I guess technically I should have called this post "Weather Report and Down Time," since I'm going to talk about the weather first, but it's my blog, and I'll do want I want. Plus, I just like the way it sounds.
Right now as I type this post, it is raining. That's right, you read me right. It's RAINING! In Phoenix, Arizona, the good old P to the H to the X and that's the PHX!
This is not "mist" or "drizzle" or the "don't worry you can run between the drops" kind of rain. This is actual, by God, things are getting wet, puddles are forming, "I wish I rolled up my car windows" kind of rain. Sure, by the standards of a lot of places, when it's all done, it won't amount to much.
But rain in Phoenix is special. It's a reaffirmation of life. It makes the air smells fresher and cleaner. It's how cars get washed. It causes the rate of rear-end collisions to sky-rocket.
What? Yeah, you read me right. Rain causes the incidence of rear-end collisions to rise here in Phoenix.
Here's what happens. As cars drive down a road, grease and oil fall off the car onto the roadbed. This happens on roads all over the world. You would think that this would make the roads slicker, but it doesn't. In most places, it rains enough that the slippery goo washes away before building up too much, so it doesn't become a problem.
In Phoenix, things are a bit different. We don't get a lot of rain. It's not really uncommon to go months at a time between rains, so you can see that the oily, greasy goo builds up on the roadbeds. When the road is dry, this isn't much of a problem, because in the great scheme of things, it's not a lot of goo, and it tends to hide in the pores of the asphalt.
But when it rains, watch out! For the first few minutes of the rain, the goo starts to rise, then the action of the goo and water being squeezed between the roadbed and tires starts to turn it into a mousse-like substance, which can really be slick. You really can't see it very well with the naked eye. You kind of have to look at the roadbed at an oblique angle, with a light pointing to the road, and reflecting back to your eyes to see the telltale "rainbow" of oil on top of water.
This wouldn't normally present a huge problem, but other factors come into play. Because it doesn't rain much, a lot of people here in Phoenix don't pay much attention to the tread depth of their tires. Shallow tread, or even "slick" tires aren't much of a problem on dry roads. But when the roads get wet... well, you get the picture.
Plus, Phoenix seems to be the tailgating capital of the world. Also, so many people commonly travel at speeds very much in excess of the speed limit, even on city streets, not to mention the freeways.
Put all these factors together, and it's a recipe for disaster. It wouldn't surprise me to hear of a at least one, and possibly several, multi-car tailgate chain-reaction type collisions before the end of the day.
As for me, I'm staying off the road today. I'll be leaving for Tucson in a few hours, to visit with Johnny Wraith, but between now and then I'm staying inside, listening to the rain, and getting a few things done around the old homestead. So far, my laundry is done, although I haven't hung everything up yet (I'd rather write than do laundry any day of the week). The floors are vacuumed, the sheets are changed on my bed, and I've sorted through the stuff that just seems to pile up, and thrown out a bunch of junk. Next I'll tackle the dishes, clean the kitchen and bathroom, and be done just it time to hit the road to Tucson.
A weekend of fun and debauchery in the company of my old pal, Johnny Wraith, awaits. We'll poor one back, to salute the rain, and one more to salute all of you. The rest we'll just pour back for effect. And what an effect they shall have on us! I don't imagine I'll be able to see straight much past nine o'clock tonight! Cheers!
I hope to see you out there on the road. Just not so close in the rear view mirror, okay!
Sincerely,
The Cab Guy
PS - I've promised to reveal the the sordid details of how I almost got fired, and why I ultimately did switch cab companies. I'm working on those articles. But I want to let johnny Wraith (yes, he really is a lawyer) review them before posting. I'll get them up as soon as I can. Stay tuned: there's lots of drama!
Friday, November 30, 2007
Down Time and Weather Report
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Cleaning, Mom, and Pizza
Well, I didn't do much of anything today, but at least I had plenty of time to do it.
Since I'll be going down to Tucson Friday night, to visit with Johnny Wraith through the weekend, I decided to take today and Friday off, and get a few things done around my apartment.
Also, I went over to my Mom's house to help her clean the filter for her central heating and cooling unit. The actual amount of time it takes to do this is about fifteen minutes, but you have to let the filter dry after washing it, and that takes about and hour and a half.
So Mom and I sat around talking, and watching various "Judge" shows, like "Judge Joe Brown" and "Judge Judy." After watching about ninety minutes of this garbage, I came to the realization that there are an incredible number of really dumb people in the world, and that any number of them are willing to go on national television to prove it.
After the filter was dry and reinstalled, my Mom took me out for a pizza. We went to my favorite pizza joint in the area, Ralph's La Hacienda Pizzeria, 15236 N. 59th Avenue, in Glendale, (602) 978-2780, on the southwest corner of Greenway and 59th. I've been going there for over thirty years, ever since high school, and when ever I'm near my Mom's house, I stop in, usually with her, to have some pizza or spaghetti.
Recently, Ralph died, and the place was sold, so technically it's now Long Wong's Wings and Ralph's Pizza, but that's a real mouthful. Anyway, I only go there for the pizza, which is just as good as ever. I like wings, too, but there are other Long Wong's near my house; there's only one Ralph's. I wasn't going to do anything other than scarf a pizza.
The medium cheese and meatball pizza went down real smooth. When you're in the area, give Ralph's a try. You might like it. It doesn't matter to me, it won't change my mind.
I hope to see you out there on the road.
Sincerely,
The Cab Guy
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
The Cab Guy Jumps Ship
Well, I had a very full and interesting day today.
But unfortunately, not enough time to write about it.
Yesterday, I was threatened with being fired, but was spared the axe. Today, after reviewing my options, I decided to quit. I didn't do anything that was really wrong, but was caught being a little too curious about why the company was allowing certain drivers to grow fat (financially) at the expense of all the rest of us, even though we all pay the same lease, and how it was being done. Watch for all the sordid details in up-coming posts over the next few days.
Speaking of fat, don't worry about The Cab Guy not being able to buy groceries and being forced onto a diet due to a lack of funds. I've already being hired by another taxi firm, which at 300+ cabs is the major competition of the firm I used to work for. The President of the new company welcomed me personally to the new firm!
I'm going to work a shift tomorrow to activate my contract, then take a few days off to visit Johnny Wraith down in Tucson. I'll be taking along my notebook computer so that I can keep up with this blog.
I hope to see you out there on the road.
Sincerely,
The Cab Guy
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Update to 'If It Walks Like a Duck...'
Here's an update to my posting of Saturday, November 24, 2007.
If you've read the original post, you know that Friday night, November 23, I had a
guy walk out on his fare. As of the time of Saturday's posting, Joe hadn't responded to my note requesting he call me and make arrangements to pay, hence my rant.
If you haven't read the post, see If It Walks Like a Duck... for all the details.
Tonight, Joe left me an voicemail saying he left twenty dollars in an envelope under the welcome mat in front of his door, and I could come by and pick it up anytime. Since he lives only about two miles from me, I went right over to get the Andy Jackson. After retrieving the money, I wrote on the envelope, "Thanks Joe, I appreciate this. No hard feelings."
Maybe I was a little hasty in calling Joe a "drunken pissant." Although he could have coughed up the cash a little sooner.
Maybe I'll see you out there on the road.
Sincerely,
The Cab Guy
Monday, November 26, 2007
Hit or Stay?
To provide some much needed diversion and entertainment, after work tonight, I went to my favorite casino, to play a little Blackjack. Watching other people in the game caused to me think about why some people play the way they do.
I use a strict "basic strategy" style of play when I play "21", and vary my bets to take advantage of winning streaks, while diluting the effects of losing streaks.
For example, I almost always (greater than 98% of the time) hit a 16 when the dealer's up card is a 7 or better.
I know the math, and proven it for myself. Standing on 16, hoping the dealer does not have a "made hand" (17 through 21) is a statistical loser 72% of the time, because 72% of the time the dealer will in fact have a made hand, or draw to one, taking your money. Alternatively, hitting 16, even with it's unfavorable chance of busting (eight of thirteen cards, the 6 through King), produces a statistical loss only 60 percent of the time, because five of thirteen cards (5 down to the Ace) will produce a tie, or a better hand than the dealer.
Putting it another way, this means that standing on sixteen (against a 7 or better) wins only 28% of the time, while hitting produces a winner 40% of the time. This is a significant difference.
So if you're a gambler, and play Blackjack, please leave a comment explaining what you do in this situation, hit or stay, and why. I promise not to try to argue the rightness or wrongness of your strategy. I'm just curious. Who knows, maybe I'm missing something here.
By the way, I won three hundred dollars on a two hundred dollar "buy-in" while playing at a ten dollar minimum bet table. That was certainly entertaining, and I diverted the winnings directly into my bank account. The icing on the cake? The casino gave me a ten dollar meal ticket, to encourage me to come back another time. I ordered a steak, egg and hash browns plate, to go. It will make a delicious breakfast.
I hope to see you out there on the road.
Sincerely,
The Cab Guy
Sunday, November 25, 2007
Big or Small, I Take 'Em All
All my life I've heard how important it is to not disregard the little things. Actually, the advice is usually stated this way: "Take care of the little things, and the big things will take care of themselves." This advice is so appropriate in the cab world.
At least once a day, someone will get in my cab and say something like,
"I'm sorry this is such a short trip, but I only need to go to..."
and they name someplace that's close by. This happened to me three times today. The only reason I can think of for someone to apologize for how short a fare might be is that some other cabbie, in the past, has made it obvious that he (or she) was very disappointed to get a short fare, as opposed to a longer one, and made that disappointment obvious to the customer. This experience probably left the customer embarrassed, and feeling that many or all cabbies feel this way, hence the need to apologize to me.
You don't need to apologize to me. I'm never sorry to get a fare, any fare, because they all fall to the bottom line. Sure, it can be tedious to get a whole string of five or six dollar calls, all in a row, but I usually don't worry about it. I know that by the end of the day, or week, or month, everything will balance out, and I'll have received my fair share of short, medium and long fares, and make a pretty good living for doing my job.
You see, my average fare, with tip, is currently (over the past year) about seventeen dollars. Today I took ten calls in about eight hours, and booked $191.00, a little above my per-call average, but it's in the ball park. A normal day is usually about eleven or twelve hours, twenty to thirty calls, and total bookings of $275.00 to $325.00. (For the purpose of accounting for my time, I include "no shows" in my trip count, which tends to skew the per-call average down.)
If I were to adopt a business plan that demanded I refuse to do any call that was less than, say, twenty dollars, you can easily see I'd be giving up somewhat more than half my usual total bookings. After my expenses for gasoline (a variable expense equal to about 12 to 15% percent of bookings) and cab lease (fixed, regardless of bookings), I'd end up taking home way less than half of what I usually do.
Gas and lease for a $300.00 day is about $140.00, netting me about $160.00. Gas and lease for a $150.00 day (say maybe five to seven hours) would be around $125 or so, netting me $25.00. This would be a quick way to go broke. (Today was a horse of a different color: It was my "free" day. The company from which I lease my cab only charges me for six days, if I keep the cab for seven. Thus, the seventh day is free. So my total net income was about what I'd usually make on a regular day. I don't need to work the "free day." But today I had nothing better to do.)
So I take every call that our dispatching system offers me. More calls, however big or small they are, equals more income, which can only be a good thing for me. Now, if you call me personally on my cell phone, I do require a twenty dollar minimum payment. I assume you want me, rather than some other random cabbie, because of the superior level of service you think I provide. Let's face it, you have pay to get what you want. I'm not being hypocritical, just practical: if I have to drop everything and drive twenty miles to get you, rather than take a call within a mile or two of where I am right now, I need to be compensated for the extra effort.
Folks, never apologize to a cabbie for taking a short trip. If you feel a cabbie is disdainful of you because you're not going very far, ignore him. You are the bread and butter of the personal transportation industry, at least here in the Phoenix market, for the segment I serve. If every person who needed a "short trip" were to all of a sudden start walking, I, and a lot of other cabbies would have to go and find another job.
Personally, I don't want to do that. I like what I do. Sure, I've had higher paying jobs, with more "status" or "prestige." But those jobs always came with a cost. I had to do what someone else told me to do. I had to do it his way. On his schedule. At his whim. For the same pay as other people in the same job, who likely didn't do it as well as I did. To a person like me, that's a mind-numbing trap.
True story: when I was an adult probation officer, for ninety months in a row, more than seven years, I operated at 150% or more of expected performance requirements. But my pay was identical to the guy who could barely manage to stay above 97%. As a matter of fact, for eighty-four of those months, all in a row, I was the top ranked APO in my department, yet I received the exact same pay that every other APO with a similar "time in grade" received.
At the risk of being tedious, allow me to repeat what I said earlier. I like what I do. I'm my own boss. I get to work when I want, where I want. My schedule is my own. If I want to cut out early, I don't need permission. If I want to take a day off, I don't have to lie, and call in sick. If I work harder than the next guy, I'll make more than he does. If I make less, it's because I slacked off, I have no one to blame but myself.
Unless I decide to become a multi-cab owner, and lease cabs out to other drivers, I'll never get rich in this business. But I do okay financially, and I really like what I do. Not too many people, if they're really being honest, can say that about their job. I know. It hear the complaints from the back seat every day.
I'll trade the security of mediocrity for the rewards of excellence every day of the week. Especially if Sunday is free!
I hope to see you out there on the road.
Sincerely,
The Cab Guy
Saturday, November 24, 2007
If It Walks Like a Duck...
If you were to think about it logically, not everyone who acts the way a thief would act is a thief. But every thief who acts like a thief certainly is. So how do you tell the difference between two people exhibiting thief-like behavior? Which one is the criminal, and which one doesn't realize how his behavior looks to an observer?
I post this observation, and the attendant question, because of something that happened to me last night, and something that happened today.
Before I get to the story of the two situations, I want to make it perfectly clear that I understand that it is not always easy for a person to see that his behavior may be negatively perceived, because he does not perceive his behavior to be negative. The political correctness crowd have convinced us that stereotyping is an invalid method of determining potential dangers in our midst. They say that just because something walks like a duck, quacks like a duck, and lays duck eggs, doesn't mean that it's a duck.
Bullshit, I say! If it walks like a duck, quacks like a duck and lays duck eggs, it's a duck. If you dress like a thug, talk like a thug, and act like a thug, you may be the valedictorian of your class at the local Parochial school... but pardon me, if you don't mind (and I don't give rat's ass if you do), if I assume you're a thug, and take steps to protect me and mine until you prove otherwise. How a person is perceived is at least as much the responsibility of that person, and I say much more, as that of someone observing him.
With that, let me tell you the story of my night and day.
I usually work during the day, as I find that the "Weirdness Quotient" is lower than at night, plus it allows me to have at least the opportunity of a somewhat normal life outside of my cab. However, Friday was a very slow day, so I went home for a few hours to rest, intending to go out later and make a few extra bucks.
After getting back on the streets at about 1030pm, my very first call took me to Pomeroy's a very nice tavern/bar at the intersection of Missouri Avenue and Camelback Road, where I was to pick up Joe. I later found out that Joe was a friend of the owner of the establishment. He was also clearly highly intoxicated. I escorted him out to my car, helped him in, and took him home. He gave me the old "take me to such-and-such a corner." When we got to that corner, he said to go straight, and he'd point out his house. Well, we got to the next corner without him saying a word. By requiring him to sit up straight, look out the window and point out his house, I was able to get him home.
While I waited, he went through his pockets, but couldn't come up with any money. He then said he would have to go inside to get some money. I told him I'd wait, but reminded him that the meter was still running. He never came back. I left a note on his door to call me, but here we are, almost twenty-four hours later, and he has yet to do so.
Last night, I gave him the benefit of the doubt, figuring that in his drunken state he merely forgot that I was outside waiting. I also presume that he did not know that his script of "I need to get money from the house" is a common ploy among the thug set. So at the time, I hoped for the best, left him the note, and figured he'd call me.
That he didn't has led me to change my mind.
Joe, if you're reading this, you need to know that I think you're a thief. Everyone else reading this thinks the same thing, because if you weren't, you'd have called by now to make reparations. I know where you live. That I don't publish your address, a picture of your house, and your car's license plate is charity on my part, not fear of retaliation from you, you drunken pissant!
Now on to the second event, from today, about 130pm to be precise.
I went to a Denny's to pick up someone who I'll call "Sidney", because I don't remember this name. I was on-site within three minutes of receiving the call, which obviously pleased Sidney. He got in the car, with a plastic garbage bag full of who-knows-what, and told me where he wanted to go, which was about three miles away. I started the meter, and we were off. He asked what the fare would be. I said about ten dollars (it actually turned out to be a little over nine). He then said to take him as far as I could for six dollars.
Now, because the "flag drop" is $2.50 (the minimum service charge just for showing up), and the per-mile charge is $1.80, six dollars would only get him about halfway there. I told him this. When we got to six on the meter, he said to keep going, that he'd just as soon pay what it took to get the rest of the way there. Arriving at his destination, the meter, which Sydney could clearly see, said $9.40. However, I only asked him to pay nine, hoping I'd end up with ten, but figuring I wouldn't, because of his evident miserliness over how much the fare would be. If he really didn't want to spend money on himself, then my needs would be probably be disregarded.
Rather than paying me right away, Sidney opened the car door, grabbed his garbage bag, and started to step out.
Does this remind you of anything? It did me.
See, almost everyone who ever ripped me off by not paying the fare stepped out of the cab as a prelude to taking off.
Sidney walked like a duck.
Remember how I said he asked what the fare would be, changed his destination over a money issue, and then directed me to continue on to his original destination? This is a common ploy of thieves. First, a thief would want to lure me into a false sense of security. I'm supposed to think, "Well he has money, just not enough to get him where he really wants to go. But, he's being upfront about his money issue, so he'll at least pay me for the shorter trip." Then thief reverts to his original destination, to set me off balance. Whatever his actual motivation, Sidney's behavior mimicked that of a thief.
Sidney quacked like a duck.
As to the garbage bag, it was Sidney's duck egg.
I don't want to get into a long-winded explanation of why it was a red flag. It was a garbage bag, for pity' sake, not a Louis Vuitton briefcase! Anyone with three days experience in the cab world would have looked at it askance.
So I said to him, "Sir (yes, I actually did use the word "Sir"), you need to pay me before you exit the car."
This brought him up short. He said, "But I need to stand up to get to my wallet!"
A likely story.
I'm not exactly what you'd call svelte. As a matter of fact, to refer to me as merely "husky" is a grand compliment. As big as I am (and believe me, I'm huge, at over six feet tall, weighing in at three hundred pounds), I can still easily get my hand under either one of the enormous Christmas hams that comprise my buttocks, to get to my wallet. He should have be able to do the same, as he was a medium-sized man wearing loose clothing.
Sidney couldn't see that his actions could be perceived as the prelude to a theft, given the circumstances under which cabbies have to operate. He's like many people, oblivious to the fact that their actions speak may volumes about how they may act in the future. No explanation would have convinced him otherwise.
With evident anger, Sidney handed me a ten dollar bill. I gave him a dollar, although I could have rightly returned him only sixty cents.
Grabbing his garbage bag, Sidney blurted out, "I was gonna give you that dollar as a tip! But because of what you said, I won't!"
After years of hearing this king of crap, I couldn't help it. I let fly:
"Shut up! You were not, so don't lie and tell me you were. Garbage bag haulin', money-grubbing, 'I really don't want to pay more than six dollars', steppin'-out-of-the-cab-to-pay-me people like you never do! So have a nice day!"
His response was predictable.
"You're an asshole, do you know that?"
"Yep. And damn proud to be one. I earned the title, and wear it with pride! See ya, and I'm damn sure I wouldn't want to be ya!"
Damn, after years of taking crap from literally hundreds of people who've played the "I would tip you, but..." game, in all of it's manifestations, it felt good to finally let all that anger out. I felt like I would have after having having divested myself of a three-week colon blockage!
I forgave myself for my lack of professionalism, and dropping the tranny into 'Drive,' I cruised away to my next fare.
Have a nice day, Sidney. Have a nice effing day! No cabbie would buy your bullshit.
Thanks for listening.
Sincerely, The Cab Guy
Friday, November 23, 2007
Gambling Tips
A friend of mine operates a website/blog named Johnny Wraith Stories (link on sidebar). This is where he posts his fiction stories, allows others to post their stories, receives comments on his stories, and comments others stories. The other day he posted a question about gambling.
Here's Johnny's question:
So, is there a trick to winning at slots? For instance, if I have $100, do I just put it in any machine and hit MAX BET until I am out or rich, or do I switch from machine to machine based on some algorithm, or do I limit my bets based on results, or what?
Maybe because I'm closer to Johnny that the average person, I understood that it was a joke question designed to "stir up the pot." He does this from time to time, just to see if any responses might generate story ideas. Some people obviously didn't get the joke. Some called Johnny stupid, while others implored him to invest his money more wisely.
I liked my answer the best. But then again, I'm an ego maniac. For your enjoyment, or disgust, here's what I said:
Johnny,
If you're going to throw your money away on gambling anyway, the best way to obtain maximum benefit and enjoyment from a one hundred dollar bill is follow this simple, five-step process:
1. Take your hundred-dollar bill, go to a nice restaurant, have a forty dollar meal, leave ten for a tip, and insist you get your change in the form of a single fifty-dollar bill. Go home. Maybe listen to some soft music, or put in a DVD. Relax until you hear the call of nature.
2. Answer the call, taking along the fifty-dollar bill, and one of those resealable sandwich bags. Sit down on the throne, relax, and let nature take it's course. Meanwhile, pull out the fifty, and examine it closely. Look at the intricate design formed by the engraved plate upon the paper. Leave no detail unexamined. Commit it to memory. Consider how you exchanged one piece of paper, similar to the fifty, for a meal, and received a different piece of paper in return, and how absurd this course of action would appear to an African Bushman. When you are done doing your business, instead of toilet paper, use the fifty. Be careful: it's smaller, and rougher. It will get the job done, if you're patient. When your ass is clean, place the fifty in the sandwich bag, very carefully sealing the bag. Stand up, buckle up, and wash up.
3. Go down to the nastiest part of town, and find the dirtiest, grungiest, smelliest hobo you can. Give him the fifty, safely secured in the sandwich bag, telling him he can only use the bill to buy himself a nice dinner. Drive him to the restaurant where you had dinner. Recommend his courses to him; remind him which wines would be appropriate. Tell him to tell the waitress to "keep the change."
4. Go home and consider how this whole process is a metaphor for life. It's how shit get passed down.
5. Laugh until you cry.
I did.
-----
Drive a cab for more than a few months, and you may find this to be your attitude towards life. Though I resist, sometimes it is for me.
Sincerely,
The Cab Guy
PS - I highly recommend going to Johnny's website. It's a hoot. There's a link on the sidebar.
Thursday, November 22, 2007
Happy Thanksgiving!
I really couldn't think of anything to write today. Except for "I hope you have a happy Thanksgiving. Be grateful for what you have received. Treat your family right. Don't eat to much. Brush and floss before bed."
Meanwhile, check out these picture of birds I'd like to see at my holiday dinner. Yummy!
Hey, what do you want? I'm addicted to bad jokes and puns! But wouldn't these "birds" make up a great dinner party? You betcha!
Sincerely,
The Cab Guy
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
A Plea for Sober Driving
A few years back, in my Fast Lane Magazine column, I wrote a little rant concerning drinking and driving. As we enter the holiday season, I think you might find it educational.
The Cab Guy Pleads for Sober Driving
Now, before we begin the fun, I would like to make a seasonal plea for sanity during the upcoming holiday party season. I know that some of you who are reading this are going to totally ignore the advice that I am about to give, but that’s okay, because there are always going to be idiots that cannot do the right thing, no matter what the situation. Therefore, this little slug of advice that I am going to impart is for the rest of you out there, who can change, if given reason enough to do so. So here it is: DON’T DRINK AND DRIVE!
Because Fast Lane Magazine is distributed at quite a few bars, clubs and lounges throughout the Valley, the chances are, those of you who are reading this right now probably received your copy from a drinking establishment. I am hoping that if you are reading this while you are in a bar, club or lounge, and you are consuming a tasty adult beverage, you will do the right thing, the smart thing, and take a taxi home. You have no excuse not to, as so many of the cab companies in the Valley offer some form of a "free ride back" program, where you pay for a cab ride home, and the cab company gives you a free ride back to your car in the morning. What could be easier?
If a personal plea from me, your Cab Guy, isn’t enough to keep you from getting behind the wheel after having one or more adult beverages, and if the offer of a "free ride back" isn’t enough to keep you off the road when you aren’t 100% sober, then you must be one of those people who thinks that he or she is okay to drive because you haven’t had that much to drink. I guess the thinking goes something like this:
"I haven’t had that much to drink, so I won’t be over the 'legal limit' of 0.08 percent blood alcohol content, therefore I cannot be convicted of Driving While Intoxicated, so I must be okay to drive!"
People, what kind of thinking is this? Although you may have a blood alcohol content under .08, that does not mean you are safe to drive, and it certainly does not mean that you cannot be convicted of Driving Under the Influence.
I know that at this very moment, some of you are thinking, "Hey Cab Guy, if my BAC is under .08, how can I be convicted of DUI?"
Well folks, listen up, pay attention, and you might learn something. DWI and DUI are not the same thing!
That’s right, folks, DWI and DUI are not the same thing. They are two separate offenses, exclusive of each other, and are treated as such in the Arizona Criminal Code. DWI relates to the amount of alcohol that you have in your system at the time that you operate a motor vehicle, while DUI relates to the effect of alcohol on your ability to safely operate a motor vehicle. You can be convicted of DUI if you drive after having only one drink containing alcohol, if it affects your ability to drive "to the slightest degree."
Once again for, the condensed version, for the mouth breathers: even if your blood alcohol content is under .08, you can be convicted of DUI! So stop putting yourself, and others, in danger: if you’ve been drinking, even if it’s only a little, don’t get behind the wheel. Take a cab, or have a sober friend drive you home!
-----
Since I first wrote this, several years ago, Arizona's DWI-DUI laws have gotten even more draconian. More and more people are finding this out the hard way, by having to spend significant time in jail, as well as thousaands of dollars in legal fees, fines and extra insurance premiums, for being what they thought was "okay to drive."
Plus, having to deal with the costs associated with a suspended driver's license isn't a lot of fun, either. Get a DWI-DUI, and your chances of meeting me or one of my cohorts in person will significantly increase. How dumb will you feel to have a perfectly serviceable car in your driveway, but still have to take a cab everywhere you go? Believe me, the cost of a few cab rides home during the holiday season, or any season, for that matter, is a lot cheaper than having to take a cab to work every day for what could be a long, long time!
Please don't be a statistic. Don't drink and drive. Ever. Even one may be too many.
Sincerely,
The Cab Guy
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Thanksgiving Wishes, and a Wild Ride to Boot!
Hello my friends, thanks for calling on me, business has been a little slow lately, and I could use a few more 'personal' trips like this. At the time I write this, the Thanksgiving pig-out is still several days away. I’m going to go out on a limb here and predict I will probably consume about three times as many calories in a single sitting as I usually do in an entire day. And since I am a pretty big guy, that is, quite frankly, a scary thought.
I hope all of you reading this have a pleasant Thanksgiving season, and are truly grateful for all that you have received in your life. I know that I am, although I don’t always remember to consider it so.
Now, although I am not a character in the little tale to follow, it is, in fact, a true Taxi Tale. As a matter of fact, I happen to think it is one of the best Taxi Tales I have heard in a long time, and I’ve heard hundreds of them. The protagonist, whoops, I’m sorry, I guess I should have said main character or hero, is currently a truck driver, but he used to drive a cab in Seattle. His name is Mike L., and I met him while playing poker one night out at Gila River’s Wildhorse Pass Casino. Although the poker game was fun, Mike’s telling of his story was the cherry on top. Anyway, sit back, relax, and enjoy Mike’s story, in his own words. I call it…
“How Much to Wenatchee?”
As I was saying earlier, I used to drive a cab in Seattle. I did this for about ten years, and really enjoyed it. Probably the story that most sticks out in my mind is the time I got a call in the middle of the night to go to a convenience store that I knew was closed at that time of the night. I didn’t really know what to expect, but I decided to check it out. Anyway, when I got there, I didn’t see anyone right away, but as I pulled around in the parking lot, this guy jumped out of the bushes on the side of the building. He had to be one of the dirtiest, filthiest people I had ever experienced in my career. His clothes were filthy, and he had quiet an impressive bush of hair growing out of his head. He wasn’t the scariest person I had ever seen, but he was right up there, I’ll tell you!
Anyway, I roll down the window, and ask him if he was the person that called for the cab. He said that he was, so I asked him where it was that he wanted to go. He said that he needed to get to Wenatchee, and wondered if I could give him a good rate. Now, in case you don’t know, a trip from Seattle to Wenatchee takes about four hours, and involves a trip over the mountains east of Seattle. That’s a pretty good run, and if a person was serious, I’d really be up for it, because even allowing for the round trip, I’d still have several hours left of my shift, and with the fare to Wenatchee, plus whatever I could make when I got back to Seattle, I’d have a pretty good payday. I figured this guy was whacked out, and having a little fun at my expense, but I went ahead and offered him a pretty good rate of two hundred dollars.
I really didn’t think that he had that kind of money, so imagine my surprise when he hauled out a wad of cash that would choke an elephant. He handed me the two hundred dollars, and I unlocked the doors, and let him in the car. Now, just as soon as I let him in the car, I knew that I was going to earn my two hundred dollars, because this guy really smelled bad. And what’s worse, it was the dead of winter, so driving to Wenatchee with the windows rolled down was going to be a test of my endurance. But, I thought about the two bills, and decided to tough it out.
As soon as the guy got settled in, I got on the radio to let dispatch know where I was going, and made a few calls on my cell phone to some of the guys I worked with, to see if they had any information regarding the weather conditions along the route I planned to take through Stevens Pass.
At this point the guy sits up real close to the back of my seat and asks me,
‘Do you have to always be talking on the phone and the radio?’
Yes, I tell him, it’s part of the business, I need to keep my company informed of what I’m doing, check on the weather, stuff like that. I’m sorry if it bothers you, I say, but it is part of what I do. Why don’t you just sit back and relax?
At this point the guy kind of leans back, falls over, pulls his feet up, and starts to cry. Great, I’m thinking, I’m really going to earn this fare! I’m already thinking that this trip can’t end soon enough, and we’re only about five or ten minutes along the way.
After a few minutes of crying, or moaning, or what have you, my passenger sits up, leans forward, and asks,
Are you going with me all the way?'
'What?', I say.
'You’re gonna go with me all the way, aren’t you?,' he says.
'Yeah, of course, you’ve paid me, I’ll get you where you’re going.'
This must have pleased him, because in the rear-view mirror, I could see a big smile on his face and he leaned back in the seat. And proceeded to take off his shoes. Revealing the dirtiest, nastiest, smelliest feet I had ever seen! I really didn’t think that after getting a wiff of those beauties that things could get any more interesting, but I was wrong.
For a little while, the guy stayed back in the seat, alternately crying, laughing, and moaning. This was a little freaky, but I didn’t mind, because we were making pretty good time, and I preferred what he was doing, to all the other things that he could have been doing. But, these fun times were too good to last, because after a while he sat up, and again asked me,
‘You’re going with me all the way, aren’t you? You’re really with me all the way, right?’
'Right,' I said, 'whatever.'
All of a sudden, he sat back on the seat, sat up real straight, and asked me if I also practiced the ‘Black Arts’. I could practically hear the capital letters in the way he said it.
'You practice the Black Arts don’t you? You’re going to take me all the way aren’t you?'
'Yes, of course, I’m going to take you all the way to Wenatchee!', I said. 'Please just sit back and relax, we’ll be there in just a little while!'
Man, this guy was really starting to freak me out. We were coming up on Stevens Pass, so I really had to concentrate on my driving, and wasn’t paying real close attention to the guy.
Now remember, it was wintertime, and it was cold, and in Washington you have to know that it’s wet and icy on the road. All of a sudden, completely out of the blue, the guy says,
'Come on, let’s go, you said you were going all the way with me!', opened the curbside door, and jumped out of the car.
'Holy Shit!', I’m thinking, the guy just jumped out of my car!
I look in the rear-view mirror, and see him tumbling end over end. I brake to a stop as quick as I can, and back up to check on the guy, but already, in my mind, I’m thinking that I’m going to be calling in to report a dead body to the police. As I back up, I see the guy get up, and stagger around a bit. I’m so relieved to see that he’s okay, that what happened next took me completely by surprise. He kind of shook himself off, and started running across the highway, towards the cliff-side edge. I couldn’t believe it! He didn’t slow down at all, he just ran up to the barrier, and dove over. Headfirst. To a pretty long drop.
Well, I got out my flashlight, but when I looked over the edge, I couldn’t see him at all. Since we were deep in the mountains, neither my cell phone, nor my two-way radio, were working. I had to drive up the top of the pass to use a pay phone at a gas station that was closed. Then I drove back to the place he jumped, and waited for help.
Because it was such an isolated location, it took a while for a Sheriff’s Deputy to arrive on the scene. When he did, I relayed the story, just the way I’ve told you. Then I got his nasty, smelly shoes out of my car, and gave them to the deputy. I told the deputy that if the guy survived, he’d probably want his shoes back. I then got back in my car, and started driving back to Seattle.
When I got back into range, I got a message on the two-way that dispatch had been informed by the Sheriff’s Department what had happened, and I was to call dispatch, to give them the details. So, I got out my cell phone, and called the company. The dispatcher said that he had only one question for me, because everyone was real curious, and wanted to know: did I get the money up front, or not?
I couldn’t believe it! After all I went through, the guy freaking me out, jumping out of the car, jumping over the cliff, and then disappearing, and all they wanted to know was if I got the money up front. What the hell could they be thinking?
I’m a professional! Of course I got the money up front!
But, that isn’t the end of the story.
A few hours later, I was told to call the Sheriff’s Department, which I did. The deputy I spoke to told me that my passenger had been found. Naked. That’s right… naked! He was just walking around naked, apparently physically unharmed. He was taken to the local looney-bin, and checked in for a little rest.
But… that’s not the end of the story.
A few weeks later, I picked up a doctor at that same mental hospital. I asked him if he had heard the story, and asked me if I was the driver. I said I was, and asked what happened to the guy.
He said, 'Oh, we shipped that wacko out of here!'
So, at least now I know the official medical term for what was wrong with the guy! He was a wacko!
Thus ended Mike's story.
There you have it friends. Just remember, contrary to what Forest Gump said, life is not like a box of chocolates. It’s more like a jar of jalapeno peppers: what you to eat today could burn you in the ass tomorrow! See you next time.
Sincerely,
The Cab Guy
(A version of this posting previously appeared in my Fast Lane Magazine Column, "Road Rage - Tales From the Taxi!")
Monday, November 19, 2007
You Want to Go Where?
Sunday morning when I came out to work, it didn't appear as if there were very many calls on the dispatch system. Certainly, none of them were anywhere near me. So I went on down to the Greyhound Bus Station to see what I could scare up. I wasn't disappointed.
As soon as I pulled onto the property, I saw that no other taxis were waiting for fares, so I was first up. I pulled the cab right up in front of the door, and sat back to await my first fare of the day. I didn't have to wait long, nor did I have to go very far to get that person where he was going.
Upon my return to the Greyhound I found that I was first up again. Once again I pulled up right in front of the door to wait for a fare. But this time, rather than kicking back in the cab, I got out to stretch my legs. Three cabs pulled in almost immediately, so I knew that I'd have someone to talk to if the wait was long. But, getting out of the cab, and leaning against the trunk must have been interpreted as an invitation to have a conversation, as a leather-jacketed man made a beeline over to my cab.
But I was wrong about him wanting to have a conversation. He wanted to talk alright: about how to get him from where he was, to where he wanted to go. The problem was, while where he was could be described in the physical world, where he wanted to go seemed to be more in the realm of an intellectual concept. The Phoenix Greyhound Bus station, having a particular address and cross streets, could be located on a map. His destination, lacking even an accurate proper name, could not be located, even in his own mind.
You see, where he wanted to go was the hotel where he had a reservation and a confirmation number, which he showed me written down a piece of paper. But he couldn't remember the name of the hotel.
"I want to go to the AmeriBest Hotel. Do you know where it is?", he asks.
"No, but I have a phone book, I can look up the address."
"You don't need to do that, I have the phone number right here," and showed me the piece of paper again.
I dialed the number, and wasn't surprised to find it out of service.
"The number's disconnected, sir."
"Well, maybe it isn't AmeriBest, maybe it America's Best."
Well, maybe it is, but 'America's Best' isn't listed in the phone book either, and I tell the guy that. Then I get the bright idea to ask some of the other cabbies if they might have a clue to where the guy wants to go. After consulting one cabbie who actually had what appeared to be a list of Phoenix area hotels, I thought that maybe where to guy wanted to go was 'America's Best Value Inn' in Tempe. The guy said it sounded familiar, he wasn't sure, but he was willing to take a chance. So we drove out to Tempe.
I had a nice conversation with the man, who's name turned out to be Eric. He had just come up from Benson, in southern Arizona, to start a new job with a trucking company. He would be staying at the hotel overnight, and in the morning, someone from the company would pick him up and take him to the truck yard, where he would pick up the semi-truck that he would be driving. He said he sure hoped that the hotel we were going to was the right one, otherwise, he didn't know what he'd have to do.
"Maybe next time write down the name and address of the hotel before leaving home?", I thought.
"Well, sir, if it's not the right place, there's lots of other places close by. I wouldn't worry about anything," I said.
After a leisurely ten minute drive, we pulled into the America's Best Value Inn. At this point the meter was at about $18.00. Eric went inside to see if he was in the right place. After a minute, I joined him. It turned out he wasn't in the right place. He did have a reservation at an America's Best Value Inn. But it was clear on the other side of Phoenix, as far west of the Greyhound as the one in Tempe was east of it.
After I jotted down the address of the other place, Eric and I hit the road again. This time we had a leisurely twenty-minute ride, but the conversation was still good. Eric wasn't mad at me for taking him to what turned out to be the wrong place. After all, he said, I did the best I could with the information I had. He didn't even seem to be too upset that by his own actions he had effectively tripled his cab fare. He seemed to be one of those perpetually calm people who take what comes their way, making no attempt to control what he can about what goes on around him.
Arriving at the other America's Best Value Inn, the meter now read $48.00. Eric gave me three twenties, and asked for two dollars back. Ten on forty-eight? Not a bad tip at all!
"I want you to have the extra ten for helping me as much as you did, making the phone calls and all. Thanks!"
"Well thank you, Eric. Good luck on the new job. Maybe I'll see you around some time."
With that, I got in the cab, and drove away. Back to the Greyhound. Where I was again instantly first up.
But I was think about how I was going to tell this story, and how I would end it. I decided it needed a moral, so I spent all the rest of Sunday composing it. And here it is:
"Everyone will eventually get to where they are going. But if they write down the name and address of their destination, they'll get there much. much quicker. And much, much cheaper!"
Thanks for listening.
Sincerely,
The Cab Guy
Sunday, November 18, 2007
Blah, Blah, Blah!
Have you ever met someone, started a conversation with them, and then come to realise that they clearly did not understand the rules of the "Conversation Game?" I met a guy like that just yesterday. I didn't kill or maim him, or damage him in any way. But I really wanted to!
I was driving my cab in Mesa yesterday, just trying to eke out a living. There weren't many calls in the east part of the Metro area, where Mesa is. I would have moved somewhere else, except that there weren't very many calls anywhere in the Phoenix area.
Around about four pm, I received a call to go pick up a fellow from a bar on Main Street. I don't really like bar calls at any time, but especially before sundown. Nighttime drinkers are bad enough; daytime drinkers are worse. They are more likely to be really drunk, less likely to be possessed of good humor, and more likely to be ridiculously ignorant. But, it is part of the job, so I put up with it.
A few minutes later I arrived at the bar, which shall remain unnamed, 'cause I don't need the potential legal hassles. But I will say this: the name of the bar is a synonym for 'a pig's thighbone.' Chew on that ham sandwich for a while.
Anyway, even before I opened the car door, I could hear the music blaring from the jukebox. I cringed at the thought of what having to actually enter the bar and expose my ears to the noise would do to my hearing. I prayed that my customer was seated near the door.
Entering the establishment, I made my way to the actual bar, where the bartender was conversing with a patron. As luck would have it, the patron was my customer. He asked if he could finish his beer. I nodded my assent, said I'd wait in the cab, and shot on out of there before my brain melted from the din.
A few minutes later, my customer, who I'll refer to as 'Jack', exited the bar, and made a beeline towards my car. Getting in, he told me the major cross streets to his destination. I put the car in drive, and away we went.
Jack immediately started a dialogue that was liberally spiced with epithets of all types, including the venerable F-bomb, but, oddly enough, lacking any trace of the N-word. Curious. Going on in this vein, he eventually wound down, and asked me how the cab business was going for me.
"Slow, today. But I'm doing alright, overall."
"Is this the only thing you do?", he asked. Why is it that so many people assume that being a cabbie isn't really a full-time profession, or really even a job?
"This is my full-time job, but I also write, and do stand-up comedy now and again."
"Who do you write for?"
"My loyal readers."
"What do you write?"
"Cab stories, and the occasional bit of 'wacky' fiction."
I then proceeded to tell him about the epic of degenerate excess that is growing, slowly, over at my other blog, Disco Bisquit (www.Doscobisquit.blogspot.com). I asked him if he knew where 'Tom Ryan's Bar' was. As it turned out, TRB was his destination. (Shocking... a day drinker going from one bar to another!) It also turned out that he knew that the previous name for the TRB was 'Group Therapy.' Which begat a round of "do you remember so and so...?"
Now let me fill you in on a few facts. About ten years ago, I used to hang out pretty regularly at Group Therapy. I was usually there on Wednesday nights for the Karaoke, and Saturday nights for the live band. I knew a few of the other semi-regulars, and they knew me. I can remember only a few names, but literally dozens of faces from that place. Keep this in mind as you try to follow the conversation ahead.
"So do you remember Jim?"
"No Jack, I'm not really good with names. I remember faces pretty well, but I have a hard time putting names to them. If you were to pull out a bunch of random photos, though, I could point out the people that went to Group Therapy, and the people who didn't."
"So you probably remember Corvette Bob, right?"
"No, Jack, like I said, I'm bad with names..."
"Well, you have to remember Tommy and his wife... what was her name?"
"Jack, like I said, I'm bad with names..."
"Oh, yeah! Now I remember! Her name was Diane. You remember Diane, dontcha?"
"No. The name thing, remember?"
"Yeah I know what you mean. But you gotta remember Jimmy. You remember Jimmy, right? Everyone knows Jimmy."
"No..."
And that how the conversation went, for the next ten minutes. Probably the most excruciatingly painful ten-minutes from the last thirty days of my life. Jack would ask if I remembered someone. I'd reply in the negative, and every once in a while remind him that I wasn't good with names.
And I know the sunuvabitch knew I wasn't good with names. He heard me say it, several times. He even acknowledge that I said it! He just didn't care. He just wanted to me know how important he was, and the only way he had of doing this was dropping the names of other important people. And who were these important people? Regular, habitual drunks who patronized a bar that changed it's name almost ten years ago.
Thankfully, the trip finally ended, without me swerving the car into oncoming traffic, or pulling over and beating the leaving Hell out of Jack. He gave me a twenty for a seventeen dollar fare, which is a pretty generous tip. But not nearly the recompense I felt I was due for having to put up with this nimrod for almost twenty minutes.
Just before he exited the cab, I asked him...
"Say, Jack, do you remember Rick?"
"No..."
"What about his girlfriend... what was her name? Laura, Loreen, Lori... Lauren! That's it, Lauren. You remember Lauren, don't you?"
"No, but then again..."
"How about Sammy? Shifty Sammy? Everybody knows Shifty Sammy. You gotta remember Shifty Sammy, dontcha?"
"Well, not really..."
"Well, Hell, Jack! What's going on here? I thought you knew everybody!"
He tossed me a dirty look, closed the cab door, turned, and shambled away into the bar.
Welcome to my world. If you want to hang out, you'd better pack a lunch.
Sincerely,
The Cab Guy
Saturday, November 17, 2007
Life Imitates Art
I've figured out that if I drive a cab long enough, I'm either going to meet a famous person, or meet someone who has the same name as a famous person. So far, it hasn't happened to me, but a cab driver friend I know did meet someone who shared the name of a relatively well-known movie character. I thought the outcome was hilarious!
Jeff E. is the name of my cabbie friend. We used to work for the same cab company in the Phoenix area, but I recently moved on to another company. We keep in regular contact by phone, sharing war stories, and comparing our daily results. I'll let Jeff tell the story his way:
One day, about a year ago, I went to a house to pick up a lady who's name was Sarah Connor. At least that was the name given to me by the dispatch system. As you probably know, "Sarah Connor" is the name the character played by Linda Hamilton in the "Terminator" movies. In the first movie of the series, the Terminator, as played by Arnold Schwarzenegger, tries to kill Sarah; later on in the series he tries to save her from other terminators who are trying to kill her.
At one point Arnold's character meets Sarah, and says, "If you want to live, come with me!" I thought I might have a little fun with this situation, if the timing was right.
When I arrived at my Sarah Connor's house, I made sure that my Ray Ban sunglasses, like the ones the Terminator wore, were on straight. I then got out of the car, walked up to the door, and knocked on it. I waited a few seconds, then the door opened to reveal a very disheveled woman. In my very best 'Arnold' voice, I asked,
"Are you Sarah Connor?"
"Yes," she replied.
I then held my hand out to her, just like Arnie did in the movie, and said,
"If you want to live, come with me!"
I was only joking, but she totally freaked out! She screamed, slammed the door, and I never saw her again.
For a little while I was worried that I would get in trouble for what I had done. But I never heard of any complaints. I still laugh every time I think about the look on her face; it was hilarious!
Jeff called me up today to tell me that story. As soon as he said the name "Sarah Connor," I knew where he'd be going with the story. I started laughing almost immediately. Every time I've thought of it since I've had to giggle.
Thanks, Jeff, for letting me tell your story!
Sincerely,
The Cab Guy
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Steffan's Walk
Most of the time, when a person steps out of my cab, they effectively step out of my life. My memory of them usually fades quicker than a bright shirt dropped in a vat of bleach. But I'm still thinking about Steffan...
I was at the Greyhound Bus station Thursday night, waiting for a 'go home' fare. I had been sitting in the 'first-up' position for about thirty minutes, after waiting 'on-deck' for an additional thirty minutes. I was beginning to wonder if it was really worth waiting at the station for a fare, or if I should just try to get a call off the dispatch system.
To me, it wasn't a good sign when the third-place cabbie, a Greyhound stand veteran, decided to leave without picking up a fare. What did he know that I didn't? I didn't feel much better when the second place guy also started to leave. I watched him pull up to the parking lot exit, and activate on his turn signal. It was obvious that he was waiting for traffic to clear. Traffic cleared for a few seconds, but he didn't go. Then his backup lights came on. This could only mean that he had a reason to stay... Turning back to the Greyhound entry, I saw people starting to stream out of the door.
I young man, who I later found out was named Steffan, walked over to my cab. Steffan was burdened by a HUGE backpack, and was pushing one of those tricycle baby strollers, it being overladen with bags of various types of foodstuffs. He replied in the positive when I asked him if he needed a cab. Opening my truck, I helped him get his backpack and the food bags secured. The stroller wouldn't fit in the trunk, but luckily, it folded, and we were able to place it on the back seat. I asked Steffan where he wanted to go. He pointed to a map he was holding, indicating the intersection of Main Street and Country Club road in Mesa. Woo Hoo! I had my go home fare!
As we headed east towards Mesa, Steffan and I began to talk. He had a accent similar to German, but otherwise spoke very clear English. I never did get around to asking him where he was from. He told me he walking across America for cancer. I assume that what he really meant was that he was walking across America because he was opposed to cancer, and was trying to raise money to help find a cure. It turned out that this was the correct interpretation.
As it turns out, Steffan does not have anyone sponsoring him in his endeavor. He does have a list of people who have pledged to donate to a particular charity if he completes the trip. But no sponsors. Steffan is taking money out of his own pocket to cover all of his costs as he walks across the United Staes, from California to Georgia. Quite dedicated to his cause, Steffan is.
I wondered why it was that I met him at the Greyhound Station, if he was walking across America. As it turns out, about ten days into his trip, Steffan ended up in Blythe, California. After spending about a day asking around for various roads or highways to take him further along, he found out that the only road east was Interstate 10. He said he didn't get too far out of town before a Highway Patrol Officer stopped him, saying it was illegal to walk along the side of an interstate highway. The officer then drove him back to Blythe, where he caught the bus to Phoenix. He wanted to use Mesa as his jumping off point.
Steffan told me that he was over four hundred miles east of his starting point, but he had only walked two hundred and ninety of those miles. He told me he was disappointed to have cheated, but didn't feel like back-tracking. Having not walked any distance greater than three miles at one time during the last decade, I had no opinion to offer on his "cheating." I was just amazed to meet someone doing what he was doing, with no sponsorship, no support.
I dropped Steffan off at a Mesa Fire Station near Mesa Drive and First Street. He said he was going to ask the firemen if he could sleep on the garage floor, or in the yard to the back of the station. He told he had done this before, that fireman were usually glad to accommodate him after they found out what he was doing. I wished him luck in his endeavor.
Just before parting ways, I asked Steffan if there was a way to contact him. He told me that a friend of his was in the process of putting up a website, www.SteffansWalk.org. It turns out that I can email Steffan through this site, although, at the time of this posting, it is not yet available. As soon as I notice that the wesite is active, I'll make another post saying so.
I just wanted to write about Steffan to remind everyone who reads this that there are people out there in the world who think they can make a difference. All by themselves. And are willing to walk across a continent to prove it!
Godspeed, Steffan!
Sincerely,
The Cab Guy
How About A Flat Rate?
Sometimes it seems to me that everyone is trying to "get over" on the cabby. At least once a day some nimrod will get into my cab and ask me for a "flat rate" which is to say, a firm declaration on my part at the beginning of a trip how much I will charge the passenger at the end of the trip.
Now, I know some people, based on past experience, having taken the same trip dozens, or maybe even hundreds of times, already know the approximate fare of the trip they're about to take, and don’t want to have to fumble around with paying me, and then waiting for their change. They already know that the cost will be about, say, $12.00, and they would just as soon give it to me up front, and settle back and enjoy the ride.
These type of people are being honest and upfront with me, and usually say something like,
"I normally pay $12.00, with a two dollar tip; is that good for you?"
In cases like this, I quickly estimate the fare in my head, and if it’s close, I take the money, and off we go.
However, for other people, there is a more sinister motive. What they want to do is pay less than the service is worth, usually a lot less. These folks will ask for a flat rate from point A to point B, knowing that if I accept it, they are going to have the opportunity to con me into believing that the service they actually want is the service to which I agreed.
It usually goes some thing like this: "Fifteen okay for this trip?"
If I say yes, then all of a sudden they start asking for detours and extra stops along the way, in essence, cheating me out of my proper recompense. I can usually sniff out these morons, because their speech and body language gives them away.
I like to have fun with them, and ask a question like,
"Hey, do you have to negotiate your paycheck with your boss?"
Of course, I usually get a response like, "What do you mean?"
I say, "Well, what if, when you go to work in the morning, your boss were to say, 'Hey, how about I only pay you half of your hourly wage today?' Would you go for something like that?"
"Hell, no! He ain’t gonna rip me off that way!"
This is when I retort, "'Hell No!' is right, and I'm the same way. I don't negotiate my paycheck, and I don't do 'flats.'"
"Besides which, speaking of flats, if it comes to that, I’ve got a spare in the trunk."
Sincerely,
The Cab Guy
(This little rant was excerpted from my column, "Road Rage: Tales From the Taxi," and appeared in a February, 2003, issue of Fast Lane Magazine, a Phoenix-area entertainment guide.)
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Gypsy Cab
Well, friends, I've received my first true cab story from a reader. Ron writes of his experience with a 'gypsy cab' in Bulgaria. I post it here for your enjoyment.
Keep in mind that I know the reader, Ron, from another venue, where we play on-line poker for free points and bragging rights. Ron and I became pretty friendly with each other one night when we found ourselves in a wild game with several fish. As I remember, patience paid off for both of us that night, as both of our "chip counts" were substantially up when we left the game.
I have posted Ron's story 'as is,' except I have substituted "The Cab Guy" for the name by which he knows me.
Hey, Cab Guy,
Thanks for pulling my chain; I just read and enjoyed your story about Ross.[Ed. note: see "Dude, Where's My Cash?"] I’m still teaching at American University in Blagoevgrad, Bulgaria and still enjoying doing so. Funny thing, this past week was our fall break and my ex-wife (now girl friend) came over to visit for 10 days. She flew into Sofia, about a two hour ride from here, 78 leva ($60) round trip by taxi AND GAS COSTS ABOUT $7 PER GALLON.
Anyway, on her return trip we decided to spend the weekend in Sofia, the country’s capital and a city of about 1.4 million. Taxis are generally very inexpensive anywhere in this country – not so this time for me. We had taken a cab to an outdoor market for maybe 3 leva (2 bucks). After walking a great deal MJ, my girl friend/ex-wife, was tired and cold so I hailed a cab to take us back to the hotel. The ride was unforgettable; I’ve watched more sedate driving on TV watching European road rallies. Anyway, when we got to our destination I pulled out three leva (about 2 bucks – see above) and he pointed at his meter showing over 7 leva. Fortunately, the hotel bellman was there to intervene and keep me from doing something really dumb. I can afford $5 dollars for a taxi ride if I’m staying in a $150 per night hotel but that wasn’t the point.
As the doorman explained, after I paid exactly 7.3 leva (no tip this time), there are some gypsy taxis that have the same name OK Taxi and the same yellow color as legitimate cabs, the difference is the legitimate taxis have two red dots on their name. Now I know, understand, and still don’t like it but . . .
Now back to reading another of your blogs – sure beats working. Hope to find you at a table again, my chip count’s a little short.
Best to you.
Ron
Well, Ron, I was entertained by the idea that you were "rolled" by the driver of a "Gypsy Cab" in a land so close to the ancestral homeland of the real Gypsies. If it's any consolation, you could think of it this way: it probably cost less than the rollercoaster ride at any Six Flags-over-wherever-the-hell-we-are. See you at the tables real soon. I'm feeling lucky!
Sincerely,
The Cab Guy
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Australian Cab Fare Prepayment Debate
I'm constantly on the Internet, looking at information related to the cab industry. A few weeks ago, I found this debate about the prepayment of fares. I'm not even sure you'll find it interesting. Maybe I'm just getting lazy. Well, give it a go anyway. You might find the information useful.
I forget the website from which I got this 'debate.' I doesn't really matter, because I changed all the names. "Tom" is the alias of the person running the site, with the responses being from "Tom's" readers; mine is the last.
[Post Update: After re-reading this post (on November 21, 2007), I realized that I should have indicated that ALL of the names, save for mine, were aliases. Sorry for any confusion. Also, in his comment, Lucky 327 reminded me where I found the original post. It's at Bytes From the Backseat. Sometimes, this blog is a lot like Russian history: it's subject to revision!]
"Prepayment for Taxis" by Tom:
I had an interesting if rather annoying conversation with a customer last week. Interesting because of his point of view. Annoying because like a reasonable percentage of my customers he was drunk.
Basically he was saying that in his opinion all taxi fares should be pre paid at the commencement of the journey. When I pointed out that drivers had the right to ask for the fare in advance already he told me I was missing the point.
The point according to him is it creates a problem between the passenger and driver if the driver asks for the money in advance. All that could be avoided if DPI (dept of planning and infrastructure, taxi unit) and all the other relevent body’s implemented blanket pre payment of all taxi fares. Further to that he suggests an ad campaign utilising tv, radio and print media to ensure everyone knows about it, thereby eliminating any trouble in the cab and also eliminating the problem of non-payers or runners.
Honestly the idea is solid, I mean even carrying drunks would be less stressful if you knew the money side of things was already taken care of. Taxis are the only form of transport around that offers pay at destination. Sure there are some issues with credit/debit cards etc and how to ‘pre pay’ a fare then charge the correct amount once at the destination but I’m sure they could be sorted out.
I think it’s time we moved out of the dark ages and made the change.
This entry was posted on September 29, 2007 at 4:37 and is filed under fares, info, opinions . You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.
3 Responses to “Prepayment for Taxis”
Red Foreman Says: October 24, 2007 at 5:27
I’ve read this blog for a time, on and off. Nice color scheme, and very informative.
and yes, if there was someway to make everyone pre-pay, wouldn’t things be so much easier. I’m gonna add you as a link.
JackTheRipper Says: October 27, 2007 at 10:26
I have argued for this for years and run into all sorts of inexplicable opposition. The owner of the largest company in my city stated at a public meeting that there were a lot of unscrupulous drivers?! Apparently he was oblivious to how that statement reflected badly on him. It was actually after being ripped off every week for 9 weeks that I finally quit driving, after 20 -plus years, fed up. I’m happy to say I’ve finally found a job doing something I love, with people I respect, but I haven’t forgotten the need to protect drivers. The city I live in is pathetically conservative, and it is next to impossible to mobilize drivers to act in their own interest; I wish you luck. Let us know how it goes.
The Cab Guy Says: October 29, 2007 at 2:14
I drive for a large taxi company in the Phoenix, Arizona (USA) metro area. You know, I agree with you on this issue. But, I have the feeling that your customer meant “pre-payment of a flat rate fee”, rather than a “deposit against the ultimate fare” given his resistance to your explanation.
Here in Arizona, cab drivers have the right to ask for a deposit in advance of the fare. As a matter of fact, several police departments in the area recommend doing this.
I have a written list of conditions or circumstances under which I might ask for a deposit, which I will show to a potential customer if I am accused of prejudice or racism, or he doesn’t understand why it is appropriate to ask for a deposit. Most people comply immediately, because they’ve been asked before, or they see the logic. Most of the rest comply after I explain the situation.
A few rare individuals exclaim their indignation, saying that I should be ashamed of myself, and that I should just trust them. These people are then refused service. Generally they demand that I call them another cab. I always refuse to do this, and tell them why.
“Look, sir, I am allowed by state law to require a deposit, for any reason, or no reason at all. Your refusal to comply leads me to believe you won’t pay me at at all. There’s no way I’m going to put another driver through that. As a matter of fact, I’m going to notify my dispatcher that you won’t give me a deposit. He’ll make certain that any further calls from you will be cancelled.”
The way I look at it, if someone is offended by this practice, then they really don’t have any empathy for other people. Therefore, why should I trust them?
As to enacting something like a “Pre-Pay” system, I really don’t think there would be that many problems. Just estimate the trip mileage, calculate the fare from this estimate, add ten for fifteen percent for “wiggle room” (traffic delay, unexpected stops, etc.), give this total estimate to the customer, and clearly state that they will receive any change, if due, or owe a balance if the estimate proves insufficient.
I’ve used this procedure for years, and have never been accused of ripping someone off. I also do not worry about how the practise might affect my tip income, the way some cab drivers do. The way I look at it, I rather have 100% percent of what’s on the meter and no tip because of a deposit, rather than 0% of the meter plus tip because I failed to get a deposit. A a matter of fact, my actual tip income from these situations is fairly much on par with no-deposit situations.
In the old days, people could be trusted to pay someone what they owed, and that is why it was customary to collect the fare at the end of the trip. This custom has long since out-lived its useful life. It is an archaic practice that should have been eliminated a long time ago.
As a final note: this is what I say to people who refuse to give me a deposit because “the last guy didn’t ask for one”: “Well, if you’re so offended, then give him a call!”
Sincerely
The Cab Guy
Monday, November 12, 2007
The Heart-Attack Grill
Have you every wanted to go to a sit-down restaurant for a delicious meal of a hamburger and fries, and have it served to you in about the same amount of time it takes for a fast-food joint to 'bag one up' for you? Then you have to go the to The Heart-Attack Grill.
Last Saturday night, my good friend, Johnny Wraith, came in from out of town to visit me. Around about seven-thirty, we decided to go out to get something to eat. We're simple folk, and so we wanted a simple meal. Johnny also enjoys a fun atmosphere, so he said, "I want to go somewhere we can get a hamburger, and see women [dressed in a sexy manner]."
Actually, what Johnny wanted to see was cleavage. No, I'm lying about that. I was trying to protect Johnny's reputation, I don't know why.
What he really said was, "I want to eat a burger, and see some boob." He can be such a caveman, at times.
It only took me about ten seconds before I came up with what I thought would be the ideal place to fulfill our needs: The Heart Attack Grill, at the southwest corner of the intersection of Thomas Road and 44th Street, in Phoenix. It has a rather interesting gimmick: all the waitresses dress in nurse's outfits, and the menu is very simple, being limited to burgers, fries, soft drinks, beer, and cigarettes.
It doesn't take a Rocket Scientist to figure out why it's called "The Heart Attack Grill."
Although I had never been there, I had driven by the place several times, and had heard rave reviews. It seemed like the perfect place to fill our bellies, and satisfy my curiosity about the place. I described what I knew about the place, subtly hinting that I wasn't going to offer any other options.
Johnny was all for checking out the place, so we we're off.
Arriving at THAG around seven forty-five pm, I was a little concerned to see that there were few cars in the parking lot. At first I feared that the place did not live up to it's reputation, and that people were staying away. Then I remembered that it wasn't even eight o'clock on a Saturday night. (The joint started to fill up around eight pm.)
Walking towards the door, we were greeted by two friendly waitresses as we passed the outdoor patio, and several more as we entered the building. I loved the decor: just about the only things inside were several long, industrial-type steel tables with bar stool seating. A mannequin dressed up as a nurse was posed in the front window. Clean and simple. Nothing to distract one from one's food, or dining companions.
Except for the waitresses, who as I've said before, were dressed in nurse's garb. Skimpy nurse's garb. Very skimpy... well, you get the point.
We sat outside on the patio, which was also simple: about nine or ten wrought iron tables, four-place tables with chairs. Again, nothing to distract me from the meal at hand.
Except for the waitresses in their skimpy outfits.
Our waitress, Samantha, looking very fetching in her nurse's uniform, was very friendly. First, she took our drink orders: A Pabst Blue Ribbon for Johnny, and a Coke (in the bottle - so rare!) for me. Returning with our drinks, Samantha took our food orders: a cheeseburger without onions for Johnny, a cheeseburger (with everything) and fries for me. After having barely enough time to take one or two sips from our respective bottles, our dinner was delivered.
Amazing! A sit-down, full service dinner at fast-food speed. How do they do it? It's pretty simple, really. I'll let Samantha explain:
"Our complete food menu consists of only cheeseburgers and fries. All of the patties weigh a half of a pound, and all are cooked 'well-done' for health safety reasons. The only variation available is how many patties you want on your burger: one, two, three or four."
"Let me guess," I interjected at this point, "you call them 'Bypass Burgers?'
"Yep. Single through quadruple bypasses."
Johnny and I both had ordered The Single Bypass, not wanting to need an actual quadruple bypass later in life.
I love this concept. Because of the uniformity of the orders, the cook can start slapping burgers on the grill as soon as someone walks in. By the time the food order reaches him, the meat is almost done.
"How are your burgers?" Samantha asked us a few minutes later.
"Delicious!", we replied, in unison.
"How about the fries?"
"I love them!", I said.
Johnny, not wanting to be left out of the conversation, grabbed a few fries off my plate, stuffing them into his mouth. He was speechless; and why not? After all, his mouth was full! But, he nodded his head vigorously in agreement.
With two more beers for Johnny, and another Coke for me, our bill came up to $31.00. Here's the breakdown (I only paid attention the price of the beers for sure; I'm guessing at the rest, but I think I'm real close, as the math come out okay):
When we left, Johnny and I agreed that The Heart-Attack Grill had been the perfect choice for our dinner outing. We loved the food, service and ambiance.
Oh, yeah, I almost forgot; the view of the 'nurses' was great, also!
Heart-Attack Grill: I'll be back! Just as soon as I see a cardiologist.
Sincerely,
The Cab Guy
Sunday, November 11, 2007
Free Rice
Did you know there is a way to improve your vocabulary and help provide free rice to the hungry people around the world?
I clipped the following story from another Blog, Taxi Tales, written by Bob, a cabbie in Barrow in Furness, Cumbria, UK:Free Rice
Improve your vocabulary and donate rice to feed the hungry. Go on try it now, my rating was about 40, how well can you do? Click on the free rice link and get clicking now please.
FreeRice has two goals:
1. Provide English vocabulary to everyone for free.
2. Help end world hunger by providing rice to hungry people for free.
This is made possible by the sponsors who advertise on this site.
Whether you are CEO of a large corporation or a street child in a poor country, improving your vocabulary can improve your life. It is a great investment in yourself.
Perhaps even greater is the investment your donated rice makes in hungry human beings, enabling them to function and be productive.
Somewhere in the world, a person is eating rice that you helped provide.
Thank you.
I couldn't have said it better myself, Bob.
Folks, I've been to the Free Rice site a couple of times. It took me about 5100 grains of rice, but I finally achieved a rating of 50. Please take a few minutes each time you're on the 'Net, and go to "Free Rice." I've provided a link on my sidebar, in the section called "The Cab Guy's Web Favorites. It's a fun way to improve your vocabulary, and feed the hungry.
Sincerely,
The Cab Guy
Danielle's Dilemma
In my last post, "Date a Hot Phoenix Stripper," I asked the question: "How many of you guys out there would like to date a HOT PHOENIX STRIPPER?" This is because my friend Danielle, who is a hot stripper, is having trouble meeting a decent guy. I told her that I would find her a decent guy. Well, so far, no one has stepped up to the plate the help Danielle out.
This is not a joke! Danielle is a very nice girl, but because of what she does for a living, she has a very difficult time of meeting and dating decent guys.
You're probably wondering, "Well, Cab Guy, is Danielle is so nice and hot, why don't you date her?"
This is a valid question. Let me tell you, if I were about twenty-five years younger, I'd be 'all over it.' I guess you could say that I'm kind of an 'age bigot.' My preferred age range for the women to date is about thirty-five to fifty. Sadly, Danielle is much younger. Sigh!
So what do you say, guys? Do you want to date a hot stripper? Well, here's the rules:Send me an email describing your proposed date with Danielle. I'll show her the all the emails that I get, and she'll pick her favorites. My recommendation: be creative and romantic!
Send your email to me at Supercabbie@gmail.com, with the subject header, "I Want to Date Danielle."
I promised Danielle that I'd find her a decent guy. Don't let me down, fellas.
Sincerely,
The Cab Guy
Saturday, November 10, 2007
Date A Hot Phoenix Stripper!
I am just wondering: how many of you guys out there would like to date a HOT PHOENIX STRIPPER?
This isn't the setup to one of my ridiculous Cab Guy jokes: it's a legitimate question!
As your Cab Guy, having driven the mean streets of Phoenix for ten years, I have had the opportunity to meet literally hundreds of HOT PHOENIX STRIPPERS! I have become friends with many of them.
Do you want to know what most of them have in common? Believe it or not, they have trouble meeting decent men! That's right, I can hardly believe it myself! They're always asking me, "What do I have to do to meet a decent guy?"
Just tonight, my friend, Danielle, asked me this same question. You know what I told her?
"Danielle, I'll find you a decent guy!"
I've agreed with Danielle to set her up on a date with a decent guy. Do you want to be that guy? Help me out.
If you're out there, and would like to get to know a girl, not for what she does for a living, but who she is inside, here's want you need to do...
Send me an email describing your proposed date with Danielle. I'll show her the all the emails that I get, and she'll pick her favorites. My recommendation: be creative and romantic!
Send your email to me at Supercabbie@gmail.com, with the subject header, "I Want to Date Danielle."
Sincerely,
The Cab Guy
Semper Fidelis
Today is the 232nd anniversary of the founding of the United States Marine Corps. I just wanted to let you all know this, if you didn't, and relate an amusing anecdote that shows how dedicated my Dad, a former Marine, was to his Beloved Corps.
The San Diego Marine Band plays John Phillip Sousa's Semper Fidelis.
My family moved to Phoenix after my dad retired as a Captain from the United States Marine Corps in 1971. At that time, my parents bought the first house they ever owned, or, for that matter, lived in for more than two years.
When the phone technician came to install our service, he asked my father if he would like to have a phone number with the last four digits holding special significance. He chose 1775, which was available.
Supposedly the tech said, "Don't you mean 1776, the year the USA became a country?"
"No," my Dad said, "I mean 1775, the year the United States Marine Corps was born!"
In 1979, I was to have entered the USMC through the PLC (Platoon Leader's Class) program. Sadly, I was disqualified by a back injury that occured just days before I was to have formally started the program. I remain, to this day, disappointed that I could not serve.
My dad died in 1989, but his beloved Corps lives on.
Semper Fi, Dad! Semper Fi, Marines!
To "The Few, The Proud, The Marines," Happy Birthday!
Sincerely,
The Cab Guy
Friday, November 9, 2007
Flat Rates and Lawyers
In the cab world, generally, when you work the really, really late hours, your customer base is radically different from the daytime sort. They tend to be wackier. That's why I prefer to work when the sun is in the sky. It helps preserve my sanity.
Last Monday evening I stayed out late to have a little fun at the Lone Butte Casino, south of Chandler on the Gila River Indian Reservation. After being there about an hour and a half, and losing some of my hard earned scratch at the blackjack tables, I figured that it just wasn't my night, and decided to go home. I cashed in my remaining chips, said goodbye to some of the dealers I knew, and headed for the parking lot.
I had come to the casino directly after work, and so I had my cab with me. I usually have my cab with me when I'm not working, for two reasons. Firstly, I'd rather run up the miles on the company's car, rather than my own; and secondly, I can go to work at a moment's notice. I don't mean to imply that I'm tied to the job, far from it. But if a personal customer should call, and wanted to put fifty dollars in my pocket for an hour of my time, then I wanted to be able to jump on it.
Anyway, I got into my cab, started it up, and began the thirty-minute drive back to my house. Just for laughs, I turned on the computerized dispatch system, just in case there were any calls close by. As luck would have it, there was a call in between the casino and my house, about five miles away. I went ahead and bid on it, and received it.
"Cool," I thought, "I'll be able to recoup a little of my losses, then go home."
It took me only about eight minutes to drive to the customer's house, but in that time he called the dispatcher two times to check on my ETA. Not a good sign. At least I knew he still wanted a cab. But he was very impatient. Impatient people can be a handful of work, to say the least. I really didn't want to deal with any kind of crap from this guy. I hadn't even met him, and I already didn't like him.
Arriving at the pickup address, "Peter" was standing outside, practically hopping up and down on one foot. I really hoped he didn't have to pee! Rolling down the window, I asked him the obvious:
"Are you Peter?"
"Sure am!"
Peter started to get into the car, and without even giving me his destination address, asked me the most insulting question you can ever ask a cabbie:
"Will you give me a flat rate of forty dollars?"
My usual response to the flat rate inquiry is a resounding, "NO!" But he had stated a dollar amount, without a drop address; maybe the fare would be less than forty. I had to check before saying no.
"Well, where do you want to go?"
"Bell Road and Tatum Boulevard."
"Sorry, no, that's about a fifty dollar fare."
"Well, you should do it for forty dollars, 'cause I'm a big tipper!"
"Yeah, I know all about those big tips. As a matter of fact, I can feel you trying to put your big tip in my bunghole. It's a fifty dollar fare, and if you want to go, then I want the money up front!"
"I'll pay you when we get there!"
"No, you'll pay me here, or you'll never get there. Let's not even start the whole 'don't you trust me?' debate, because, after you started our relationship with the whole flat rate issue, no I don't. Pay up, or get out!"
Not very appealing customer service, I know, but he wasn't a very appealing customer. And I was on a bit of a short fuse. Trust me, you had to be there. But after a few more seconds of verbal sparring, Peter finally gave me a hundred dollar bill as a surety against the fare. I turned on the meter, and we were off.
As it turned out, Peter, although he was a little drunk, was an okay guy. I say this even after finding out he was a lawyer. His idea of a compliment was to call me the biggest prick he had ever met. I didn't take offense, because coming from a lawyer, it is indeed praiseworthy to be a considered a prick. Plus, he told me up front that he considered being called a prick to be a compliment, so he thought he was being complimentary.
I told him I wasn't offended; he'd know right away if he ever stepped over the line with me.
"How so?", he asked.
"I'll pull over and let you walk. With no refund."
"My God, I so admire you! You are the biggest prick I've ever met, maybe could ever hope to meet!"
Are you starting to get the picture of what late night customers can be like?
"Well, Peter, you're not so bad yourself. But you need to work on your prick skills, 'cause frankly, you suck at it. I know of at least half a dozen lawyers with better fare negotiation skills than you have. Hell, at least two of them would have convinced me that not only should I pay the fare, but I should give them thirty-three percent of the action to boot. You've got a ways to go, kiddo. But I mean that as a compliment!"
"It didn't seem so complimentary to me."
Yeah, but it was okay for him to call me a prick, just because he thought calling someone a prick was a compliment.
"And by the way, cut me some slack on the negotiating thing, will ya? I passed the bar exam, but haven't even been admitted yet. I'm still learning."
"Fair enough."
Well, we had a pretty nice conversation for the thirty minutes or so it took to get him to his destination. And I really did begin to like Peter, even though he was a lawyer. He had a good, solid, if somewhat drunk and narcissistic, head on his shoulders. He probably will make a pretty good lawyer someday.
Pulling up to Peter's destination, the meter showed fifty dollars and fifty cents. I decided to cut him a little slack.
"Well, the fare is fifty dollars. You gave me a hundred, I owe you fifty."
"No, just go ahead and give me forty. Keep ten for yourself. I told you I was a bigger tipper."
"And so you are. Never doubted it for a moment!"
And so he was. It certainly was how odd, though. After all, he tried to cut his fare, and my wage, by twenty percent; but having failed in that endeavor, he tipped me to the tune of twenty percent. I'll never figure out people and their money issues.
As Peter exited the cab, I gave him my card, saying,
"Call me anytime. Hell, I might even give you a flat rate next time!"
"Hey," he said, "I take back everything I said about you being a prick. You're a hell of a nice guy!"
"Just joking, Peter. I never cut my fares for anyone. It hurts the wallet to much. But thanks for calling me a nice guy! It means a lot to me, coming from a newbie lawyer."
"Prick!", he exclaimed, while laughing. "Thanks for the ride, I really enjoyed it!"
"They always do," I thought. "They always do!"
See what I mean about the overnight customer base? You just never know what you're going to get.
Thanks for stopping by.
Sincerely,
The Cab Guy
Thursday, November 8, 2007
World's Smallest Car?
I wanted to take a little break from writing, but didn't want to deprive you, my Gentle Readers, the opportunity to see some sort of fresh content today. Check out this video of the Peel P-50, supposedly the world's smallest car.
Watch the video, then click "read more" for my comments.
Something you won't see in this video, which I discovered by watching another one, is that it does not have an electric starter. To start the engine, you have to pull on a starter rope, just like a gasoline powered lawn mover!
Also, the other video showed a "bubble top" version that was intended to be a two seater. However, it was no wider than the version shown in the video. The occupants looked rather cramped. But it also looked like they were having fun.
The gas mileage is excellent. If I could only figure out a way to take three or four additional people along with me, it would make a great, low-fuel alternative to the Ford Crown Victoria I use now. I wonder if I could persuade people to ride on the roof... or, how about they all climb in a little red wagon I could pull behind me?
Maybe not... but just thinking about it brought a smile to my face.
My hat's off to the Peel P-50. Now that's quite a car!
Sincerely,
The Cab Guy
Update - (11/10/07, 01:18 AM) I just realised that if you click on the "Menu" button on the video gadget, and scroll the thumbnails, the fifth one from the left will show you the video of the sports version of the Peel, with some other interesting info. It's a fun video, also.
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
Ships in the Night
Have you ever heard the expression, "Like two ships passing in the night?" It's supposed to be romantic code for a situation where two people who are meant to be together never quite meet up. I used to think it was just a tired Hollywood cliche. But not anymore...
Done with a day of trying to grind out a living on the mean streets of Phoenix, I decided to try my luck over at the Greyhound Bus Station cab stand. At about eight in the evening, I pulled up to the station, saw another driver in the first position, so I parked in the "on-deck" area. I got out of the car, and walked over to the other driver, to catch up on the bus schedule, and the events of the day.
While we were talking, a young man of about twenty to twenty-three years of age came up to me. As the other driver was sitting in his cab's driver's seat, all ready to go, I tried to make the sale for him:
"Taxi, Sir?"
His answer was not a no, nor a yes either, but a geographic inquiry:
"How far is Tempe?"
"Depends on where you want to go in Tempe. But the closest part is about five or six miles away."
"Is there a Ross in Tempe?"
"You mean the clothing store?"
"Right."
"Yes, there is, at the Arizona Mills Mall, at the northeast corner of I-10 and Baseline Road."
From here, the conversation starts to go all over the map, so I'm going to cut it down quite a bit for the sake of brevity and sanity. Apparently he was supposed to meet his girlfriend, who worked at the Ross Clothing Store, and wanted to make sure he went to the right one. Later events proved that as our conversation was all over the map, so was his thinking. He should have just stayed at the station.
Opening the cab's passenger door, I said,
"So does this mean that you need a taxi to the Ross, sir?"
"Yes."
"Hop in," I said, pointing to the driver. "He'll take care of you."
As they started to take off, I walked back to my cab, to move it into the first-place spot. After doing so, I hung out around the side of the cab for a few minutes, then went inside the station for a moment. What for, I can't remember. Age, and, a hundred thousand road miles per year will do that to you.
I came outside to see a woman talking to a gentleman, who pointed me out and said,
"I think he's the driver."
I sprung into action.
"Need a cab ma'am?"
"Yeah, I need to go to the Arizona Mills Mall."
Opening the passenger door for the cab, I wondered if I had just heard her right. Was it possible... Naw! Couldn't be. It only happens in the movies. The woman, also of about age twenty to twenty-three got in the cab. I closed the door, and went around to the driver's side. Settling my more than amble rear-end into the seat cushions, I started the engine, and we were off.
"You know, the last guy who left out of here also went to the Mills Mall."
"Your last fare went to the Mall?"
"Well, he wasn't my fare, another driver took him. But I talked to him for a couple of minutes. He said he had to meet his girlfriend at Ross."
"I work at Ross!", she exclaimed."
Just then her cellphone rang. She had a brief conversation that ended with the words,
"I'll be there soon. Yeah, I love you too."
I resumed our conversation.
"Wow. That's kind of weird. What a coincidence. Some cabbie takes a guy to Ross, and you work there."
"The guy on the phone was someone I was supposed to meet at the Greyhound. I've been there since six o'clock, waiting for him to show up! I guess he left before I even got there, because he called me just a few minutes ago, and said he was at the Ross at Arizona Mills. But what's odd, I don't even work at that store. I used to, but not anymore."
Well, it was about eight-twenty right now.
"No, you must have misunderstood me. The fellow I was talking to left the Greyhound not ten minutes before you walked up to my cab. And you were there since six? What time was his bus supposed to have arrived."
"Five o'clock. For a while I thought maybe he had missed his bus, but just now on the phone he told me his bus got in on time, and he had been there waiting for me. He thought I worked at that Ross, and decided to just go meet me there."
"And you've been there since six? And didn't see him? Couldn't you have called him on his cellphone?"
"No, he doesn't have one. He called me from the phone of one of the Ross employees. They remember who I am, and must have trusted him."
"So let me get this straight," I said. "You two were going to meet at the bus station. His bus got there at five o'clock, and he was on it. You got there at about six, and never saw him. But he was there the whole time?"
"Yeah. Strange, isn't it?"
"Yeah," I said.
"Just like two ships passing in the night," I thought.
Further conversation revealed that they had only seen each other once, several months ago, and she really only knew him from pictures and phone conversations. He came to visit her, I guess so they could get to know each other better. She told me that she had circled the station several times, and even had him paged, to no avail. Eventually, she gave up, and was about to go home, when he called her on her phone. Because she had been dropped off at the Greyhound by a friend, she needed a cab to go meet him at the Ross, across the street from where she lived, which is how I entered the picture.
Pulling into the mall, I went over to the Ross store. The young man I had last seen at the Greyhound, some thirty minutes ago, was sitting on a bench outside. The woman handed me a twenty for a sixteen dollar fare, and said to keep the change. Thanking me, she started to get out of the cab, then paused and said,
"I bet you see this type of thing all the time, don't you?"
"No ma'am, this is a new one to me. It's funny, and kind of romantically screwy all at the same time. Thanks for your business. I hope you two have a nice life. This will be quite a story for your grandchildren!"
She giggled and closed the door. I drove away, back to the Greyhound, laughing or giggling almost the whole way there. The experience had made my night.
I'm glad those two found each other. How many missed opportunities have we all experienced, because our ships had passed us in the night?
Sincerely,
The Cab Guy
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
Dude, Where's My Cash?
Last night, after working the streets from mid-morning to early evening, I decided to go sit on the cab stand at the Greyhound Bus Station. I was hoping that I might make an extra fifty dollars or so, and not have to work too hard to do it. Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time!
However, like all good plans, sometimes the unforeseen creeps up on you, and you end up with something completely different from what you expected. If you're anything like me, sometimes you end up scratching your head and wondering, "How in the Hell did I not see that coming?"
Now, I'll be honest with you. When something unforeseen happens to me, it's usually negative, at least as far as my wallet can tell. And I'm usually not surprised by what happened, so much as disappointed that, through lack of foresight, I allowed it to happen. Here's a case on point.
At about six-fifteen in the evening, there were three cabs on the stand when the event that I'm about to describe had its' genesis. The drivers in first and third place were up by the main entrance, standing by the number-one guy's cab, talking to each other, and, I suppose, soliciting people for rides. I was in second position, sitting in my cab, about twenty-five yards away. I had a clear view of the front door action, but I was really not paying attention.
You know how when you're in a doctor's office, maybe reading the paper, not really noticing what's happening around you, until your name is called, and then you come to full attention? That's how it is for me. My peripheral vision was on guard; if it detected anything important, like a trunk lid going down, I'd know it was time to move up to first place.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw luggage going into the number-one cab. A man and a woman were both standing near the open passenger door. I started my engine, but waited until the cab started to roll before moving. The woman got into the cab, the number-three guy closed the door for her, and the cab started to roll. I moved towards home plate.
As soon as I got there, the number-three guy opened my passenger door, and said, "He's going to Mesa." A man started to get in my cab. I'm going to call him Ross. Why not? As it turned out, that was his name. I didn't find that out until later, but I have to call him something. I popped the trunk, but Ross said he wanted to keep his luggage in the back seat with him. I usually prefer all luggage to be in the trunk, for safety's sake, but I didn't object. I wish I had, because luggage not in the trunk may also be a "red flag."
Closing the trunk, number-three again said, "Mesa!"
When I asked Ross for specific cross-streets, he said, "Main and Roosevelt."
I put the car in gear, and we left the lot. I turned right, moved up to the red light, and waited to cross 24th Street to take a shortcut across the airport.
(No, really! Crossing the airport eastbound to Mesa saves at least two miles over the next shortest path. So the customer saves about four dollars. Sure, maybe it cuts into my income, but it's the right thing to do. And besides, I'd hate to be called out for a being chiseler for taking a longer route.)
While I sat there waiting, Ross said, "Take the I-10 around to Dobson Road."
Unless directed otherwise, I would only use the I-10 if the final destination was south of US 60, which is the southern route to Mesa, accessed via the I-10. His destination was north of the 60. I didn't want to argue; I just wanted to point out a cheaper option.
"But," I replied, "the 202 freeway is right in front of us on the other side of the airport. It's shorter to go that way."
"I don't know about the 202. Go on the I-10."
I thought to myself,
"What's to know?" It's shorter. Shorter is cheaper!"
But I kept my trap shut. His way would cost about nine dollars extra. Whatever; I really didn't care if he wanted to overcharge himself. Had I thought about it, I'd have seen another red flag on the field.
"Okay, sir," I said, as I turned towards the I-10. The voice at the back of my head said,
"Hey, there's two red flags on the field!"
But I wasn't paying attention. Had I done so, you wouldn't be reading this story. Because it would be boring. Not paying attention to the voice in my head brought on the excitement.
Getting on the I-10, we went a few miles east to the US 60 east, then cruised towards Mesa. Over the next few miles, I wondered if he really wanted me to go all the way to Dobson Road. After all, I could take the 101 north to Main, then go east to Roosevelt. It's shorter, and avoids the road work at Dobson and Main, and removes the need to backtrack to Roosevelt. This would save about a mile and a half, and three dollars.
"Screw him!", I thought. He chose the long way. I'll let him tell me different if he wants. It was his look-out. He stayed mute. I drove on.
Exiting the freeway at Dobson, I drove north to Main. Unable to turn left at Dobson onto Main, I had to go north to a side street, then west to Roosevelt, then south, again crossing Main.
Okay, maybe this story seems a little long, just to get us to his destination. But I wanted you to get the feel for what was going on. The tedium of the longer trip, his disregard for his wallet, me ignoring the red flags. But I promise you, you'll love the rest of the story. I didn't know it at the time, but somebody was going to jail!
Spoiler alert: Not me!
Ross had me turn into an apartment complex, then park. This is where things started to get interesting.
"That will twenty-nine dollars, please," I said.
"Rather than about twenty!," I thought.
Gathering up his things, Ross pointed out the window, and said, "You see that apartment over there? That's where I'm going to get the money."
"Fine. Just leave your baggage here, as collateral until you get back."
"Why, don't you trust me?"
"Why should I? I just met you!", I thought.
"It's a standard practice in the taxi world. This way, I know you're coming back."
"But I don't trust you with my stuff."
"But I have to trust you not to run off without paying?"
"Well, I think you'd be treating me different if I wasn't a black man!"
So now we're playing Sociological Poker, and he just played the Race Card!
"Look, sir, just leave your stuff, go get the money, come back, and pay me off. I'm not out here working for stuff, I'm working for money. You're wasting my time. By the way, you need to know that the meter runs until you pay me off. We're up to twenty-nine fifty now."
"You can't let the meter run when the trip is over!"
Legally, the trip isn't over until he pays me off, and I can go back to work. If you thing about it, it makes sense. Since he's keeping me from draining another wallet, I get to take it out of his.
"Not true. I can. I do. I will."
"How come?"
"It serves to encourage you not to waste my time," I thought.
"It serves to encourage you not to waste my time," I said. "Please just go get the money, and we'll be done. Okay?"
He continues to get out of the cab, taking his stuff with him.
"Sir, leave your stuff, or I call the police."
"I'm coming right back!"
He keeps going.
"You're acting like you won't."
"So go ahead and call the police!"
"Okay. Got them right here on speed dial."
He walks away, with me in trail. I tell the police operator what's going on. She says an officer is on the way, and she'll stay on the line with me until he arrives. Meanwhile, Ross passes all the apartments that he could have been pointing at earlier. I follow, telling him what's about to happen.
"Sir, when the police get here, they will confirm that you have to pay what's on the meter, and that if you don't you won't like the result. Unless you like going to jail"
He turns to walk back to the cab. I turn with him.
"You gonna just keep following me?"
"Sure am. By the way, we passed the apartment you pointed at earlier."
He continued to walk away from me.
"You just did it again. Cut the crap. I know you're lying about living here."
"What makes you think I'm lying?"
"The way you're acting. That, and the fact that your lips are moving."
We came near the cab again.
"Okay, I'm gonna leave my stuff here by the cab, and go get the money. Don't put it in the trunk."
He left his stuff, and walked off between two buildings, towards a fence, on the other side of which was another apartment complex. I followed, watching him go around behind a building, and up and over the fence.
"Well, that does it! Your stuff goes in the trunk, and I'm going out to the street to wait for the PD!", I called out.
After a few minutes, an officer shows up.
I fill him in on what happened, and opened the trunk to show him what was inside, which was two suitcases and a shoebox...
"Have you looked at any of this?"
"No, sir, I was waiting for you. I didn't want to accused to stealing his stuff."
"Okay. Well, let's see what we've got. By the way, did he give you a name?"
"No, for the purposes of this story, I've just been referring to him as Ross."
Well, of course I didn't say this; just my idea of a joke. Sorry.
He opened one of the bags, and pulls out a Greyhound Bus receipt.
"It says here that his name is Ross," the officer says.
"Imagine that!", I reply.
Another joke. I'll stop. I promise.
Do you want to guess what else was in his luggage? No, not dope. But you're close. Except for eight shoeboxes, almost nothing else. Each box contained a pair of one hundred and fifty dollars-plus per pair Nikes. All brand new. Dope for basketball players.
The guy had almost a thousand dollars worth of brand new shoes, but won't pay his cab fare? What the eff?
At this time, "The Man I've Been Calling Ross" comes out the gate of the complex he took me into.
"Dude, where's my cash?", I ask.
"I got your money."
"Are you Ross?" This from the officer.
"Yeah. I got his money right here. Thirty dollars and fifty cents."
"Well, his meter's now at thirty-eight dollars. You got that much?"
"No, I don't. The meter was at twenty-nine fifty when I got out of the cab. I got an extra dollar here for him. That's all I'm paying."
"Unacceptable!", I interjected.
"What's your story, Ross?", asks the officer.
Ross starts babbling.
"Well, you see it went like this. I don't want to make this racial, but I have a feeling he'd be treating me different if I wasn't a black man..."
He blathered on, telling substantially the same story I had. Omitting the part where he jumped over the fence, of course.
The officer responded.
"Well, Ross, it's seems to me you made it racial. But that's neither here nor there. You gonna pay the man?"
"I'm only gonna give him thirty dollars and fifty cents."
"Unacceptable!", I interjected.
"Is that your final answer, Ross?", the officer asked.
"Yes!"
"Unacceptable!", I interjected.
"Okay, you're under arrest!"
"ME!", I exclaimed. "What did I do?"
"Not you, sir. Ross."
"ME!", he exclaimed. "What did I do?"
"Theft of services. Your actions, as described by The Cab Guy, and confirmed out of your own mouth, are proof enough for me."
He cuffed Ross, who started to complain about wanting to speak to the officer's sergeant.
"Don't worry about it. He'll be here soon. Meanwhile, get in the back of my car. Watch your head."
Well, I'm going to cut out all the boring details about what happened when the sergeant and some other officers arrived. Suffice it to say, while talking to the sergeant, Ross changed his story, including where he lived (which, as it turned out was the complex on the other side of the fence), at least three times.
But there is one final, interesting, detail. It turned out that Ross had an outstanding warrant for his arrest. He should have been avoiding the police. Why did he engage in an activity that pratically guaranteed that he'd come to their attention? Who knows. You'll have to ask Ross. Visiting hours are four to eight p.m.
If he had stayed inside his apartment, he'd have never been found. Later, he could have called the cab company, and gotten his stuff back after paying the fare.
But that's not how the Rosses of the world think. They're all smarter than we are, and are understandably confused when we don't recognize this.
Now, follow me on this. See, Ross tried to help himself to a free ride. When he saw that wouldn't work, he offered to pay what he originally owed me. He figured I just suck it up, take the thirty dollars and fifty cents, and let it go at that. What do we call this? Upside reward, with no downside risk.
But Ross didn't figure on having to deal with me. As a matter of fact, he even told me at one point:
"I thought the black guy (number-one cabbie) would be taking me."
Did he really think a black cab driver would be okay with being ripped off? Talk about racial discrimination!
But I know the law. It's almost a dead lock that he will be convicted, and forced to pay restitution, for the full amount of the meter, which by the time the whole thing was over, was over fifty-five dollars. He'll even be forced to pay compensation for any additional lost income, should I have to go to Court to testify. He probably won't get his shoes back until he coughs up the cash.
True story: six months ago I got a check for $196.00 from Tempe City Court, restitution imposed on an offender in a similar situation that happened about a year ago. And that started as an eleven-dollar fare!
See, for me, by standing my ground, even at the risk of Ross' arrest, I knew I'd be paid what I was owed. Either that night in full, or later time, with interest. (Remember the lost wages thing?)
What do we call that? Upside reward, with no downside risk.
So here's the moral of the story:
"If you're Red, or White, or Black, or Yellow;
Just give me my Green, and I'll be mellow!"
Thanks for stopping by.
Sincerely,
The Cab Guy
Monday, November 5, 2007
Scabbie Cabbie
Hey, how are you doing? I'm glad to see you! Hop in, let's go for a ride. Don't worry about the meter: this one's on me.
The company that I work for has a contract with the local Greyhound Bus Station for one of its brands (I'll just refer to this brand as XYZ Cab) to be the exclusive supplier for on-site cab service. What this means is that any driver of an XYZ Cab, if driving a properly authorized XYZ Cab unit, and in posession of a special ID, may sit at the cab stand at the Greyhound Bus Station, and wait in line for customers. All these conditions must be met in order for the driver to wait on the stand. If for some reason he forgot his ID, or doesn't have one in the first place, he may not be there, even if driving an XYZ Cab. Drivers of the company's other brands may not use the stand. Likewise, drivers for other companies may not use the stand.
As a matter of fact, if they're not "stand qualified" they may not even be on the property at all, unless dropping someone off; in this event, they must leave as soon as their passenger exits the cab. If, in the event that a Greyhound customer calls another company to pick them up, that driver may enter the property in order to pick up that particular customer, but must then promptly leave.
Greyhound, because they own the property, has the right to control who has casual access to their property and customers, and dictate the terms of cab driver qualifications. They recognize that some people may not like XYZ CAB, so of course, those people have the option of using other brands, if they initiate the call. I think this is a good system. XYZ Cab is one of the largest brands in the Phoenix market, and one of the most reputable. We who are sstand-qualified drivers self-police the activities of ourselves, and others who may attempt to circumvent the rules of the site.e do this to protect our company's investment in their partnership with Greyhound, and to ensure a high-quality level of service. Our drivers, on average, have not just good, but excellent, driving records; our cabs are properly licensed and insured; and our cars are maintained to very high standards. I wish the same could be said of every other cab company in the Phoenix Metro market, but it can't.
I happen to think that the customer has the right to choose any cab company they wish. If not mine, fine - bust out a quarter for the phone, and call some other company. Just remember, that other company that charges twenty or thirty cents less per mile may not maintain its cabs as well as we do. Or carry proper insurance. Or ensure that they have safe drivers. When the newspapers report problems in the taxi industry, our company is typically not named as having any violations (usually, any noted violations are minor ones), and is routinely held up, with another large company, as a model of the industry.
That's what your extra twenty cents per mile buys: safety and reliability. And more than that: a certain level of security. Some of the "scab cabs" that try to sneak in are even cabs at all. They're just private cars owned by private drivers, who may not even have valid driver's licenses, or even any kind of insurance, let along a proper level of coverage.
So why did I bring all of this up? To provide some background, context if you will, for the real story: The Scabbie Cabbie.
This last Sunday afternoon, I was first in line down at the Greyhound, waiting for a fare. To help prevent scab cab "scooping" (which is when an unauthorized cab attempts to steal a fare), the first guy in line parks his cab right in front of the door. (Up to an additional three other cabs may park about twenty-five yards away in specially marked spaces.) So there I am, waiting for the opportunity to make a little scratch, when I notice a cab from another company (which has had numerous Weights and Measures violations) parked on the far end of the lot. This is absolutely unacceptable, but I'm not one to jump froggy right off. I flashed my lights at him several times, waited a minute, and flashed my lights again, thinking that he'd realize that he'd been spotted, take the hint, and hit the road. He didn't.
Generally, I would have preferred to let the Greyhound security officer deal with the infraction, so that it wouldn't look personal, but I couldn't find him. So I walked over to the other driver, to remind him he couldn't stay on the lot, whatever the reason. (Now that I think of it, this last isn't strictly true: it is possible that a cabbie might bring someone to the station to pick up some baggage, or a friend; that customer would then exit the cab, conduct their business, and then get back in the same cab and leave. If this was the case, the driver would leave his meter on to show what he was doing. If anyone complained, all he'd have to do would be to go get his customer, and have that person confirm his story.) I noticed that he was on his cell phone, but his meter was not turned on. To be polite, I waited for him to finish his call, then I started to talk.
"You know you can't stay here, don't you?"
"Fxxx-you, I'll do what I want. I dropped a guy off here, and I'm waiting to see if he can get a ticket," the scabbie cabbie says to me. "I have the right to drop people off, or pick them up if they call me!"
Two things here. In the first place, I didn't appreciate that the very first word out of his mouth was "Fxxx." But I maintained my cool. In the second place, unless the ticketing machines are broken, you can always get a ticket. As a matter of fact, this is true even if the machines are broken: Greyhound staff will hand-write a ticket if need be. So this was a pathetic lie: I know the guy isn't coming back. But I maintained my cool.
"Of course you're absolutely correct on those points," I reply. (I actually did phrase it that way. Sometimes I'm subject to "putting on airs.") "The problem is, you dropped him off, and until, and if, he calls you back, you have to leave. I know you know this. Please leave the property, and wait off site for his call."
He has to leave: it's not just a dumb rule. This is to prevent people from just walking up to him, who he can then claim as "the customer I jut dropped off." Besides Greyhound wants it this way, and, like I said, that's their right.
"Fxxx you, you can't tell me what to do. I go where I want, and do what I want! Now just take your fat ass back to your cab, and leave me alone.
Again with the F-bomb, and a personal attack. Now it's on!
"Okay fine, I'll just have security handle this, you immature, foul-mouthed little child."
I turned to walk away. He started his car, and proceeded to leave the lot, but I guess he couldn't resist a parting shot.
"Fat Ass!"
Okay. It's true, I have a fat ass. I don't deny it. I'm not proud of it, but it doesn't really bother me. The way I see it, if you know I have a fat ass, it meant to looked at my fat ass. Like they say in show business: a bad review is still a review!
"Thanks for noticing. I appreciate it!", was my parting shot.
You might think that would be the end of it, but if you've read any of my other stories, you know it isn't.
As luck would have it, I immediately secured a fare, and left the property, turning right onto the street, and then moving over to make a left turn. Scabbie Cabbie was several cars ahead. He must have noticed me, because after making the turn, he moved into the right hand lane, and let me pass him on the left. I expected an uncomplimentary remark as I passed, but didn't get one. After I passed, he pulled in behind me. I could guess what he was doing, and you probably can, too, especially if you know, as some of you do, that the phone number to the company complaint line is pasted on my rear bumper.
Within a few minutes, my dispatcher asked me to call the Road Supervisor. The coincidence was exquisite. It had to be about the scabbie cabbie. I was not disappointed.
After informing me of the complaint, in which the other driver characterized his own behavior as polite, and mine as foul-mouthed and out of control, he asked if I had any response.
So I told him my side of the story. You know what I mean: the truth.
Well, of course he believed me, and told me not to worry about it.
"I figured it was something like that," he said. "But I have to investigate every complaint, even if on the face of it, it smells fishy. You did absolutely the right thing. Just do it that way every time, and we'll be able to keep things under control down there!"
The final score at the end of the game? Your Cab Guy: 1; Scabbie Cabbie: 0!
A win always feels good.
Well, here we are, back where I picked you up. Now you know why the ride was free: you didn't actually get anywhere!
Thanks for listening, please exit on the curbside, and I hope that you have a nice day!
Sincerely,
The Cab Guy
Sunday, November 4, 2007
Take That Horn and Shove It!
Hi there! Thanks for stopping by once again. It does my heart good to see that some people have an interest in what I have to say. Today I wish to relay to you my distress at how I think that car horn use today has gotten completely out of hand.
In the old days, when the earth was green and the air was clean, it seemed like people really understood what the car horn was for, because they only used it in one of the three ways that God had intended: to remind, to warn, and to announce their presence.
Let's say you were second in line at a red light. The light turns green, but the driver ahead of you doesn't go, even though it appears that the intersection is clear, and there is no reason he cannot. A short, friendly, single-toot would be appropriate to remind the driver in front of you that the light had changed to green. To keep it friendly, you, as the driver behind, would have had an obligation to wait at least two seconds since the light became green; otherwise, you'd have been considered an impatient son-of-a-bitch. This short single-toot would have said, "Possibly you haven't noticed that the light changed, but it is green now, and it's time for all of us to move on. Thank you."
Now suppose you were coming upon a driveway where another driver was backing out, into on-coming traffic. Possibly he sees you, possibly not. To remove any doubt, and provide a friendly warning, a short double-toot of the horn would have served to say, "Hey, I'm here; just wanted to say hello. Thanks for not hitting me." Nobody's feelings were hurt when they heard the double-toot; they were grateful that someone else was watching out for them. Also, the driver who had used his horn would also be ready to apply the brake, or steer out of the way, just in case the warning wasn't heeded.
Now, suppose you had a date for Saturday night. And, suppose you were supposed to pick your date up at eight o'clock sharp. And further suppose that you really didn't want to have to interact with her family, especially her father. In cases such as these, a long double-toot, or a horny rendition of "shave-and-a-hair-cut-two-bits", would have served to let your date know you had arrived, and were waiting for her. It also had the possibly happy side benefit of pissing off her father.
These were the only three socially approved methods of using the car horn. Oh, sure, there were variations on a theme. If, after the single-toot was given, and two more seconds went by, and the guy ahead of you still hadn't moved, then you could go up to the longer double-toot. And the full-on blare after another two seconds. But it was considered bad form, and totally inappropriate, to start with the full-on blare.
But it seems like these days that people's use of the horn has gotten completely out of control. And, it's use in situations that don't really make any sense is proliferating like wildfire.
Here's a few examples of what I'm talking about:
Two days ago, I was sitting first in line, waiting for a green light. Now, remember what green means? No, it does not mean "Go." It means, "Proceed when the intersection is clear, and it is safe to do so." If more people would remember this, we'd have fewer people get hurt and their cars bent because they lept out into on-coming traffic on the say-so of a green light. So, anyway, back to my situation: the light changed to green, but I could see that there was a cross-traffic car about to enter the intersection. Less than a second after getting the green, but long before it was safe to proceed, the guy in the car behind me started to blare his horn. Not a short, single toot, or a friendly double-toot, but a full on, ugly, "What the fuck are you waiting for, you dumb son-of-a-bitch?" blare. HOOOOONNNNNK! I ignored him, keeping my foot firmly on the brake-pedal. Naturally, he did not apologize when he saw the offending cross-traffic car run the red light. When the coast was clear, I waved at the guy behind me, and went on my merry way. He didn't wave back.
Yesterday afternoon, I was moving at about five miles per hour below the speed limit, northbound on Scottsdale Road, about to turn into a parking lot that was about a hundred yards up on my right. I put my turn signal light on about fifty-yards before my turn, and started to apply the brake as appropriate. Just as I started to turn, this jerk behind me started laying into his horn, blaring it for a least three seconds. What the Hell did he intend to say in this instance? "Get out of my way?" I was trying to do just that! Did he think that maybe I was moving too slow?
Sorry, but that's what I do when I'm about to make a turn: I slow down. His use of his horn certainly wasn't supposed to serve as a warning, or a least not as a useful warning, that he was back there. It's not my responsibility to worry about traffic that's behind me, but ahead of me. That's why God put our eyes in the front of our heads, so that we could see where were going, not where we've been. If his use of the horn was to let me know he was pissed off, frankly I don't care. If he thought I slowed down to abruptly, he shouldn't have been tailgating. If he thought I was moving to slow, he should have just gone around. The power to change his circumstance was in his hand, not mine. The appropriate place for his horn, in this insstance, was up his ass. After all, that's where his head was.
My final example is also the most illogical. I'm sure this has happended to you. You're tooling down the freeway, at a reasonabe and prudent rate of speed. You decide that you want to change lanes, so that you can go a faster, but still reasonable and prudent, speed. You look into your mirrors to see if the coast is clear. The closest car behind you in the next lane over is at least seventy-five yards back, and moving at a steady rate, equal to yours. You put your blinker on, and proceed to move into the adjacent lane. You've moved all of half a car width over, when all of a sudden, you hear a car horn blare. Looking to your mirror, you see that the car that was seconds ago seventy-five yards back, is now right on your bumper. The driver is using the horn as if to say, "Hey, you cut me off!"
Listen carefully to me. If you're the dillweed who was driving the car behind me, yeaterday, westbound on the 202 at about noon-time, then you are one rude, ignorant, horse's ass. Until I decided to move into the lane you were in, but seventy-five yards ahead of you, you were fine with your speed and position in traffic. But, as soon as I put on my blinker, you decided that you just had to go faster, and so decided to accelerate, either to prevent me from moving over, or cow me back into the lane I was first in. I don't care how loud and long you blasted your horn. You're the asshole, and nothing can change that. You couldn't have cared a rat's hairy ass about the space ahead of you, until you saw that I wanted it. Then, like a spoiled little baby who only wants the toy that some other child wants, you raced up to cut me off.
I'm not fooled in the least. Again I say, I don't care how long and loud you honk your horn. I'm not moving back. As a matter of fact, bring it on: rear-end me. I don't care. I've been rear-ended before, by people better than you. As to the horn: all it does is let everyone around you know what a pissy-brat baby you are. Kiss my ass! And while you're down there, do me a favor, and tie my shoelaces. But first, let me get my boot out of your ass, jerk!
This is a plea to retun to the golden days of driving, when everyone was much more civil. Please, be less horny out on the road.
In the bedroom, it's just fine.
Thanks for listening.
Sincerely,
The Cab Guy
Saturday, November 3, 2007
Happy Birthday, Mom
Well, hello again! Thanks for stopping by. Good to see you.
Today is a special day in the life of my mother, Arlene. Yes, yes, it's true, cab drivers do have mothers. Mostly. Except the one's that are the Demon Spawn of Satan. They're not born, they're hatched. Sans mama.
My Mom is seventy-five years old today, having been born on November 3, 1932. Happy birthday, Mom! I love you very much, and hope you have many more.
Several years ago, she told me that she has a goal of living to be 100 years old. Given that she takes care of herself, eats right, and gets regular check ups, I'd say that she has a real good shot of accomplishing this goal.
May I, and my blog, last long enough to memorialize that event.
Here's to living right, and living long!
Sincerely,
The Cab Guy
Friday, November 2, 2007
Three-Way on the Freeway - Part Three
Hello again. Thanks for stopping in for the conclusion to the "Three-Way on the Freeway" series. Here's a recap of the story thus far:
Part One: One Tuesday night in July of 2001, I was hanging out with a bunch of other cabbies, discussing things we'd like to see happen in our cabs. Someone mentioned that he'd like to see people having sex in the back of his cab. Several people agreed with this guy. I disagreed, considering this to be my nightmare. The very next night, Wednesday, my nightmare came true. Arriving outside of a suburban nightclub at about midnight, I discovered that my customers were waiting off to the side of the building. On the ground. Having sex.
Click here to read "Three-way on the Freeway - Part 1"
Part Two: Before we even left the parking lot of the Tiajuana Country Club, the two lovebirds started going at it. Their passion became more and more intense. Meanwhile, I kept up an internal monologue designed to help me stay focused. This worked fine for a while. Then it happened. My personal space was invaded.
Click here to read "Three-way on the Freeway - Part 2"
And now, the rest (truly) of the story...
So here I am, barreling down Interstate 10 at sixty-five miles an hour, with a couple of apparent sex-addicts in the back seat of my cab, humping like a pair of mad bunny rabbits hopped up on crack and Viagra. As if it wasn't distracting enough to have to listen to their animal noises of lust, and contend with the motion of the car in three dimensions (forwards due to the motive power of the engine, and back-and-forth, and up-and-down due to their wild sexual gyrations), now I had to deal with the additional distraction of the the nympho grabbing my seat. What next? Were they going to roll down the window and hang out, tongues flapping in the wind, like a couple of puppies on a Sunday ride?
I wish. At least then, with just a simple jerk of the wheel, they'd be hurled from the car, and from my life. Sure, I wouldn't collect the fare. But I was confident I could avoid manslaughter charges.
"Hey, Officer, I'm sorry they fell out of the car. Truly, I am. But everything happened so fast. They rolled down the window, started hanging out and before I knew what was going on, I had to swerve to avoid some road debris. It's a damn shame that they fell out, and died, and all of that. But what could I do? It was just so completely unexpected! By the way... did you happen to get a look at her rack? Niiiice!"
Sure, Joe Law might have his doubts about my sincerity, but what could he prove? That would be my story, and I'd stick with it.
Would I really do something like this? Well... probably not. But it's kind of fun to think about it, don't you agree?
Anyway, the Ballerina grabbed on to my seat back to steady herself while she rode the Convict like he was the last helicopter out of Viet Nam. Hard, fast, and low, dodging anti-aircraft fire all the way to the coast. This was really becoming tiresome. But I'm a professional. I just had to get these two sexual neutron bombs to the university, collect the fare, and move on with my life.
All at once, he bucked so hard that she was thrown up into the headliner, striking her head. Pausing momentarily to rub her noggin, I has a brief respite from the distraction of her yanking on my seat back. But a few seconds later, after she recovered from the blow to her melon, she moved to place her hand back on my seat.
And missed, grabbing my shoulder instead. And started to massage it. In the blink of an eye, I had gone from being in the car with them, to being part of their act.
I was part of a Three-Way on the Freeway.
Her hand upon my should started to meander. Towards my neck. Up my neck. Through the hair at the back of my head, to the hair at the top of my head. She ran her hand through my hair for several seconds, and then must have realized what she was doing, because she removed it. Probably because King Dong grabbed her, and maneuvered her around to the bottom of their personal dog pile.
"At last," I thought. At least that distraction was gone. With just a few more miles to go, it looked as if the coast was almost clear. But I still had to bring this train wreck in for a landing.
I pulled off of the freeway, and turned onto Mill Avenue, aiming the car straight at the university. Just two more miles to go, more or less. Things were calming down a bit in the backseat. Maybe they were through.
Almost as if they were reading my thoughts, and wanted to prove me a liar, things started heating up a bit. Switching positions once again, they renewed their energetic gym-nasty-ics. With a twist. She placed her legs straight up in the air. Glancing in the rear-view mirror, I noticed that she was wearing boots. Black. Calf-length. With three-inch heels. Should she decide to kick someone, those things could be deadly.
Monkey boy started plunging up and down between her legs as if he was drilling for oil in the Saudi Arabian desert. Naturally, each time he went down, he displaced her legs to the side. The deeper he went, the further apart her legs went. Closer and closer her boot came towards my head. Would I survive the last three blocks to their destination? I was beginning to have grave doubts. But things had gone on too long. I had let events spin too far out of control.
Wham. Her leg hit the head rest on the top of my seat, jarring me slightly. Oh heck, that wasn't as bad as I had feared. Then it happened again, slightly harder. Again, harder. Again. And again. And again. The rhythm on my headrest became a steady staccato on the head rest. These boots were made for stomping.
Wham... wham... wham... wham... It was if some giant, insane woodpecker had flow into my cab, and was drilling my seat as if looking for dinner. Wham... wham... wham... wham... wham... wham... wham... WHAM!!
Because she had shifted slightly, her boot missed the head rest, and landed squarly on my brain-case. This was too much! I had to do something! Quickly, before her boot clocked me again.
Thinking fast, I did the only thing I could think of in the heat of the moment. Glancing at the side-view mirror, because the rear-view was occluded, I saw that the coast was clear. I slammed on the brakes, tumbling the lovebirds off the seat, onto the floor of the car.
They apparently did not notice that anything was amiss, because they kept going at it like a couple of frantics minks. But at least I was safe from a possible concussion. And only one block from the end of the trip.
And good thing too, as I had only one block left of my sanity.
Pulling into the driveway of the dormitory they had named as their desination, I was almost free from my nightmare. Just a few yards to go. The action in the back was reaching a crescendo. Mere feet from the entry to the dormitory, they both sighed their final sighs, groaned their final groans, and moaned their final groans.
How had they managed to time the climax of their passion play so perfectedly? Had they done this before? Surely I would have heard the rumor!
I really didn't care. Approaching the door, I slowed to a stop. I could hear them rearranging their clothes. Glancing at the meter, I was about to announce the fare. But, before the words were out of my mouth, the were both out of the car like a shot. They walked behind the car, towards the doorway. I knew that it was an automatic locking door. Should they get through it, I would be unable to follow. Were they trying to stiff me? As if!
I quickly unbuckled my seatbelt, and hopped out of the cab, intercepting them at the back of the car, between them and the door.
"Hey! How about something for the effort? This isn't a hobby for me. It's my living!"
Looking sheepish, as if he'd been caught with his hand in the cookie jar, Orange Jumpsuit reached into his pocket, and pulled out his wallet. The Ballerina peered through the rear window, to look at the meter.
"The meter says nineteen. Give him thirty. He was a good sport," she said.
My heart began to melt. All of a sudden I was willing to forgive her for kicking me in the head, unintentional as it might have been. We both watched as he opened his wallet, sliding out a ten and twenty. She looked away. He slid the ten in with his thumb, and skinned out a five, as if he had practiced this grifters trick.
Sonuvabitch! I know I should have called him out on it, but I just wanted to be done with them. I took the money, and put it in my pocket. He looked at me, grinned, looked away, and headed for the door. She started to join him, but paused for her parting words:
"I hope we didn't distract you too much."
Sucking it up, I lied. At first.
"It's okay. There was no harm done. Up until the point when your boot hit me in the back of my head!"
She laughed, and headed for the door.
I couldn't resist a parting shot.
"Hey? How 'bout next time you get a room? I'm a cabbie, not a hotelier, for crying out loud!"
The door closed on their laughter.
I got in the car, sighed, turned off the meter, put the car in gear, and drove away.
Surely, the rest of the night would be all down hill. My nightmare was over.
Thanks for listening. I just had to get that off my chest.
Sincerely,
The Cab Guy
Thursday, November 1, 2007
Three-Way on the Freeway - Part Two
Hi there. Thanks for stopping by again. Welcome to part two of "Three-Way on the Freeway." Please allow me to recap the story thus far:
One Tuesday night in July of 2001, I was hanging out with a bunch of other cabbies, discussing things we'd like to see happen in our cabs. Someone mentioned that he'd like to see people having sex in the back of his cab. Several people agreed with this guy. I disagreed, considering this to be my nightmare. The very next night, Wednesday, my nightmare came true. Arriving outside of a suburban nightclub at about midnight, I discovered that my customers were waiting off to the side of the building. On the ground. Having sex.
"Take your time," I said. "I'll wait over by the cab!"
Click here to read "Three-way on the Freeway - Part 1
And now, the rest (almost) of the story...
I really wasn't looking forward to this trip. Having spent a good portion of my adult life working in the field of Criminal Justice, I had learned a thing or two about human psychology. This enabled me to make some fairly accurate assumptions regarding a person's future behavior based upon a behavioral snap-shot taken at the moment I first meet them. Anyone can do this when the behavioral clues are screaming at them. But what if the clues are more subtle?
For example, that two people were having sex, in a relatively open place, is not the clue that needs to be examined. This is just an overt behavior, which in reality, doesn't really say much about the participants. The clue that needs to be keyed in on? How did they react when they were discovered?
When I came upon them, a more "normal" reaction might have been one of surprise, and embarrassment or shame. In this case, I would have expected an exclamation like "Oh, shit!", followed by a desperate attempt to cover themselves up, with maybe a "We'll be with you in a moment!" thrown in for good measure. This would have told me that they really hadn't expected to be discovered. A valid expectation on their part? No, but in the throes of passion, when the little head does the thinking for the big head, reality is often denied, and people do weird things in weird places. Like full bore, man-on-top-woman-on-bottom sex. On the ground. Off to the side of a nightclub in a white bread, suburban neighborhood.
But these two didn't react that way. They were nonchalant. They didn't care that they might be discovered, the proof being that actually being discovered was no big deal to them. I'm not saying they were hoping to be discovered, although that might have been part of their plan. They didn't care that they might be discovered because they really didn't care about what anyone else thought about them.
That they really didn't care about what anyone else thought about them also meant that they really didn't care about anyone else's feelings. What about my feelings of surprise, embarrassment and shame?
You might be saying, "So what's the big deal. Get over it. Don't be such a cry-baby. They we just having sex, for Pity's sake. Man up, and move on."
Fine. Your reaction is a valid one, unless you've put more thought into the situation, like I have. What about my other feelings, like the need to feel comfortable and safe with someone that I just met? Who's sitting behind me as I drive down the street. Inches from the back of my neck. How can I feel like I'm in control, in the presence of someone who's behavior is so clearly out of control?
Feel differently now?
I'm not saying I was scared, far from it. Just creeped out. But I would have been more comfortable with these folks if they had just waited inside the bar for me, like "ordinary" people do. Now, I was waiting for the other shoe to drop. I didn't have long to wait.
To my surprise, they got to the cab almost before I did, and hopped right in, as if nothing untoward at all had just happened. I got a better look at them. He was dressed in an orange jumpsuit, like people in jail might wear. She was dressed in a frilly, "foofy" dress, almost like a ballerina's tutu. Odd. It wasn't Halloween, and I didn't think that the nightclub was hosting a masquerade ball.
"Where too?", I asked.
"Over by the university," he replied.
I started the meter, and away we went.
The parking lot wasn't overly large, but there were a lot of curbs to negotiate before I could get to the street. Glancing in the rear-view mirror just before turning onto Ray Road, I could see they were already going at it, necking up a storm.
"As long as it's just kissing, and maybe some fondling, it'll be okay," I remember thinking. I wouldn't have to talk to them, in that case. Not that I wanted to, anyway. I accelerated east towards I-10. The university was about tewlve miles away, a fifteen minute trip, more or less, if traffic was light. Maybe it would be an uneventful trip after all.
But you already know what I was about to learn. It would not be an ordinary cookie-cutter trip. How do I know that I know that you know this? Well, obviously there would not really be a story if all they did was make-out the whole way. The title of this story isn't "Couple Found Humping Outside Nightclub." It's "Three-Way on the Freeway."
We weren't even a mile down the road before the floorshow started. Their fumbling and groping at one another became more and more frantic. It was so intense that the car was actually rocking. He pushed her down onto the seat, and got on top of her. Someone opened his zipper. He groaned, she moaned. She sighed, he grunted. The car started moving up and down, as if we were going over a series of speed bumps.
I started giving myself a pep-talk.
"Ignore them. You're a professional. Keep your eyes forward, and concentrate on what you're doing. This'll be over soon enough. Gut it out. This probably won't be as bad as the time you had to drive thirty miles with a woman in labor. Now that was a wild ride! Any stain they might leave can't even begin to compare with what would have happened if her water had broken!"
Thinking back on the experience with the pregnant lady calmed me down.
"This'll be a walk in the park, compared to that!"
And it was a walk in the park. If that park was named "Central." As in, 'Central Park in New York City.' A dangerous place to be after dark, and sometimes not very safe in broad sunlight.
Speaking of broads, as I got on the freeway, the two lovebirds switched positions. They rolled over, and she got on top. I knew this, because she was blocking my view of the rear-view mirror. He started bucking so hard, I wondered if she'd be able to hang on for the full eight seconds. They started to sound like two cats in heat.
Ten miles to go.
"You can do this! Ignore them. At least she's just making a baby, not giving birth to one!"
They switched positions again. And again. And again... They had more moves than the Kama Sutra.
"Forget about it. They're assholes. You'll be done with them soon, then they'll be out of your life forever!"
She got on top of him once more. Then it happened. To steady herself, she grabbed the back of my seat. What with his bucking, and her riding him like she was breaking a wild bronc, my seat began to be jerked back and forth. Shit. Just eight miles to go. But, it's very distracting to have your seat-back jerked back-and-forth. I did my best to ignore it. If this was the worst thing that were to happend, I'd be grateful and count myself blessed.
To be continued...
In Part One, I dedicated this story to my dear friend, Johnny Wraith, who had asked for me to write a story about women changing their clothes. Right now, even though he's over a hundred miles a way, I can hear his plaintive question.
"Hey, Cab Guy, you're on the Freeway. When do we get to the Three-Way?"
Patience, my friend, patience. All good things come to those who wait. Have patience. I certainly did.
Sincerely,
The Cab Guy
Click here to read "Three-way on the Freeway - Part 3"
Thanks For Stopping By!
