a good mechanic that does house calls and works really cheap.  I need to get my truck running.  I can't afford to keep taking taxis...  you know, I used to drive taxi, back in South Carolina.  It was a great gig, but then I met my husband, ex-husband, that asshole... and I had my kids.  Christ my kids are such useless pieces of shit.  I can't believe my son.  Do you know what that asshole did?"  Another tear came to her eye, as she unwrapped another taco.

    "That asshole...  I called him, and asked him for a hundred bucks, I mean, hell... I gave him birth, right?  You'd think he could spare me a hundred bucks...  Not that asshole.  He says he's got no money, he spent it all on bail.  He was caught drunk driving, with a quarter ounce of weed on him...  I told that stupid fuck he shouldn't be driving around in that car without any tags...  you can't get insurance without a registered car.  Does he listen to me?, hell no!  That stupid asshole, fuck him.  If he can't spare a hundred bucks for his own mother, than he can fuck himself, I'm not praying for him.  Then he'll see..."

    Suddenly she turned to me, an intense look in her eyes, some lettuce and cheese jumping out of her mouth and landing on my pant leg, and said "It really works.  You listen to me kid, I've seen it."

    I just nodded, flicked her half chewed food off my leg, wiped my finger on one of Jack's napkins, and lit another cigarette.  My sinuses could go to hell, I had other more immediate problems.

    I could already tell that prayer didn't work.  If it did she'd've been chewing with her mouth closed by now...

    "You're looking at me like I'm crazy, aren't you kid?  But I've seen the power of prayer... back in '69, when I was hanging out with John Lee Hooker.  He was an old family friend, bet you didn't know that.  I used to hang out with all of them.  I knew Bill Graham, I was going out with one of the guys in his office..."

    She finally turned her head forward again, to watch the traffic driving down Telegraph Ave., the sunset, and to daydream about the good ol' days.

    I couldn't take another cigarette.  I don't hardly know how those guys who smoke 4 packs a day do it... I'd managed 2 inside of 20 minutes, and I was feeling sick.  And still, she wouldn't shut up.  She was talking about the cell phone companies, and tracing their origins back to the amplifier manufacturers that all the old blues and rock greats bought from in the 60s, tying it in with Jesus, and the CIA.  She knew.  She had all the documentation at home, if I wanted to look at it.  It would blow my mind...

    I just shrugged, and fished out my other taco.  She'd finished off 2 of her 4... so I was looking at a long wait.  If it went on much longer I was gonna have to end it myself... if nothing else just so I could get back before the company decided they were gonna charge me the night lease money too...

    And besides, I was hoping that, if I slopped enough salsa on my taco, I might be able to clear out my sinuses enough to get back to smoking...

    By the time she'd finished her third taco, I was in a daze.  I'd reached some sort of self-hypnotic trance state, a 'safe-place' where her words couldn't reach me, couldn't drag me into any of her delusional paranoid fantasies.  And the meter was approaching $90.

    "You know what?,"  she suddenly asked, as she put away her last taco, and captured another piece of cheese off her jacket sleeve with a finger, "That was what I wanted to do!  There's this book!  ... it would blow your mind!"

    I just nodded, in a stupor.  Christ, I needed a drink.

    "So, you know a good bookstore, where I can get it?"

    I took a deep breath.  I didn't wanna take her to a bookstore.  I wanted to take her somewhere where I could be rid of her.  I was in hell.  And taking a deep breath was a bad idea too, even with all the tobacco smoke floating around in the car, I was still overwhelmed by the scent of cat piss.

    I wondered if her cats had compiled all that documentation back at the house, the stuff that would blow my mind.  I wondered if cat piss was actually a hallucinogen.  I wondered how, exactly, I would have to phrase my prayer so that god, some god, any god, would succor me from this hell.

    The meter hit $92, and I suggested a Borders out in Emeryville.

    "Ok, let's go..."

    I got to the parking lot, and she looked at the size of the place, and changed her mind.

    "That place is way too big.  I'll never be able to find anything..."

    "Uhh, you can always go to the information desk... have one of the underpaid grunts play fetch for you..."

    "Like hell.  I don't trust any of those niggers."

    I just nodded.  It was no use trying to tell her that most of the staff was white.  I guess working at Borders made them honorary niggers.  And she was apparently convinced they'd piss in her book.  Which would distract her from the pleasant aroma of her cat piss...

    "Wait, I think there's a book store over in that other mall over there..."

    I just shrugged, and drove.  Sure enough, in the next mall over, we spotted a little mini- Barnes & Noble.  She limped on in, and I stepped out of the cab to get a breath of fresh air and mall exhaust.

    She was back out in a few minutes.  "They didn't have it..."  she explained.

    I just laughed.  "Well, there's that bookstore back in the last mall that's 4 times the size of this one..."

    "No... you know what, I know where I can get it.  There's a bookstore up on Shattuck, in Berkeley..."

    That was it.  I'd had all I could stand, and I couldn't stand no more!!

    And besides, my cab lease was up in about 30 minutes, and I still had to get the fucker back to East Oakland...

    "Nope."  I said.

    "No, it's there.  I just can't remember if it's at Cedar, or that other street..."

    "No,"  I explained, "I don't have the time.  If we do that, then I'll have to pay the night lease too, and that's another $75, on top of what the meter comes too... unless you're gonna keep me waiting, and the meter running, all night..."

    It took her a minute to swallow that one.  Of course, the night lease was only $55, but I wanted more than that if I was gonna have to put up with her cat piss any longer.

    "No, I can't afford that..."  she said, glancing up and, maybe for the first time, realizing that the meter was up to $109.60.  "Christ, I'm gonna have to go to social security and apply for an emergency loan if I have to eat anything else this month but what's in the trunk..."  she suddenly said.

    It was enough to make me feel sorry for her.  But that passed quickly enough, as another wave of cat piss aroma wafted over to me.

    "So, back home?..."  I said, pretending it was a question.

    "Well I guess so.  Listen, I can't thank you enough for picking me up, and being patient with me, and..."  blah blah blah... she went on the whole way back to her house on Pill Hill.  I was the only human being she'd been able to talk to... the neighbor's kids were slowly, piece by piece, stealing her truck... the cell phone companies were a front for COINTELPRO... Jesus loves me, and her useless piece of shit kids, and the niggers next door- He loved everyone but the cell phone companies... Blah blah blah.

    I left the meter running as I unloaded the trunk and the back seat of the mountain of crap she'd bought.  the meter was at $122, and the demented old broad gave me $145.75...

    So I gave her my cell phone number, and drove away.

    Come to think of it though... she was the first one I heard predict the fiasco that was Enron. Maybe tinfoil hats are more than merely a fashion accessory... and cat piss is not just another perfume...

 

  The Old Waybills

 there's No Place Like Home...

You gotta be shitting me Alex