Thursday Morning
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.
So, anyway, I remember it was morning. Before 8 AM, and cold... so cold that my fingers were going numb as I hung my arm out my all-the-way open window to smoke. I looked up from whatever bad science-fiction I might've been reading to while away the time sitting at the cab stand at the Fruitvale BART, and there she was. A young girl, Phillipina maybe, and mighty pretty. I smiled, and rolled down the passenger window so she could lean in and ask how much it was to wherever she was going. After a while at this job, you get so you can see the second thoughts in a person's eyes from 20 paces... She wasn't going far. Maybe 5 dollars worth of driving up Fruitvale. She was cool with that, so off we went. "Uhh," she said, maybe a block up Fruitvale, "... do you do a lot of crank?" "Ehhh, me? No, not really." I answered. "No?" she asked again, just in case I'd changed my mind. "Naah, never been my thing..." I confirmed. An Oakland cabbie has to be strong that way, or else word'll get around that he'll take barter for his services. And, in Oakland, there're a lot of petty dealers who'd love to find somebody who'll take their drugs in exchange for a ride. It wouldn't be so bad, but I'd end up with piles of drugs stashed all over my tiny apartment... trying to convince my landlord to take half an ounce of weed and three grams of crank in lieu of rent... maybe offering him a little coke or heroin on a good month... God knows I'd keep all the acid I came across for myself. Unless I could convince him to take it at Salt Lake City prices in barter. Now, ecstasy... that'd be a hard call. Christ knows how many cute little 19 year old raver chicks I could impress with some x... Of course, I'd then have to do the rounds on a regular basis... asking the dealers on all those street corners that I drive around way too much, "Yo, how much to get me a little bit of weed?..." "Yeah man, today I'm wondering about maybe some smack?..." Those aren't the sort of guys to just hand me a little take-out menu with all the prices of the week and maybe a beeper number or something... Not until I've become a regular customer... Yeah, you can see I've thought about it a lot. Too much of a pain in the ass for my tastes. "Sorry, I'm gonna need cash..." I let my cute little fare know, right off the bat. "Ok, that's cool. You don't know anyone who might want some..." "Uhh, maybe..." I answered. There's always fares who're 'looking'. I'd be willing to pass on a number, maybe, if I remembered. Either way though, I wanted her to think that I was the angel of helpfulness. I occasionally get an extra buck tip that way. Very occasionally. Why is it that drug dealers don't know how to tip? You'd think, what with all the glamour and supposed riches to be made in dealing... you'd think they'd be throwing the money around. 40 cents is usually the most I can expect from a dealer though. Then again, they'll usually at least pay the full fare, unlike the pimps. So, she gave me a pager number, and I drove. (363-6633, in case anyone's wondering. I know the value of marketing by now... It's apparently her uncle Sam's pager, she says use code #00, goes by the name Malinda) "Well, when we get there, I'll have to go in and get the money from my Mom." she said, a moment after giving me the number. "Sure... just leave me something to hold onto..." I answered. Contrary to the popular opinion of all the activist wannabes who insist it's 'profiling' that leads us drivers to ask for a deposit, it's actually the fact that they're so disorganized and/or stupid that they're taking cabs without any money in their pockets. Even pretty girls gotta give up a deposit. I don't see McDonald's cooking up any hamburgers for anyone and then saying, "ohh yeah, sure... just go back home and get the money for us and bring it back whenever it's convenient..." Malinda just said "Yeah... sure. No problem. I was just out partying all night... I guess I just spent more money than I meant to... You know?" She was very cute. And, with her slinging crank around here and there, I had no problem believing she'd been out all night drinking. I'd seen it before. "Yeah, no sweat..." So, we got to her Mom's house, and she had me pull in the driveway. "Ok, here hold on to this. It's fifty dollars worth." she said, handing me one of those cute little bags that dealers always have, full of brown powder. "Uhh," I answered her really quickly, old days buyer's habits quickly taking hold, "... could you leave me something else to hold onto?" "Uhh, I don't have anything else..." she said, suddenly sifting around in her purse. "You'r id.?" "I don't have my id." I should've known better right there and then. But, she was so cute. "Just leave the whole purse." "There's nothing in the purse... Ohh, here." she said, handing me a Macy's card. "It has my name on it..." I just shrugged. I'd seen weirder, and it'd come out alright. The name on the card was Malinda R. Pey. The name with the number was Malinda... "Ok." She got out of the car, and took off like a shot up the driveway. At the time, I just thought she didn't want the meter to climb too much while she got the money from her Mom. Or maybe she was still way too wired on crank to just walk... About five minutes later, I got out to knock on the door. An old white lady in a moo moo answered. Not surprisingly, she didn't have any idea what I was talking about when I mentioned a cute asian girl asking her for cabfare. There was a back house too. The lady that answered that door was even older and even whiter, though not so 'moo moo'. She didn't have the foggiest idea what I was talking about either. As I came back out to the street, a young asian guy came out of the house next door and started warming up his car. He looked like he might've been her brother. The fence between the two yards hadn't looked too hard to hop. I just shook my head. I knew there was no way anyone was gonna answer the door if I rang the bell. Malinda'd thought this one out well in advance... There were only two things I could do. I could just hop back into my car, take the loss of time and gas, and just take out my anger on my next fare... Or, I could pull a trick I'd learned in one of those bad Science Fiction books and go and glue the locks of the neighbor's door. Decisions... decisions. So anyway, two minutes later I got a call from the dispatcher. Someone just around the corner looking for a cab. I took him back to the Fruitvale BART, he paid me, and I told him to have a nice day.
( In 2009 I got word from a relative of Malinda's. He'd found this story, and let me know that she'd passed away. I was surprised at how sad I was to hear it. I suppose... I have to wonder if it was because a friend of mine later covered Malinda's fare, and disposed of the deposit, that I wound up bearing her no ill will. Apparently I'm cynical of my own motivations, as much as those of any other... ) |