 -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. I'm really not sure why it is... but Wednesdays are usually the slowest day of the week. And that means its a day when a cabbie is more likely to take chances on fares that he might not otherwise bother with... So, one day, as I was cruising toward MacArthur BART, I took a radio call at one of the sleazy motels along the West MacArthur strip. It seemed like a good idea at the time, especially since I happened to be just around the corner. A quick cut across traffic, and I was into the parking lot within 2 minutes of getting the order. Record time. Wonderful... "Uhh, I didn't expect you so fast... give me a minute..." the lady poked her head out the room door to say. Wonderful... That's the problem with giving good service... if you're too good, in this business, then you just end up spending lots of time waiting on the fares to get ready. And, once they finally climb into the car, they wonder why the driver has started the meter... and they alternate complaints about that with complaints about about how most times it takes 20 to 30 minutes for a cab to show up. Whoops, honey... looks like you done out-smarted yourself by calling 20 minutes before you were ready. Half the time, I just leave the bastards to think about their mistake while waiting for another cab once they're ready. On this particular day though, it just so happened that it was really slow... so I offered to go and run across the street, get a 99 cent burger, and then come back. What the hell?... It was nearly lunch time anyway. I got my food product, came back, and I'd finished half of the tough little bugger by the time the girls were ready. There were two of them, and between them they had maybe four big trash bags full of clothes, and four more bags besides. Apparently the time had come for them to move on to greener pastures... "Yeah, man... I can't believe it!... I shoulda seen it coming. I shoulda known that guy was gonna try to rob me..." the blonde was explaining as I drove them out to deep West Oakland. "Mmmmm..." I grunted, sympathetically, as I gnawed away at my burger methodically. They were both looking like they'd been rode hard and put away wet... very used bits of bar trash, wearing cut off generic jeans and third rate tops... and with a trunkful of more of the same sort of garbage. I tried to resist looking back at them in the rearview, but it was hard. Cheap hookers have the same sort of fascination for me as accidents do for all those bastards who slow down on the freeway to rubberneck at accidents on the other side... I was only half listening as the blonde gabbed on and on about what an asshole some guy had been... about him getting over three hundred dollars off her... blah blah blah... Then, it suddenly dawned on me- Ohh shit! Robbed? How're these bitches gonna pay me?! "So, you got robbed... but, I mean, you've still got enough left to pay me, right?" "Ohh don't worry about it honey. I left some money with a friend... that's where we're going. Say, you're kind of cute..." "Uhh, well... I try..." I muttered, wondering if I should be scared or flattered at being able to impress a cheap hooker with my rakish good looks. "You're sure your money's waiting for you..." "It better be. If that bitch's spent my money, I'll kill her myself..." I just nodded. "Just so long as you get my money out of the deal..." I muttered. I don't know what it is about this business, but as soon as I get behind the wheel I become a money grubbing bastard, just like any other. So the blonde kept chatting on... asking me about my number and all that sort of crap, which I purposely mis-interpreted and answered by giving her my cab number and a company card. Meanwhile, the brunette said next to nothing the whole way. So we got to her friend's place out on 10th and Center... and, sure enough, there's no friend to be found. "Fuck, you gotta be kidding me..." was all I had to say. "Don't worry, honey... I've got your number. : As soon as she gets home, I'll give you a call. You can come back and I'll pay you then." I just looked at her. I hadn't been thinking ahead. This was back in the first year I was on the job, and I'd made the mistake of opening the trunk. Each of the girls had grabbed a bag before I realized the obvious... that there was no way in hell they were ever gonna call if I just unloaded them. I was still green at the time, relatively speaking... so I actually thought twice before locking all the rest of their crap into my trunk. "Yeah... no problem..." I assured her, "I'll just go ahead and hold onto all your stuff until you call." And I smiled. "Uhh, well... I just need one more bag..." pleaded the blonde. "No problem... when you call I'll bring it back." I answered'm, as I slammed the trunk shut. The light in her eyes died. She looked like I'd just stabbed her. I suddenly felt confident that they'd actually call me. Suddenly though, she remembered the backpack she had on her shoulder. Her eyes lit up as she swung it about and poked her nose into it... a moment later she seemed able to breathe again too. Fuck... "Ok... she should be home any moment... I'll give you a call when she gets back." There was nothing else to do but leave them to it, cross my fingers, and knock wood. It was ridiculous... the meter had only reached $10... I was turning into some sort of cheap goon over $10!... And the worst part was the certain realization that if I didn't get good at it, I'd have irresponsible assholes and hustlers wasting my time with impunity over and over and over again... Hell, I had a trunk full of these broads' clothes and other crap... They'd have to be stupid not to just come up with $10 for it all. Surely somebody in the neighborhood would be willing to give one of 'em $10 for a piece of ass...
Idiots will be idiots though. They never called... It was a hard lesson to swallow. I'd made the mistake of thinking that any idiot could do the math... even at the cheapest of Salvation Army clearance sales it would cost more than $10 to replace a trunk full of clothes... Apparently there are idiots who can't do the math. Or maybe they were just fans of the Berkeley free-box ( a hand-made box in People's Park where people toss clothes for whoever feels like taking them...) I was back in the neighborhood later that day, but nobody was answering the door that they seemed to figure a friend lived behind. A week went by... still no word. By this time I'd moved all their crap into the trunk of my personal car. About a month later the chick called, but I was out of town. The motel they'd left a number at- the Welcome Inn, room 123... had no idea what I was talking about. Meanwhile, the Fleet Manager turned me on to the bright idea of charging them for storage if they wanted their shit back... Wonderful... but I had to get hold of them first. Needless to say, no one I knew was interested in even touching, let alone taking, any second hand hooker clothes. It was about a month later that I was hanging out with a friend... we'd met near a bar, and he'd ridden his bike, a little fold up job that he wanted to fold up and toss into my trunk so it wouldn't get stolen. But, my trunk was full of hooker clothes!... Not for long. 2 trashbags of clothes, and a bag of shoes, sprinkled liberally under the astrovan parked behind me on the street, left enough room for my buddy's bike. I might've taken the rest to the free-box myself... but I didn't want those bitches to get them back that easily. And they were too tacky for any thrift store to even consider buying any of them. So I started sprinkling them on the streets whenever I needed some more space in my trunk. Only one of the bags actually had dirty needles in it. The rest was mostly tacky lounge wear that would've been appalling in a 70s B movie. I still use some of the bags though. Thanks, hookers... I was getting tired of using palstic shopping bags for all the crap I needed in the cab each day. And the jumper cables were shredding the damned things left and right... And the few articles I still have in my trunk? They work wonders at getting the oil and grease off my hands whenever I take a stab at actually working on my car myself... Thanks hookers...
It's a good thing too. I remember the next time I got to go through that same movie all over again. It was the Broadway Motel this time, rather than the Imperial Inn... A couple came out when I started honking. I don't get out of the car to knock on doors in motels anymore. If they aren't listening for their cab's honk, then they can fuck themselves, and walk... So, out comes Dude, carrying a trash bag in one hand, chatting on a cell phone with the other. I just watched, fighting the urge to light a cigarette. The people of this world who live out of trash bags and natty motels invariably try to bum smokes... I opened the trunk for him, and waited patiently for him to load it, and go back for more. As he made his second trip down the stairs, his lady peeked out of the room. Maybe 'lady' was too strong of a word for her though. 'Ho' was more like it. She was wearing a low-cut, skin-tight leopard skin top over ample cleavage, and a high-riding leather mini-skirt over an ample ass. She was all curves. Curves, and thick make-up. Her nails were way too long for her to carry anything, anything except the little boom box with the cover of one of the cassette players torn off. Meanwhile, the trash bags just kept coming. And coming. And coming. And then there were the stand-up lamps. And a collection of bric-a-brac that defied description... topped off by the jagged ended 4 foot long mirror, without a frame. "Is that everything?" I asked casually, once we'd collectively filled not only my trunk, but also the back seat with their collection of crap. I'd started the meter after Dude's second trip. "Yeah... that's everything." answered Dude, ignoring my sarcasm. Or maybe he was just too much of an idiot to recognize it. "So where to?" I asked, as I watched chickie climb into Dude's lap in the front passenger seat. The angle made for a wonderful view. Wonderful... "Yeah..." Dude began, slowly, "see, what I need is for you to take me to motel, and use your ID so we can get a room..." I glanced over at him, and fought the urge to laugh in his face. "No, I don't think we'll be doing that." "Yo man, it's no sweat." "No man, it's not gonna happen." I answered, "Besides, you don't look anything like me..." He was noticeably blacker than I am. "Yo, G. That don't matter." "Uhmmm, no." "Yo, the last cab driver did it for me..." he said, trying to... to use some angle on me... make me feel like I wasn't cool or something... "Well, you should've held on to his number then... 'cause you ain't using my ID to rent a room." I answered. Meanwhile the meter was still running. And I had a trunk full of his crap. And, now I knew how to use it. "So it's gonna be like that huh'?" "Yup. So, where you wanna go?" He thought a minute, and finally came up with one of the nastiest motels in Oakland. Apparently they didn't ask for ID. Or maybe they knew him... The meter was up around $9 by the time we got there. It really wasn't far... the fringes of West Oakland are littered with motels. "So, that'll be $9..." I said. "Hang on, guy. Let's get my stuff unloaded." I didn't move. "Why don't you go ahead and pay me first?..." Dude stared at me for a few seconds. I stared back. Hoochie Mama just sort of looked away, checking out her nails. I checked out her nails for a second too. And her cleavage for another couple of seconds after that. With that ho on his lap, he shouldn't've had any trouble coming up with $9. He just opened the door though, and once his ho had climbed off his lap, he climbed out of the car, and, ignoring me, he went to go talk to the guy on the other side of the security gate. San Pablo & Mead is one of the nastiest neighborhoods in all of Oakland. Crack ho's roam the street, grinning at any man who catches their eye, hoping someone'll take them up on a $2 blowjob... I just got out and watched Dude go and negotiate with the motel man. The meter kept running. It took a couple of minutes, but Dude arranged a room. He came back over, and asked "Could you pop the trunk, boss?" I just smirked. "Sure," and with a glance at the meter, "how's about my $10?..." "$10?" I just nodded. "You didn't think I was gonna stop the meter while you dicked around with the motel man, did ya?" "But, yo man... you gotta stop it when we get to the destination." I just shook my head. "Naah, I stop it when I get paid..." "Well, that's fine boss. You just leave that thing running, I don't give a shit anyway... just pop the trunk so's I can get my things out..." "Naah," I answered, feeling on top of the world. I'd made a point of packing the boom box into the trunk... "Naah, I think I'll just leave it closed until I get paid..." He just stared at me. He stared hard. For nearly three years, by this time, I'd spent 30 to 60 hours a week cutting off traffic, flipping off road rage, and dealing with assholes like him. I just stared back, and smiled. It took about a minute for him to break. "Fine. Here you go, ya punk ass bitch..." he mumbled, as he handed me a $20. I took my time checking it out... It was a good thing too... "Uhh, partner... this thing's counterfeit." "What? No it ain't." he answered. "Yeah... it is." "Well, it's all I got..." I just shrugged. "Then I'm out of here..." I answered coolly. He'd been too lazy to even bother to unload the back seat. That was alright though... I know where I can find a dumpster or two around this town. "Here, gimme that..." he snarled, petulantly. He snatched his bunk paper, stuffed it into his left pocket, and fished out one of several $20s from his right pocket. This one was either a really good forgery, or the real thing. "It's been a pleasure doing business with you..." I said, grinning... beaming practically... I even helped him lug his shit out of the car. I hustled it all to the curb in a relatively professional hurry... satisfied with professional development I'd displayed. Hoochie Mama double checked her nails, to be sure they were still elegant. They were. She was gonna make a killing in this neighborhood alright. I smiled, and waved goodbye, and drove away. About two blocks further on, I lit myself that cigarette I hadn't given Dude the chance to bum...
It's surprising, in hindsight, just how fine the line is between a good and a bad day on the streets.
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