 Mushmouth's Sister -Alex Farr It was a warm May afternoon, and I was heading back to a BART cab stand from dropping off a fare in West Oakland. West Oakland is 92% ghetto. Even the people that live there admit that. Hell, they take pride in it. So, when a call came up just off West St., at the far North end of West Oakland, I was happy to pick them up. I was there in less than 2 minutes, and found a girl outside frantically waving "Yeah, they'll be out in a minute. Hold on." Hell, they were there... in these post-dotcom days that's about all I ask. That and that I get paid. So I waited patiently. It took another 3-5 minutes for the two obese 30-something black ladies to come out. The cab may've been waiting, but they had important shit to shoot with the neighbors, the kids, and anyone else in sight on the street. Once again, though, business is usually so bad we cabbies will tolerate a hell of a lot of shit these days. So I waited patiently. Once they were finally in the car, I noted the stale gin on their breath, and asked "So where we headed on this fine day?" They didn't seem to understand the idea of irony. "Yo, we g'na go Mahk't." said one of them. "Market? Like, the street?... or just the corner liquor store?" I asked, starting the meter now. Even on the most desperate days, my patience has a limit. "Yeah." answered the same lady. Her eyes still had a little bit of white to them, hiding amidst the bloodshotting... and the open windows left only a hint of gin in the air. "Yeah... which." "I't uh 'n uh Mahk't." I nodded, and tried out several permutations of the sounds coming out of her mouth, mentally comparing those sounds with actual words. It took a few seconds, but I came up with. "On Market?" "Uh huh. 'n a wst unna t'n." Her friend added. I nodded, and then repeated the permutation checking process until I came up with. "And turn at West?" "Uh huh nigga, you 'nuh t'n a' West San Pablo n' corner." the first lady repeated, her tone suggesting indignance that she had to be stuck with the cabbie who didn't speak English. At first I was confused, because West and Market run parallel, making it difficult to turn off one onto the other. But a quick moment of checking map permutations in my head yielded an answer. "Ohh, you wanna go to that gas station on Market and W. Grand?" "Yeah, 't's 't ah s'd nigga." She reminded me. The black folk from the ghettos of Oakland like to call me nigga. In fact, they like to call everyone nigga. I've even watched as they called their own kids niggas. I tried not to listen though, or laugh, or think too much about what sort of sociological effects might result... when they could walk without a hand to hold, or once they started school... or once they stopped school. So anyway, I started driving them. It was maybe a mile and a half from 44th St. & West, to the market on Market... and they jabbered at each other, in jousting matches of vocal volume, the whole way. Well, most of the way... we were at about West and San Pablo when I heard one of them repeating "You know wha' I'm sayin?" over and over. "Uhh, who, me?" I asked, wondering if they'd given me some new destination, and I hadn't been concentrating enough to realize it. "Yeah, yo, nigga play, he 'nna play me, in'uh play me, I play. Know wha' I saying?" she repeated it for me, reluctantly. I thought the words over. I ran them through my mental permutation search routine. I repeated them aloud... mumbling "nigga... play... nigga...?", and came up with nothing. "No, I don't... what, someone's trying to...?" "No!" she tried to explain herself to me. As if I really gave a shit what the fuck she was talking about. "I' nigga g'n play, he play, I play, 'n'e played. Playuh. 'now wh' ahm sayi'?" "Uhh... no." I admitted, as I pulled into the parking lot of the sleazy market at the corner of Market and W. Grand, in the fenced-off strip mall with the barbershop and the check cashing place. "Something about players?... that'll be $4.88." She repeated it again... whatever the hell she wanted to explain to me, afterwards smirking the smirk people will give after they impart something that they feel to be esoteric wisdom. Meanwhile, though, her friend had fished a five out of her bra for me. I just shoved it into my pocket, nodded until they'd staggered their way out of the cab, and drove away. I'm never gonna think about it ever again, either... or it's gonna give me a brain tumor. I made sure to use the five for change for my next fare, too. You gotta be careful in this job.
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