Post Updates: Steffan and Danielle

I wanted to provide some updated information on a few recent posts. And futher delay the time until I fully explain what actually happened to cause me to leave my old cab company.

On November 5, 2007, I wrote a story I called "Steffan's Walk," about a young man, Steffan, who is walking across the country, California to Georgia, to raise money in the fight against cancer. Before Steffan and I parted ways, he gave me the name of a website that would have been going up soon, "SteffansWalk.Org", to promote his efforts. So far, the site is not active, nor have I heard from Steffan on my email.

Steffan, if you're out there, Godspeed to you, friend. Be careful. I do think about you every day. If you ever read this, get hold of me, and let me know how you're doing.

On November 10, I wrote a post called Date a Hot Phoenix Stripper. I followed it up the next day with the post, Danielle's Dilemma. These posts detailed my efforts to help Danielle, a stripper, meet some nice guys, and choose one or more to date. So far, there have been zero responses. I guess I can't blame anyone if they thought it was a scam. Hell, here I am reading the posts two weeks later, and if I didn't know I had written them, I'd think they were part of a scam.

So anyway, I'll have to report to Danielle that the effort failed. If anyone still wants to enter the "contest" described in the November 10 post, be my guest. I'll just pass along the emails to Danielle.

Danielle, I'm sorry I let you down. If there are any nice guys out there, The Cab Guy couldn't find them!

However, a cabbie that I know, Drake Gustave, wants to meet you. If you're interested, leave me a message on my email, and I'll pass it along to Drake. You're on your own after that. I wouldn't classify him as a 'Nice Guy.' Oh, he's not abusive or anything, anymore, but he's a cabie, for pity's sake, and you know how those guys are! His idea of Haute Cuisine is the drive-thru at Taco Bell. And he doesn't order individual items. He just gets it by the pound.

Also, please be advised: he's a heavy drinker. And not the good stuff either. But he is a cabdriver, so he's got that going for him. As long as him company doesn't find out about his long history of DUI.

What the hell, take a chance girl! I say give a cabbie some love! You've got a great window of opportunity right now. His wife is in Romania, visiting with family. Play your cards right, and she'll come home to a divorce, and you'll come home to... a new home. Of course, it's way out in Apache Junction, but I'm sure you'll be able to find work. Not the kind that has any dignity, but work, nonetheless.

Just don't tell me all the sordid details. I'd feel honor bound to pass them along to my readers.

I hope to see you out there on the road.

Sincerely,

The Cab Guy

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A Gambling Tip for the Common Man

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 win at slots? For instance, if I have $100, do I just put it on 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 egomaniac. 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 its 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 finished 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 gets 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.

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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

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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

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A Real 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 online 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 girlfriend) 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 girlfriend/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 roller coaster 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

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Flat Rates and a Newbie Lawyer

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 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 trust you. 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 big 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 way too 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

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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 on YouTube the Peel P-50, supposedly the world's smallest car.

Something you won't see in many videos, which I discovered by watching some, 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 mower!

Also, there is a "bubble top" version that was intended to be a two seater. However, it was no wider than the one-seater version. The occupants will be rather cramped. But, they are also probably having more fun than a barrel of monkeys!

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

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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 first-up driver 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 cell phone 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 cell phone?"

"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

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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

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The 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 possession of a special ID, may sit on 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 from 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 stand-qualified drivers self-police the activities of ourselves, and others who may attempt to circumvent the rules of the site. We 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 alone 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 at 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?"

"Fist-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 "Fist." 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, whom he can then claim as "the customer I just dropped off." Besides Greyhound wants it this way, and, like I said, that's their right.

"Fist 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 you 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 of 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

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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

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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"

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Three-Way on the Freeway - Part One

A few days ago, one of my loyal fans, and best friend, Johnny Wraith, left me a message saying, to the effect, that he'd like to see me post a story about women changing their clothing in the back seat of the cab. At that time I had to refuse, because up until that point in time, I'd never had the experience of having women, or even just one woman, change her clothing in the backseat of my cab.

So here we are today. Up until a few minutes ago, I was getting ready to go to work. My morning ablutions were complete. All I needed to do was get dressed, grab the keys to the cab, and hit the door, ready to start a new day of schlepping people around the Phoenix Metro area. But, for some reason Johnny's request kept turning over in my mind. He really wanted to read a story about women changing their clothes in the back seat of the car.

And I really wanted to give him that story! But, I didn't want to cheat. I didn't want to make up a tale, and pass it off as the truth. I'm just not built for that kind of dishonesty. (Oh, don't worry, I'm no saint. When a situation calls for it, I'll be as dishonest as I need to be to get the job done. But this wasn't one of those kind of situations.) And I couldn't just provide a fiction story of this type, because that would not have fulfilled Johnny's purpose.

You see, Johnny Wraith is a writer himself, and a good one. If he wanted to read a story about women changing their clothes in the back of my cab, I suppose he could have just written it himself. But he didn't. Not that he's lazy. If I asked Johnny to write me a story about women changing their clothes in the back of his car, he'd whip one out in about ninety minutes. Flat. So he clearly has the ability to produce such a tale. But like I said, such a story would not have fulfilled his purpose, which was to be titillated by a true story, one that happened to me, in the back of my cab, involving women changing their clothes.

You know, maybe titillated is the wrong word to use here, because it implies that Johnny was looking for some sort of sexual fulfillment by the reading of a story like this. Nothing could be further from the truth. He just really likes to read, or for that matter, hear, about weird situations that happened to other people. He says that they stoke his imagination, and make him feel more alive, as if he has had the experience himself, and has therefore received some sort of blessing from God in the form of an expanded consciousness. At least that's his explanation for what's going on, as near as I can tell. Whatever.

Frankly, I think that Johnny is a voyeur. Now, I don't mean that in some sort of a creepy, Peeping Tom, sort of way, skulking around bedroom windows at night, hoping to catch a view of some unmentionable goings-on. I mean that he likes to watch life, to experience it as fully as he can. He knows that he can't have every possible experience himself, but if he hears or reads about an experience, he is able to consume it, to take it within himself, so that he can have something of the experience. He says that this allows him to be more fulfilled as a person....

Damn it! Now I'm starting to do it! Here I am, making rationalizations for the behavior of another person, simply because that person happens to be my friend. Folks, it's time to face facts: my friend, Johnny Wraith, had a mild kink. He loves pornography, in all its forms, but especially the written word. I don't really think that he's addicted to pornography, though. His love of the genre is not debilitating. It is not all consuming. As far as I can tell, pornography has no negative impact at all upon Johnny Wraith's life. He functions as an otherwise normal person. Who just happens to like porn.

There, I've said it. It's out in the open: Johnny Wraith likes porn! Sorry, Johnny, for outing you! But it was inevitable. If not me, then someone else would have flung open the door to that particular closet. Don't you feel better, Johnny? I know I do!

So, anyway, with all of these thoughts in my mind, I sat down before my computer, still somewhat moist from my recent morning wake up shower, and began to bang out this post. Everything that I wrote up to now is a prelude to what will follow.

The story that you are about to read is dedicated to my best friend, Johnny Wraith. But, wait! Before you get all hot and bothered, keep in mind that it is not a story about something as mundane as women changing their clothes in the back of the car. But, this story might be just as good, maybe even better than a clothes-changing story. I call it...

The Three-way on the Freeway
About six years ago, in the summer of 2001, in those halcyon days predating the September 11 Attacks and the fall of the Twin Towers, I was working the night shift, driving a cab. Not that it's absolutely germane to the story, but I believe that it was late July when the events that I'm about to relate transpired. I had just started working for a large Phoenix-area cab company. But I wasn't a newbie in the biz, because I had just left another large cab company, for whom I had worked about four years. Because I had put in about five or six shifts per week over those four years, I had about 1100 to 1200 shifts under my belt. I'm not going to say that I had seen it all, because, even to me, it was clear that I hadn't. But I had seen quite a lot of "it."

So, on the night before the night during which the event that this story is all about occurred, I was at my favorite perch, a place where cabbies hang out waiting for fares. Several other cabbies were there with me, including a woman driver who at the time was a friend of mine. I'll call her Patsy. It's not her real name, but to prevent possible legal action (don't ask why; she's just that way), I've changed it.

I don't know how it happened, but we all started talking about things we either did, or did not, want to see happening the backseat of our respective cabs. I don't know who, but someone brought up the topic of people having sex in the back seat, while the cabbie drove. I don't remember if this person was pro or con, but I do remember Patsy's reaction.

"OH, I think that would be so cool!"

Do tell. I can't say that this surprised me in the least. I had known Patsy for about six weeks at the time, and had formed the conclusion that if it was weird, kinky or unsavory, she was into it. But don't get me started on THAT topic; it's the subject for another story. Or now that I think about, her story would probably fill a book. Yes, definitely a book.

I had to disagree with Patsy, and told her so, in a very pointed fashion.

"Let me tell you something. If there's one thing I hope I never see, it's anyone having sex in the backseat of my cab. And that includes all possible combinations and numbers of participants: man and woman, man and man, woman and woman. Man, woman and another woman. Man and dog. Woman and dog. Man, woman and dog. Woman, donkey and a parrot. Sixteen tiny reindeer and a horse that sweats. It just doesn't matter. I don't care who they are, in what combination, or what kink. Or no kink at all. If it's sexual in nature, I don't want to see it!"

Now I'm no prude. I have my preferences, and I'm sure you have yours, and I do not tend to make judgments based on those preferences. But I don't want an audience when I'm engaging in my preferences, and I don't want to be your audience when you're engaging in yours. Look: my cab is my office. Would you want me coming over and having sex in your office, on your desk? Messing up your paperwork? It doesn't matter what your answer is, you are not doing it in MY office, messing up MY upholstery. Frankly, to me, people having backseat sex were my nightmare.

Naturally, having said all this, my nightmare came true, the very next night.

On that fateful evening, at about midnight on a Wednesday, I got a call to do a pickup at the Tiajuana Country Club, a nightclub at the intersection of Ray Road and 32nd Avenue, in Ahwatukee, a Phoenix suburb. As luck would have it, I was only about five minutes away, so I was Johnny-on-the-spot. It turned out that it was a young, college aged-couple that had called for the cab. They must not have been expecting me to arrive so soon, because when I arrived to pick them up, the door host, a cute young thing herself, told me that they were waiting around to the side of the building.

"This can't be good," I said to her, as we both started walking to the side of the building.

"Why's that?," she asked in reply.

"Well, it's been my experience that when people are waiting for me around the side of the building, then trouble's abrewin'. Either they're drunk and passed out, or they're hiding something that they don't want me to see, or, they're puking their guts out. This last is usually not a problem. Better they puke on the side of your building than the inside of my car. But, sometimes they puke on themselves, and when that happens, then I've come all the way here for nothing."

"Why's that?"

"Well, when someone wears their bodily fluids on the outside of their body, I don't let them get on the inside of my car. If I don't let them in, then I don't make any money. So be it, the alternative is too gruesome to contemplate."

"Yeah, I see what you mean."

At this point we came to the corner of the building and looked around the side, but there no one was to be seen. But, I heard voices. Odd. Where were the people? I decided to solve this problem by asking in a loud voice,

"Did anyone call for a cab?"

A disembodied voice replied,

"We did!"

The door host and I both looked around, but couldn't see anyone.

"Down here!", said the voice.

I looked down. Where I saw my customers. On the ground. Both of them. A man and a woman. He on top of her. Doing you know what. Nice... But not really.

"Take your time," I said. "I'll wait over by the cab."

I turned and walked back to my car, the door host at my side.

"This ought to be an interesting trip, don't you think?." I asked her.

"I don't know, maybe it'll be fun!," she replied.

Maybe it'll be fun? Somehow, I had the feeling that we weren't EVEN on the same wavelength.

To be continued...

Sincerely,

The Cab Guy

Click here to read "Threeway on the Freeway - Part Two"

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Get Rich Quick

Hello again, Gentle Reader. A couple of days ago, I was sent this e-mail, purportedly from The Desk of: Mr. Kim Chun, offering me the opportunity to earn almost ten million dollars. What would I have to do to earn this windfall? Well, why don't you just read the e-mail yourself.

I have not modified Kim Chun's e-mail in anyway, and (except for line-width: my blog is narrower than his e-mail, which got "scrunched-up") have left all errors of spelling, grammar, and formatting intact:

FROM THE DESCK OF: MR. KIM CHUN

HANG SENG BANK LTD.
Shop 1110-1011, G/F,
Yiu Sing Mansion,
14 Taikoo Shing Road
EMAIL: kimchun2@gmail.com

I am Mr. Kim Chun, Manager, foreign operations dept of the Hang Seng Bank
Ltd, Taikoo Shing Branch. I have an obscured business suggestion
for you. Before the U.S and Iraqi war our client Colonel Sadiq Uday who was
with the Iraqi forces and also a business man made a numbered fixed deposit
for
18 calendar months, with a value of Nineteen Millions Five Hundred Thousand
United State Dollars only, in my branch. Upon maturity several notices was
sent
to him during and after the war with out any response from him.

We later find out that the Colonel and his family where killed during the
war in a bomb blast that hit their home. After further investigation it was
also discovered
that Colonel Sadiq Uday did not declare any living next of kin in his
official papers including the paper work of his bank deposit. And he also
confide in me the
last time he was at my office that no one except me knew of his deposit in
my bank. So, Nineteen millions Five Hundred Thousand United State Dollars is
still
lying in my bank and no one will ever come forward to claim it.

What bothers me most is that according to the banking laws of my country at
the expiration 5 (Five) years the funds will reverts to the ownership of the
Hong
Kong Government if nobody applies to claim the funds. Against this
backdrop, my suggestion to you is that I will like you as a foreigner to
stand as the next of
kin to Colonel Sadiq Uday so that you will be able to receive his funds.

WHAT IS TO BE DONE?

I want you to know that I have had everything planned out so that we shall
come out successful. I have contacted an Attorney that will prepare the
necessary
documents that will back you up as the next of kin to Colonel Sadiq Uday,
all which is required from you at this stage is for you to provide me with
your Full Names,
Address and telephone number so that the Attorney can commence his job.
After you have been made the next of kin, the Attorney will also fill in for
claims on
your behalf and secure the necessary approval and letter of probate in your
favor for the move of the funds to an account that will be provided by you.

There is no risk involved at all in the matter as we are going to adopt a
legalized method and the Attorney will prepare all the necessary documents.
Please
endeavor to observe utmost discretion in all matters concerning this issue.
Once the funds have been transferred to your nominated bank account the
sharing
ratio will be 50-50, though, open for negotiation be you.

Should you be interested please send me your full names and current
residential address and I will prefer you reach me on my private email
address below
kimchun2@gmail.com . I shall provide you with more details of this
operation after I get the requested information from you.

Your earliest response to this letter will be appreciated.

Kind Regards

Mr. Kim Chun.

Well, Gentle Readers, what should I do? This offer is certainly tempting on it's face. I'm sure that Mr. Chen has only the purest of motives on my behalf, as evidenced by his willingness to allow all of the money to be deposited in my back account, before he gets his due share. Why, he's even willling to negotiate how we share the proceeds, though he does suggest a fifty-fifty split.

And it certainly makes sense that he would ask for all my private residential information, as he will need it in order that he may send me any necessary doccuments for my signature.

But I wanted to be absolutely certain that this was on the up-and-up, so I Googled "HANG SENG BANK LTD." to see if it really existed.

It does. HANG SENG BANK LTD. comes up first on Googles search engine, one of over a million entries with variation on the phrase HANG SENG BANK LTD.

I didn't bother to go the the first entry, as I was more interested in the second entry, which I have linked HERE.

If you read the information on the linked page, you might come away with the impression, as I did, that Mr. Cheung Pui ranks higher up in the hiearchy of the Hang Seng Bank, Ltd., as he has found an account with an even greater stash of loot.

Which leads me to ask several questions:

Should I curb my greed, just accept Mr. Chun's offer, and be content?

Should I contact both Mr. Chun and Mr. Pui, work with them both, thereby earning even greater wealth?

Should I decline both offers, knowing that with riches such as these I would probably discontinue driving my cab, thereby making this blog irrelevant, which would deprive you, my loyal readers, of the great joy you obtain by reading my words of wisdom?

Or should I just remember something that my mother taught me: "If it seems to good to be true, it probably is!"

What should I do?

What would you do?

Sincerely,

The Cab Guy

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Thanks for the Tip!

I used to be a regular contributor to a Phoenix area entertainment guide known as Fast Lane Magazine in a column called "Road Rage: Tales from the Taxi." The following story first appeared in my column published in the January 8, 2004 issue. This keep this in mind while reading it, as there are some less than timely references to Christmas and Saddam Hussein.

I decided to post this piece here, at this time, because I thought it would be a nice complement to my last posting, which involved roast beef sandwiches and bumper-stickers, but also included a rant about how some people don't tip. Okay, the part about Saddam Hussein isn't really germain to the whole tipping thing, but it was in the column then, and for the sake of artistic integrity (giggle!) I've left it in here. Here goes...

Hello again, my friends, it’s certainly good to see you! I’m glad we’ve had this opportunity to get together, as I hope that what I have to say will bring some joy into your lives at this most festive time of the year. Here we are, near the end of yet another year. My year was certainly full and blessed, and I hope yours was, also. Although, for personal reasons of belief I do not celebrate Christmas, I do so enjoy this time of year as people make plans to celebrate with loved ones, and also make plans for the New Year to come.

Now, I don’t know about you, but I do think that we have quite a lot to celebrate about. For one, everyone who is reading this column has, at the very least, survived another year, and had at least that opportunity to improve their situation, and that of their loved ones. For another, although, sadly, America is still virtually at war in Iraq, that arch-enemy of peace, Saddam Hussein, has been hunted to the ground, quite literally, and captured, thus bringing us, and the Iraqi people, just a little bit closer to closure in this matter. As your Cab Guy, I was amused at the news that there was a taxi parked outside of the house where Saddam’s hidey-hole was discovered. Apparently, he had been using it to get around during the time that he was on the run. I wonder if he was a big tipper? My instinct tells me that if the driver even asked for the fare, let alone a tip, he would have received a bullet in his head for his troubles!

I don’t know about you, but I wonder how Saddam felt in his last few days of freedom. In moments of quiet reverie, I pretend I am he, and imagine what he would think:

“You know, I never would have thought it would come to this, trapped in this shitty little hole in the ground. I mean come on! I’m Saddam Hussein, the dictator of Iraq, chief of what was once the fourth largest army on the planet. For over thirty years I’ve done things my own way. If someone didn’t like it, tough shit, I fed them a bullet."

"Where did I slip up? Was it Iran? Kuwait? The Kurds, damn their eyes? What? What went wrong? Those puissant Americans! Who would have thought a couple of Bushes could have brought down a might oak like myself?"

"And so here I am, stuck in this shitty little hole in the ground, sharing a blanket with about a million lice, down to my last $750,000 dollars. Shit… this really sucks!”

I wonder if Saddam Hussein ever thinks about me? I don’t know, maybe Fast Lane Magazine makes it to Iraq every now and again. If that’s the case…

“Hey Saddam… think your little grotto in the desert sucked? (Pointing to my crotch) Suck this, you miserable little canker sore!”

Alright, enough about that guy, I’d better shut up before I really get started. Let’s move on to the actual humor section of this edition of Road Rage. Allow me to bring to you an amusing little tale of whimsy, entitled:


"Thanks for the Tip!"

The other day I was talking to another cab guy that I know. (Notice how he is “cab guy” in lower-case? There can only be one upper-case “Cab Guy”, and he is me!) After chipping our gums for a few minutes, he told me that yet another cab guy had just told him a story that he thought would be perfect for my column. Smart-ass that I am, I told him that I was the sole judge of all things perfect for my column, but he could take his best shot. So he told me the story that the other cab guy had just finished telling him.

I had to admit, that it would, in fact, be perfect for my column. Always desiring to hear the story straight from the horse’s ass, I mean, mouth, I gave him my card, and asked him to have the other guy call me when he next saw him. Well, last night the other guy called me to tell his tale, and since I was still scraping around for something to put in this edition of Road Rage, I welcomed the timeliness of his call. Anyway, the fellow’s name is Alan P., and like me, he has driven a cab in the Valley for a number of years, and has seen a lot of crap in those years. I have to admit, I have never heard anything like this story before, so I’m going to let Alan tell you in his own (paraphrased) words:

“Well, the other day, I picked up this lady who told me that she needed to get home. She told me where she lived, so off we went. Had I’d know what was going to happen, I would have asked for the money up front, because I knew it was going to be about a $30.00 fare, but as she was reasonably well dressed, and wasn’t acting weird, I didn’t even consider her to be the type of person who would “cab and dash.”

"As we pulled into her apartment complex, she told me that the speed bumps were really terrible, and that I needed to slow way down. As we came up on a speed bump, she reminded me to slow down, which I did, almost to a full stop. When I did that, she was out of the car like a shot. By the time that I put the car in park, got out of my seat belt and got out of the car, she had already made her way between two buildings in the complex, and was gone.'

"Well, obviously I was more that a little pissed, and disappointed at the loss of thirty dollars, but, it wasn’t the first time ever that I was stiffed, and probably won’t be the last time, so I sucked it up and went back to the car. When I got to the car, I went ahead and checked out the back seat, like I always do after every passenger, just to see if she had left anything of value behind. Imagine my shock when I saw a lady’s clutch purse there on the back seat."

"I opened the door to retrieve the purse. Imagine my delight to see, upon opening the purse, that not only was my passenger’s picture ID was in the wallet, but the address on the wallet was for the complex where I had let her off! But wait, there’s more! Guess what else was in the purse? $65.00! What a stupid lady she was, to run out on a thirty dollar fare, leaving her purse, ID and sixty-five dollars behind!"

"The way I figure it, she probably was just a little pressed for time, so rather that hold it against her, I took the money, put into the wallet a note that said, “Thanks for the big tip, I appreciate it!”, and turned her purse in at the complex office!”

I couldn’t resist telling that story to several other people, who all agreed that it was definitely worthy of inclusion in Road Rage. But wait, there’s more! Cab drivers are as a group, like many other groups, subject to telling war stories. Put two or more cabbies together at one location, and sooner or later, one of them will say, “Hey, I got to tell you about this fare that I had the other day!”, and then proceed to tell a story that the other cabbie has likely lived through. (You know what I mean, it’s like Hollywood: although the actors may be different, the plot rarely changes.) When he’s finished, the second guy will probably tell a story, and likely as not, try to top the first guy’s story.

Well, in this instance, I was not surprised to hear someone tell me what they would have done, had Alan’s story happened to him. This guy, let’s just call him “Pete” says he would have tacked a different ending on to his story. Really, I say, do tell! And so he did. Here’s Pete’s version:

“Well, if I had found that broad’s purse, I’d have taken the money alright, but I wouldn’t have stopped there. I would have wanted her to suffer a little bit, just like me, and I would have wanted to watch. So what I would have done, after stashing the cash, would have been to call the cops, had them come over, and bang on her door. I think it would have been a real hoot to see her sweat, having to explain herself to the cop who told her she had to pay up or go to jail: ‘But, Officer, I had sixty-five dollars in that purse. You should be arresting him for stealing thirty-five dollars from me!’ Man, I would have loved seeing her in the hot seat! It would have been sweet. Of course, after a little while of watching her squirm I’d have told the cop I couldn't waste anymore time, I needed to get back to work, and let her off the hook!”

I told Pete that I thought he was a true gentleman, but I don’t really think that he grasped the irony of my statement.

Well, yet another cabbie, “Jack” seems like as good a name as any, heard me tell Alan’s story, and Pete’s rejoinder, and I guess he just couldn’t resist having a little fun himself, because he said that he had something to throw into the mix.

“Well, I’ve got to agree with Pete. I’d have taken the money, stashed it away, and then called the cops, also. It would have been sweet to see her squirming around like a worm on a hook. I live for shit like that. But there is no way I would have let her off the hook that easy! You’ve got to teach people like that a lesson, one they’re never, ever, going to forget. I call that lesson, ‘Stick it in me, and I’ll break it off in you!’ What I’d have done, when the cops got there, is let her go through her song and dance about having money in the purse. I’m sure that at some point the officer would have said something like, ‘If you had sixty-five dollars in your wallet, why didn’t you just give him thirty of it and be done. Now you owe him the thirty that was on the meter when you ran, plus whatever’s been rung up since then. From here, I can see that the meter is up to sixty dollars, and it’s still running. I suggest you give him that amount, or I’ll have to arrest you for theft.’ I bet she’d have paid up. Now, that’s my idea of justice!”

I’m sure that somewhere, right now as you read this, some cab guy is telling Alan’s story to another cab guy, and throwing in his two cents. I’m sure that sooner or later, one of these jokers is going to claim he would have done all that and more, up to and including hounding her until she ate a gun. One thing about cab guys: through us the milk of human kindness flows quite cold! Until the next time we meet, stay safe, and stay sane! See you next year!

Sincerely,

The Cab Guy

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