 Tuesday Afternoon -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 don't know quite what it is about the summer of 2001, but business is dying off to levels like I've never seen before. Maybe it's because everyone's rent is doubling here in the Bay Area. Maybe it's because our gas bills are cliumbing up into the rafters. Maybe it's the rolling blackouts. Maybe it's all the dot-com layoffs. Or maybe I'm just fucking cursed and God doesn't mind taking out an entire industry just to get at me... Although, it's not so much Egyptians... as Ethiopians, Nigerians, Indians, Arabs, and Iranians that drive here in Oakland. Apparently God ain't picky... Of course, I had a fare a little while back who had a novel theory. He was convinced it was a Republican plot, backed by big oil and the rest of the Texas energy corporate cabal, aimed at destabilizing California unto the point where the voters will oust the Democrat governor. He even gave me the name of a book I should read, which would explain it all to me. It sounded a little paranoid to me. Reminded me of something from the Dave Emory radio shows... Ranting on about a nazi aligned shadow conspiracy that would... even be willing to sell arms to a terrorist nation, like Iran, to fund an illegal shipment of arms to a fascist, albeit anti-communist, Central American guerilla group. Boy, that's just crazy-talk. Don't get me wrong, I'm not against selling arms to Iran. Hell, I'm half Iranian. And, if selling arms to Iran will make everybody happy, then maybe it'll even put them in a good enough mood to let me go over and see whatever family I have over there. Maybe. So anyway, all this conspiracy talk aside, the fact of the matter is that business sucks this year. Half the cabbies around town are talking about it being a good time to take some vacation. Go back to Nigeria for a month, or Belize, or India... It's even gotten to the point that I'm ready to stop in and sign up to take the CBEST to qualify me to work as a substitute teacher. Which would mean I'd have to shave off the purple dreadlocks, and take out the 10 or so earrings I wear, and I'd probably have to roll the sleeves of my shirts down to at least try to cover some of my tattoos... It isn't a pleasant time, and all the drivers have way too much time on their hands, while we wait 45 minutes at a time at the BART cabstands, to bitch to each other about it. So, I was bitching to myself about it the other day... pissed off that I can't afford sushi anymore, or even caviar... no more Jim Beam, I'm drinking Old Crow every night now... Hell, I can't even afford to eat at delis anymore. No more ham on ryes for me, I'm back to eating the $.99 burgers from... wherever I happen to be when I'm so hungry that I think I can choke one down. Luckily, the allergy that I think I developed to the things a couple of years back seems to have gone away... So, I was bitching about all this, the other day, as I'm coming out of a Jack in the Box on E. 14th, when some bum snuck up on me near my cab. My first thought was 'Hey, maybe he's looking for a cab...' He just stood there, staring, as I approached though. He was wearing some sort of dirty red stretch pants and equally dirty black t-shirt, standing with his feet together, hands at his side... like he was trying to take up as little personal space as possible. Like a street sweeping sign-pole. As I approached, my cute little 'So, you need a cab?' question died on my lips... as I noticed that the whole lower section of his face was a strange shade of hot pink, which really just don't look right on a black man. "Give me a dollar?" he asked, in a high pitched whisper of a voice. It only took about a second for me to break free from staring at his hot pink face. I tried to put visions of him bobbing for candied apples in a vat of Pepto Bismol out of my head long enough to say, "Not today buddy..." I mean, I had my own problems. But as I said it, my eyes dropped from his face to his tits. Ohh, God. I had to stare for another second, or two. Just to be sure. I'm still not completely sure, and I wasn't about to cop a feel just to be sure... But, I'm pretty sure. They hung like an upright cow's udders. I mean, I've never actually seen a cow stand upright and try to imitate a street sweeping pole after bobbing for candied apples in a vat of Pepto Bismol... in fact, it's really not the sort of image it would've ever crossed my mind to even try to imagine. But, well, now I'm stuck with the image... I looked back up at his, or maybe her, face at that point, just so I wouldn't have to look at those boobs. That was when I noticed that the hot pink of her face actually matched the dirty red of her pants. I couldn't tell if the goatee-like stubble on her chin was red, too, or not though. I was afraid to stare long enough to figure that one out, lest she think I had a thing for cow's who stood upright, with their udders drooping down nearly to their waists, doing imitations of street sweeping sign-poles, after bobbing for candied apples in a vat of Pepto Bismol, but nevertheless showed the flair to match their leggings to the gunk slapped across their faces... I didn't want her to think I was enjoying anything about the sight of her and have her go and ask me if I "date". So, I did the only sensible thing. I tucked my head down, and I got in the car... started her up, and backed the hell out of there. I couldn't even bring myself to check behind the car to make sure that she'd gotten out of the way. I just had to hope she had that much sense. I just steeled myself not to think about all the stories of how much damage it does to a car to run over livestock... I mean, what the hell?, it wasn't my car. The garage mechanics could deal with it if she was too dumb to get out of the way of a car moving at 5, or maybe 10, mph... The important thing was to get the hell out of there. Then again, looking back on it, maybe I should've given her a buck. For a bra, at least. Once I made it back to the cabstand downtown, the 45 minute wait for my next fare suddenly didn't seem so bad. It sucked, sure... but at least I didn't have Pepto Bismol face. My life could've been worse all right. Even my $.99 burger suddenly tasted better.
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