The thing that still gets me about being a cabbie, is that you never quite know what to expect.  I mean, it's been nearly five years I been at it, and I almost feel like I can get up in the morning, sniff the air, and I can almost smell the energy in the air (or lack thereof, in which case I just crawl back into bed). Almost.

    Somehow though, the gods of mischief, the sons of bitches that like to see how far they can push mortals before they snap, they really seem to like to just fuck with cab drivers, when they get bored with the ostensibly sane masses I guess... And, because of those fuckers, we just never know what's gonna happen. I can have a $200 day, nestled in a week full of $50 days... or not.  Depending on whether I smell it right and bother to get dressed or not...

    A little while back though, I was having one of those days.  It started out good, but it'd been a relatively shitty week, so I was expecting the worst at any minute.  If I remember right, I'd just dropped off a fare at the airport, it was about 10:15 in the morning, and I'd decided to stop at Burger King (it must've been a Tuesday, 2 cheeseburgers for 99 cents...).  I was waiting in line, trying to Zen my way through a short line and a long wait while the moron at the counter tried to take the order of the moron in front of me... when my cell phone rang.  I was expecting it to be one of the crackheads that like to call and have a driver that they know isn't a narc drive them on a run... but it turned out to be the dispatcher.

    Now, the dispatcher doesn't ordinarily call me, because I don't ordinarily give her enough kick-backs... but when she can't get one of her regular cronies to answer, and she's got a good one, she'll call me on the off chance I might slip a couple of bucks her way.  Sure enough, she had one on High St., which was maybe 45 blocks from where I was.  The streets were dead though, so I said sure.

    A few minutes later, nice warm cheeseburgers on the seat next to me, I squealed the tires on the way out of the parking lot.  I had to make up some time...  It turned out to be one of the many Section 8 housing apartments around town, but then again, that's where most of the business that's left in Oakland tends to come from.  So I honked, and I nagged the dispatch to call them, and I gnawed on a 49.5 cent burger while I waited.

    Dude came out, in his baggies, and his sweat jacket with the hood pulled up, and the tennis shoes that cost more than my whole ensemble... So far, so good.

    "Yeah, where to?"

    "Telegraph." he answers.

    Of course, Telegraph Ave. stretches from downtown Oakland all the way north into Berkeley and the UC campus.  It's kind of a long way to be guessing about.

    "You mean... like, Berkeley?" I ask.

    "Yeah..."

    So I just shrug, and pull into traffic.  I'm still working with maybe 35 blocks worth of vague destination... but what the hell, it's gonna be at least $20.  I need the money.  It isn't until I get to the freeway that I remember all the bad orders, the run-outs, and all the other bullshit the dispatcher has thrown my way over the years.  Then I begin to wonder why one of her usual buyers didn't take this order... then I start to get that clammy feeling in my belly.  I look back, and dude's slumping in his seat, like he's being sly and trying to make it tough for me to get a good look at his face...

    So I'm thinking "I fucked up..."  I could ask for a deposit, but I'm already on the freeway... and asking for a deposit has a tendency to make the Section 8 denizens think 'profiling', and 'descrimination'.  Never 'statistics'...  but what if I ask for the deposit, and he just says no?... I pull over on the side of the highway and hope I can kick his ass to my satisfaction before the Highway Patrol shows up?

    Fuck...

    It's then that I realize that I'm actually wearing my running shoes.  Chuck Taylors, they're as close as I get... And, I realize I'm not painfully hungover today.  It's a strange realization, but it makes me feel all warm and tingly all over.  "Fuck it..." I suddenly tell myself,  "give him the benefit of the doubt, and if he runs... chase his ass down!"

    I mean, what the hell?  It was a slow day anyway.  And he wasn't 6'5" or anything.

    So I weave my way through highway traffic like a bat out of hell, a chariot afire... If nothing else just to cut down on the time I'll lose if it all goes to hell, and in the meantime I hang up my mic out of the way, I strap my cell phone securely about my mid-section, and I generally prep myself inside and out.

    And what happens?  I get him to Ashby and Telegraph, and the mother fucker gives me the $24 fare, and climbs out of the cab, and strolls away!

    Which is good.  Wonderful.  Easy.

    So I just had to laugh, and wonder why I never get the run-out mother fuckers on the days when I'm actually ready for the chasing and the brawling and all the other stupidity?

    I dismissed the ideas of esp, the foresight to check what kind of shoes the driver's wearing while climbing into the cab, or dispatch collusion.  Not to mention CIA mind reading experiments.  I figured it was one of those days when my sense of smell was off, or maybe dude's was on.  Either way, I put my money away, and cut back into traffic to try my luck at it again.

 the Old Waybills

  there's No Place Like Home...

You gotta be shitting me Alex