I Don't Remember the Name, But the Face Rings A Bell!

Have you ever met someone, started a conversation with them, and then have to come to the realization 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 p.m., 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 thigh bone.' 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 what exposing 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, DiscoBisquit (discobisquit.blogspot.com). I asked him if he knew where 'Tom Ryan's Bar' was. As it turned out, TRB was his destination. (Shocking... That a day drinker would go from one bar to another!) It also turned out that he knew that the previous name for the TRB was 'Group Therapy.' Which began 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's 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 acknowledged 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 its name almost ten years ago.

Thankfully, the trip finally ended, without me swerving the car into oncoming traffic, or pulling over and beating the living 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 to 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