Rico Suave Makes a Booty Call

Pay close attention, this story has a moral!

One night, a few months ago, I picked up four guys at a bar in Old Town Scottsdale. They all piled into the cab, and although I asked, they did not immediately tell me where they were going. It was about two in the A.M., but I could see that sleep was the last thing on their minds, except for one young man, who kept saying,

“I have to be up at nine forty-five in the morning!”
The others kept saying things to him like,

“Dude, come on over, we got more booze at home, and women are coming over!”

Sleepy Head finally acquiesced, so one of his buddies finally gave me a destination, telling me to go to the area of Thirty-Second Street, north of Camelback Road. On the way over there, while Sleepy Head is noticeably absent from the conversation, all I keep hearing is the other three guys talking about booze and women, women and booze. This is a scenario that I am somewhat familiar with, and if there’s one thing I know, it’s this: these guys will certainly have plenty of booze, but probably not enough women. If any.

Anyway, we get to their destination, and the three party animals start to pile out, going through the old “who has got what cash to pay the cabbie” act. You know what I mean. If you think about four friends at Denny’s when the check comes, but with far less organization, you’ll have a good idea of what I am talking about. Anyway, they give me fifteen dollars for a thirteen dollar fare, which is not bad for a ten minute trip at two in the morning. I say “Thank you,” and am about to pull away when I notice that Mr. I’ve-Got-To-Get-Up-Early-In-The-Morning is still in the back of the cab. His friends keep saying,

“Come on, Dude, we got booze and women, women and booze!!”

But they can’t convince him to stay with them. He tells me to take him back to Hayden and Indian School, because he wants to go home. Great, I’m thinking, back-to-back fifteen dollar fares! I must be living right. Good times!

Now, just as soon as we get out of the sight of his friends, he’s on his cell phone, talking to some chick. He keeps saying things like,

"Come on baby, I’m in a cab, I’ll be right over!”

Finally she must have agreed to his little late night rendezvous, because I hear him ask her,

“Where do you live again?… Fifty-sixth Street and Camelback… what’s the directions… okay… okay… uh,hmm… I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

Now, we’re southbound on Thirty-Second Street, already past Camelback Road, but I’m on the job. I make a quick U-turn, and off we go. He tells me that he needs to stop at the Circle-K on Forty-Fourth Street and Camelback. I figure that he’s gonna hit the ATM, or get some smokes, whatever. I pull into the Circle-K, and he gets out and goes inside. He comes out a couple of minutes later and starts opening what looks to be a pack of cigarettes. No problem, I smoke, so it’s cool. But then, oddly enough, he throws the package in the trash, and shoves something into his pocket. I twig to the fact that it isn’t cigarettes, it rubbers, that he’s just bought. Our Hero is making plans! So anyway, he gets back into the cab, gives me directions to his lady friend’ house, and off we go.

Now, along the way, he tells me that he’ll have to get the money for the cab ride from the girl that he’s going to see, and asks if I would mind waiting. Hell no, I don’t mind waiting, the meter’s gonna still be movin’, and that can’t be anything but good for me. Time is Money! Then he says,

“I guess I must look pretty pathetic. I mean, going over to some girl’s house, and having her pay for the cab ride.”

I disagree with him, partly to be polite, but mostly because I am beginning to think that he’s a hell of a lot smarter than his buddies, because while they’ve got booze and (maybe) women, he’s got a sure thing. Anyway, when we get there, he gets out, goes into the house, comes out a couple of minutes later, and hands me the fare and a pretty good tip. I thank him and say good night, and he turns and starts to walk away. Then he stops, turns around, and walks back to me. When he gets back to the car, he says once again,

“You must really think I’m pathetic, don’t you?”

I look at him for a moment. Then I look at the meter. Then I look at the money in my hand. Finally I look back at him. He’s got a huge shit-eating grin on his face. I start to grin. I say,

“Whatever you say sir. I thank you for your patronage. I hope you have a good night.”

Then I put the car in gear, and get on out of there.

Pathetic? More like a frickin’ genius, if you ask me. I mean, think about it: his buddies buy him drinks all night long; then, over his protests that he just wants to go home, they unwittingly get him to within two or three miles of his girlfriend’s house. As if that isn’t enough, they fall for his lame “I’ve got to get up early tomorrow” story, and let him leave. What they don’t know is that he’s just a phone call away from where the real action is. He then proceeds to set up a booty call, getting the booty to pay for the cab. His total investment for a night of fun and debauchery? About two dollars and change for the rubbers. Do you think he’s pathetic? Come on, this guy is the social-sexual equivalent of that travel book, “How To See Europe On Five Dollars A Day.” Pathetic my ass! Allow me to repeat myself: this guy is a frickin’ genius!

Now, I know all of the people who have just finished reading this story fall into three broad groups. Group One consists of people that realize that there is a moral to the story, and understand it. If you are a member of this group, you are excused from any further reading, as this column is over, as far as you are concerned. Give yourself an “A” for comprehension, but don’t break your arm patting yourself on the back.

Group Two consists of people who don’t realize that there is a moral to this story, don’t care that there is a moral to this story, and certainly wouldn’t understand the moral to the story if it were explained to them in words of two syllables or less. If you are a member of this group, you, too, are excused from any further reading, because, for you, this column is likewise over. Give yourself an “A” for effort, but please, try not to drool so much next time we meet.

Group Three is for everyone who doesn’t fit into either Group One or Group Two. It consists of people who realize that the story has a moral, mostly because just prior to the beginning of the story I said there was a moral, and they remember reading that part. Another characteristic of the people in Group Three is that they don’t know the moral, but would like to know it, if for no other reason than to say that they are “in the loop.” It is to the people of Group Three that I aim my next comments. Please pay attention, you may learn something.

The moral of the story, “Rico Suave Makes a Booty Call” is this: “If your buddies buy you drinks all night long, and your girlfriend pays the cab fare for you to go over and bang her, it doesn’t matter what the cab driver thinks. His opinion doesn’t count. He got his. Now go get yours!” All you people in Group Three ought to thank your lucky stars that you have someone like your faithful Cab Guy to explain things to you

Until we meet again…

(A version of this post first appeared in the November 2, 2003 edition of "Fast Lane Magazine," a Phoenix, Arizona biweekly entertainment magazine, under the byline of 'Matt "The Cab Guy" Kelly.')