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 in point.

At about six-fifteen in the evening, there were three cabs on the stand when the event that I'm about to describe has 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 to specify some 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 lookout. 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 long 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 differently 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'll 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 be accused of 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? Wednesday, Thursday, Friday?

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 goes like this. I don't want to make this rabout ace, but I have a feeling he'd be treating me differently 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 practically 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