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Archived Entries (May 2005)
5-30-05 Jihad Taxi
5-25-05 Lesbialachia
5-21-05 Now You Know
5-20-05 Money
5-13-05 Axis
5-09-05 Salute
5-06-05 Strawberry Lane
5-05-05 High Fly
5-01-05 1-859-EAT-SHIT
Did I ever mention that I hate being in car wrecks? Hate. It. It’s a complete pain in the ass. Of course, on the other hand, totaling your cab mere hours after giving your one week notice is a wonderful manner in which to part ways with a taxi company. It’s the exclamation point on the end of the sentence: I quit!
[Note: Never fear, though, no one was seriously injured. My arms and hands are a little scraped up and I have been the living embodiment of soreness for the past few days, but other than that everything is cool. Speaking of soreness, wasn’t that one of the four biblical horsemen of the apocalypse: war, famine, pestilence, and soreness. Behold, yo, I ride a pale horse.]
But, wreck or no
wreck, this check has been in the mail for
some time. You want to talk about a mismanaged business… let’s talk
about the
Palestinian owned and operated American Taxi. Contrary to what I once thought, the owners are Palestinian
instead of Armenian
which leads me to believe that a more appropriate name for the company
might be
Jihad Taxi (especially so considering how the owners are running the
business
into the ground like a plane into an office building.) The owner of the place is Charles (the one I described earlier as “a general hanger-on, trouble-shooter, gofer, leg-breaker, huckster, and back-slapper.”) Charles is a world-class gambler and bankruptcy-filer. He is currently being sued by several thousand Lexingtonians for all manner of non-payment things.
His
credit is so bad that he legally can’t have the cab
company in his name; it’s in his mother’s name. Charles’ cousin Chris is the general manager of American Taxi. He was the one I described as “a very friendly hip-hop Armenian who… wears too much bling.” Chris seems to be a good kid and is genuinely likeable but he’s so young he can barely drink legally. His qualifications for getting this job? Chris is a high school grad who’s family. His major contribution to the business last week was buying himself a t-shirt at Target that reads “Employee of the Month.”
Kareem, the one I described as their patriarch, actually has
no official job title
(unofficially he is the Company Dick.) A gray-bearded and
mean distant relative from the Old Country, no one is quite sure what
Kareem’s
official capacity is. From what I can tell, though, it somehow involves
screaming at people and watching soap operas in the office. Fortunately
for the
employees of American Taxi, Kareem is spending this summer vacationing
in the
perennially war-torn West Bank. [Note: Just for the record, Kareem gets a little testy when you refer to Palestine as Israel. He will wave his cane around like a lightsaber and scream “Israel is a country, Palestine is the land. There’s a difference.” Chill, man. Sands through the hourglass, yo.]
Anyway, I digress… What I have divined to be the general operating tenets of Jihad Taxi are:
-
Put as many drivers on the road as fast as possible because that’s $80 a day from each. (Who cares if they aren’t trained adequately to stay afloat for long?)
-
-
Repairs on all cars are done by a cut-rate unlicensed in-house mechanic with duct tape, red spray paint, and spare parts from other crashed taxis. If the in-house mechanic can’t fix a car you drive it as-is or pick an alternative from the gems in the taxi graveyard behind the garage.
[Note:
Drop me an email the next
time you see Cab #17 tooling around town. It’s the one with the
windshield
wipers that stick out from the windshield like bug antennae. Or perhaps
you
will see Cab #41, the Guns ‘n’ Roses cab—the one with the questionable
axle.
Ooooooh, maybe you will get to see Cab #14, the one they call Old
Smokey.]
-
Under no circumstances is money to be spent frivolously on such things as advertising or attempts to pick up new accounts/contracts. (Yet, they wonder why most of these half-trained fuckwits they keep putting on the road can’t make a living.)
-
Of course, on the other hand, if you can somehow get on the management fast track by marrying into the family you will get six-hour workdays (roughly from 10-4, Mon-Fri) complete with built-in three hour lunch breaks.
5-25-05 Lesbialachia
Part of a chat with Jenn, just before bedtime...
jlgraybar: my doctor
told me this morning i have exceptionally strong pelvic muscles
rubbermouse9: can you open jars of jam?
jlgraybar: i think my vagina could open beer bottles at least
rubbermouse9: you should move to the philippines then
jlgraybar: shoot darts out of it and such
rubbermouse9: there is a strong market for girls of such skills there
… …
rubbermouse9: i got a call from Sparkly today
rubbermouse9: when i first answered the phone what i heard was "i hate you. you are ruining my life..."
rubbermouse9: can you open jars of jam?
jlgraybar: i think my vagina could open beer bottles at least
rubbermouse9: you should move to the philippines then
jlgraybar: shoot darts out of it and such
rubbermouse9: there is a strong market for girls of such skills there
… …
rubbermouse9: i got a call from Sparkly today
rubbermouse9: when i first answered the phone what i heard was "i hate you. you are ruining my life..."
[Note: No, no, no… that’s not me. My asthma and allergies went away.]
jlgraybar: what
are they pissy about now?
rubbermouse9: same stuff The Succubus and i have been arguing about for the past couple weeks
rubbermouse9: part of the phone call actually made me laugh hard enough that i thought about pulling the car over
jlgraybar: ?
rubbermouse9: at one point Sparkly said "... but you were the man, you should have taken care of her, worked so she didn't have to..."
jlgraybar: oh my god!!!
rubbermouse9: i know!
rubbermouse9: i fell apart
jlgraybar: big bull dykes should run over there and take her flannel!
rubbermouse9: i told her she was going to lose her union card if she kept talking like that
jlgraybar: what brought it on? was she channeling my mom?
rubbermouse9: it was over this credit card issue
jlgraybar: still though, to hear that from any woman, let alone a lesbian...
rubbermouse9: i know... my eyes teared up i laughed so hard
rubbermouse9: i seriously thought i was going to have to pull the car over
jlgraybar: Sparkly should know, still as poor lil defenseless women, shit costs money for us the same as for men
rubbermouse9: i have been trying to get a hold of tami ever since, she will absolutely fucking love this
rubbermouse9: same stuff The Succubus and i have been arguing about for the past couple weeks
rubbermouse9: part of the phone call actually made me laugh hard enough that i thought about pulling the car over
jlgraybar: ?
rubbermouse9: at one point Sparkly said "... but you were the man, you should have taken care of her, worked so she didn't have to..."
jlgraybar: oh my god!!!
rubbermouse9: i know!
rubbermouse9: i fell apart
jlgraybar: big bull dykes should run over there and take her flannel!
rubbermouse9: i told her she was going to lose her union card if she kept talking like that
jlgraybar: what brought it on? was she channeling my mom?
rubbermouse9: it was over this credit card issue
jlgraybar: still though, to hear that from any woman, let alone a lesbian...
rubbermouse9: i know... my eyes teared up i laughed so hard
rubbermouse9: i seriously thought i was going to have to pull the car over
jlgraybar: Sparkly should know, still as poor lil defenseless women, shit costs money for us the same as for men
rubbermouse9: i have been trying to get a hold of tami ever since, she will absolutely fucking love this
[Note: It proves her theory.]
rubbermouse9:
after the union card bit, i suggested crawling back into her holler
jlgraybar: sounds like the holler isn't out of her completely anyway if she thinks like that
jlgraybar: sounds like the holler isn't out of her completely anyway if she thinks like that
[Note: In Kentucky there are knobs and hollers. Other states—usually states that have neither—call them hills and valleys.]
rubbermouse9: ya
got me, i don’t know this girl from adam jlgraybar: did they think about selling that money pit of a house?
rubbermouse9: what i suspect is happening is that Sparkly is reluctant to mix bills with The Succubus
rubbermouse9: i wonder why? ; )
rubbermouse9: lol
jlgraybar: i'm glad one of them has some damn sense
rubbermouse9: Sparkly might be a complete ass but she does seem to be pretty sharp… lol
jlgraybar: why doesn't Sparkly be the man then and take care of poor lil defenseless The Succubus so she can be a houselesbian?
rubbermouse9: i didn’t bother to even suggest that
[Note: If Moses didn’t pour gasoline on a burning bush, why should I?]
5-21-05 Now You Know
Yesterday had the makings of a damn decent day. Knowing I was going to be up all night, I didn’t come out until about three in the afternoon. Three is a good time. Three gives me ample time to warm up with a dispatch call or two, gas up the car, and make an appearance at my primary hotels (Pink Floyd’s “Money” is their ringtone on my cell) before dinner rush at six.
Dinner rush was a nice one too, dinner ran straight through to drinks. Or, it would have if not for the wicked thunderstorm that blew through. There had been flash flood alerts on the radio all afternoon advertising nickel-sized hail for the low, low price of impressive lightening. The storm broke between nine and ten and the rain came down sideways for two solid hours.
In those two hours I drove a party of geeks jabbering about wookiees to the movies to see the new Star Wars and a party of out of town businessmen to Pure Gold and the panacea of titties. (I don’t know which party was worse: titties or wookiees?) And that was it. Almost everyone stayed in. The storm effectively killed Cruise Time. There was a little bit of business, but so many of us cruise it was hard to mark out once an hour.
I got a call from the Knight’s Inn about
That block gets rented
by the week on the
cheap. Old boy wanted to go get some rock. Sigh.
I kicked the call to Puff Whitey who’s hungrier than I am. Puff Whitey’s name is really Dallas. A gangly white kid dripping bling, Dallas is an aspiring hip-hop producer, B. A couple weekends ago over a post-cruise breakfast Dallas told us the story of how Patrick Sparks’ girlfriend hit on him at the club. The joke was made that she must be into pasty white boys. A little digression and Puff Whitey was born.
When I called Dallas back a while later to go drive the ‘head back home he flatly refused. “No way, dude. He’s a crackhead. He saw my roll, where I kept it, everything. No way.” I couldn’t help but to laugh.
One year ago today…
5-1
About
At a stoplight after the conversation had faded I asked, “So where’re you fellas from?”
“He is from Japan and I am from Germany,” he answered, pointing appropriately.
I turned around and put my arm on the back of the seat so I could look at him. “Germany and Japan, now that’s a wicked combination” I said laughing. “You all aren’t going to invade and take over my cab, are you?”
There was just enough of a pause to start getting uncomfortable before the Japanese fellow finally laughed and assured me they had no such intentions. The German, who I don’t think was amused, finally forced a snicker.
Sadly, the German picked up the cab tab so no tip was forthcoming.
Also of note: I had another brush with the semi-famous today. Around
Two years ago today…
5-09-05 Salute
Do you realize that if you walk very slowly past the automated toilets at the Griffin Gate
5-06-05 Strawberry Lane
Thursday night is usually one of the most lucrative times of the week for Lexington cabbies to make money. The de facto beginning of the weekend, it is the big drinking
night
for the kids at UK and Transylvania. Tonight—or should I now say last
night—was
especially big. Least of all, finals at both schools are finished and
with
graduation only days away everyone wants to get drunk. The town is also
packed
because of Derby Week (every hotel in town is sold out through Sunday.)
And… and… and… today is Cinco de
Mayo when
everyone is Mexican for a day (much like being Irish for a day on St.
Paddy’s.)
As I mentioned to a policeman during a conversation later in the night
(we’ll
get to this in a minute) probably the only people in town not
absolutely
shit-faced were the cops and the cabbies. Why, you might ask, did I get the opportunity to talk to the police this evening? Luck of the draw, baby. Sheer luck of the draw.
No later than
My full cruise circuit is down Main from Avio’s, past The Bar, Buster’s, and Redmond’s, right on Mill for The Rosebud, right on Short for Cheapside, right on Upper and back across Main for McCarthy’s and Mia’s, up a few blocks and left into the parking lot of Gambino’s to the backside of Two Keys and Pine Street, an immediate left on Limestone, a right onto Vine, and the high speed shot—with only a glance up the hill to High on Rose—to the loop that shoots you back out on Main right beside Avio’s. After I drop somewhere, I take the quickest route possible back downtown. Wherever I first cross my cruise circuit is where I begin again.
At about
“Strawberry Lane. You know where that is?”
I shook my head. “No, what’s it off of?”
His head sagged back onto the cushion. “It’s off Alumni and Tates Creek.” His voice was a little slurred, but not nearly as bad as some I’d had.
He wasn’t talkative, so neither was I. I looped back toward Maxwell via Broadway. He started slumping before Maxwell even became High. [Note: Maxwell changes names a half a dozen times, it seems like. Versailles Road becomes Maxwell Street becomes High Street becomes Tates Creek. Well, four times, but I could still choke the city planner.] With the arm nearest him, I firmly pushed him back up in his seat with my elbow. “Hey, dude, wake up.”
He fluttered his eyes. “Yeah, Strawberry Lane.” He started slumping almost immediately.
Every time I would push him up with my elbow he would slump right back. I let the car drift right… drift right… drift right. Almost to the curb I jerked the wheel sharply left. He shot back up with more force than I expected. His head bounced off the window. Thunk! Slumping back at me. I tried to keep him from slumping with my elbow. Finally I took him by the collar and pushed him back up. I heard seams pop.
Just before High turned into Tates Creek the road was blocked by an overturned car. Apparently the driver (likely drunk) was going too fast and clipped a parked car and flipped. I had to take a detour down to Euclid [Note: There’s another one: Avenue of Champions turns into Euclid turns into Fontaine turns into St. Anne. Let me catch this bastard.] I made the turn onto Euclid a sharp one and bounced him off the window again. Thunk!
At the stoplight to turn back onto Tates Creek, I used my right arm to push his upper half toward the door by the collar and then pull his lower half toward me by a belt loop. The loop popped off at the bottom. I couldn’t help but to chuckle. Waiting for the light to change I rang Speedy Dave’s cell and verified old boy’s directions. Strawberry Lane was indeed just where he had said, a square block from Alumni and Tates Creek.
I shook him pretty hard when I pulled over to the wide corner of Strawberry and Chinoe. It was upper-middle residential with adequate lighting (dark but not too dark.) No one milling about. Quiet. Old boy was in a fetal ball in the passenger’s seat putting the coma in comatose. I called the cops. The dispatcher had no idea when they would get to me, tonight was as much of a frenzy for them as it was for us. I hung up and flipped on the timer. If I was going waste my time on his sorry ass at this time of night, he was going to pay for it. What galled me was that I could be making way
more than the
timer’s
$15 an hour by cruising. I got out of the cab and sat on the hood to wait for the fuzz. I called Speedy while I waited. Ironically earlier in the day he had had one pass out in his cab that he’d had to call the cops on. He’d called me about
[Note: I used my patented joke about having “a luxury trunk” when confronted with the question “Can we all fit?” and they took me up on it. Like Speedy I took them up on it just to say I’d done it. I did make sure it was just a short campus run before allowing it, though. The absolute very fucking last thing I need is headlines about a drunk driver rear-ending a stupid cabbie and killing two drunken Greeks… very last thing.]
The drunk passing out in my car only hours after one passed out in Speedy’s made the second time lightening struck twice. I told him that the next time if his car was… whatever… suddenly hit by an asteroid… to go tell someone else. Call Leon. I didn’t need this crap during Cruise Time.
Twenty minutes or so passed while I waited. I walked circles around the car, took a piss by the darkened curbside rear wheel of the cab, smoked cigarettes. Rick slowed as he drove past, taking a fare down Chinoe. Rick is Driver #11, another of our group of drivers. A clean-cut Vietnam Vet who used to drive a school bus on the side, Speedy and I consistently tease him about his love of the airport. I waved him on, yelling to him that it was just a drunk passed out in my cab, the police were on the way.
The meter was up to about $20 when a 17 year-old policeman in a cruiser pulled up. I gave a fairly brief summary of events (leaving out the thunks) and concluded with, “I thought about looking for an ID, but decided it’d be better to just wait for you.”
He opened the passenger’s side door. When he saw old boy in a fetal ball he said, “Oh, yeah, he’s out cold.”
I laughed. “Did you think I was lying to you?”
He checked him for breathing. He had slobbered down beside the seat a bit. The policeman told me, “He may have thrown up in the car.”
I tried to get the best view possible around him. “What? If this motherfucker has puked in my cab, I’m going to charge him $100.” Not only would I have to clean it up and then get the smell out, I would completely miss the end of Cruise Time.
He shined his light back over his shoulder, “Okay, but ease up on the motherfuckers.”
After establishing that old boy hadn’t hurled, he tried to revive him. He tried Authoritative Voice first, then Flashlight Magic, then Firm Jostle. Neither worked. He tried them again. He moved onto Forehead Flashlight Taps. The policeman stepped back and looked at him. He pushed his police hat to the back of his head. “I am halfway tempted to Taze him and see if that wakes him up.”
I laughed again. “Hey, man, check this out first… a couple hours ago a drunk passed out in my friend Speedy Dave’s cab. The officers that responded there actually volted him.” I laughed again. “Speedy Dave said it didn’t even faze him, he just laid there and twitched.” I laughed and mimicked the twitch I saw a couple months ago at the bus station. “So, you might want to call the ambulance first,” I snickered.
He reached up to the mike on his shoulder and talked quietly to his dispatch. I heard the words drunk and ambulance.
When he finished talking I asked, “So are we going to Taze him, now?” I wanted to see it again.
The officer walked toward old boy. “Hey!” he jostled him into a rough sitting position. “Hey! Wake up!” He pulled his Tazer. “Buddy, I’m going to shock you!” He turned it on and let the electricity between the poles pop as near his ear as was safe. The officer looked at me.
I just shrugged.
The policeman looked back at old boy and holstered the stun gun. “Let’s find out who he is.” He leaned into the car, felt pockets. He put random items on the dash: his cell phone, a folded up pay stub, assorted papers. Finally he found old boy’s wallet. As the officer flipped through it he said, “I don’t see an ID, but he seems to have enough money to pay you.” I watched him flip through several crumpled ones and a crisp new hundred dollar bill.
When two other cruisers and the ambulance arrived, smelling salts jerked him into semi-belligerent consciousness. He didn’t know who he was at first but caught on real quick with a prompt from an officer reading from his pay stub. He spilled his story: His name was Turner and he was a whopping 18 years old. He had been out drinking with friends whose house he was returning to now. They breathalyzed him: .38.
“You still live with mommy and daddy?” a gruff tank-shaped cop asked. “Stand up.”
He stood. “Yes, sir.”
“They know you’re out drinking?” the same cop asked, applying Flashlight Magic.
“Well…” He dragged the word out. “Well, yes sir. I mean… they know that a guy… they expect that a guy my age will… you know… go out and do things. They didn’t give me permission, but they know…”
More Flashlight Magic. “Do you live on this street? Whose house are you going to on this street?” Strawberry Lane.
The 17 year-old cop said, “No, he lives on Lansdowne.” Flipping through old boy’s wallet again, he had located his well-stashed driver’s license. “Is this your current address?”
“I was going to a friend’s house.”
Tank Cop this time, “Which house? Which one of these houses are you going to?” he motioned with his flashlight.
“Well, if they are going to get in trouble, I’m not saying.” Tough Guy.
I had to turn and walk away to chuckle. This kid was me fifteen years ago.
“No,” Tank Cop said. “Do you want to go to jail or to your friends’ house?”
“Well,” all Clint Eastwood, “I’ll go to jail before I get them in trouble.”
A third cop: “Listen, kid, tell us where your friends live and you can go there. No one will go to jail”
“Well…”
Tank Cop: “You have to go somewhere. If we don’t know where to take you, we have to take you to jail.”
“Well,” it must’ve been his favorite word, “I don’t know the exact address, but I can show you where it is.” Clint wouldn't have rolled over nearly as easily.
Tank Cop to me: “You want to take him home?”
“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” the 17 year-old cop followed.
I told them that I didn’t mind. Sure.
Old boy got in the car and deflated in the seat. The 17 year-old cop flipped through his wallet again and said over his shoulder, “Don’t fall asleep again.” He found the hundred and handed it to me. “Keep it.”
“Not a problem.”
He flipped the wallet into old boy’s lap and Tank Cop shut the door.
Back in the car, I cleared the meter and he guided me to a driveway we could just barely see from where we were stopped. “There ya go, man.”
“How much do I owe ya?”
“You already paid me.”
“I did?”
“Yep.”
Two years ago today…
5-05-05 High Fly
I won’t lie to you: I know jack shit about horses and horseracing…. jack shit, y’all. But, in this state you get things thrown at you for not picking a horse to win the Derby (even if you don't actually place a bet).
So,
for what its
worth, my horse in day
after tomorrow’s 131st Kentucky Derby is High Fly (who went off at 8-1
when Battaglia set the line this
morning.) Usually I choose my horse by its name’s catchiness, but this year I am doing something a little different. I am choosing based on the jockey. Jerry Bailey will be riding High Fly. Why Jerry Bailey? Because he is a legend and a shoo-in for the Horseracing Hall of Fame? Nope. It’s because I caught a glimpse of him a couple weeks ago at the Embassy Suites here in town. I was at the front desk talking business with the clerks Nathan, Speck, and Pam, when he and his entourage swept through the lobby enroute to their suites. I didn’t know who he was at first, until Nathan started gushing that he helped check them in but didn’t get a chance to kiss Bailey’s diminutive ass (I’m paraphrasing a bit.) To me it just looked like a midget surrounded by the mafia.
What does Bailey have to say about his horse? Here is an excerpt from yesterday’s Lexington Herald Leader :
"He's not getting all
the headlines," Bailey said.
The jockey noted that High Fly has been beaten only one time, when he
was
"parked wide" in the Holy Bull at Gulfstream, and that he has won
five races.
High Fly, the Fountain of Youth and Florida Derby winner, has impressed his jockey on several fronts.
"He breaks well, and he's forwardly placed," Bailey said. "He has multiple gears so I can move and place him. That's a big plus for me as a rider."
High Fly, the Fountain of Youth and Florida Derby winner, has impressed his jockey on several fronts.
"He breaks well, and he's forwardly placed," Bailey said. "He has multiple gears so I can move and place him. That's a big plus for me as a rider."
Aaaaaand there you go: your Kentucky Derby winner. So let it be written, byitches.
One year ago today…
5-1-05 1-859-EAT-SHIT
As is usual I got home this bright Sunday morning just as the sun was coming up after pimping my ride all night. I had just enough time to walk and feed Bossie before the phone rang. I didn’t even have to look at the caller ID to figure out who would be calling me at this hour on a Sunday: Mr. Sanders.
When I dropped my daily lease money at the cabstand a half an hour earlier, I listened to the dispatcher vainly trying to get someone to pick Mr. Sanders up to take him to work. Even then it was already five minutes past the time Mr. Sanders wanted to be picked up. They were running late again. As I listened, I crossed my fingers and shut my eyes and said a little prayer to Travis Bickle that Mr. Sanders would call me.
And he did. At
“Hey, man, this is Mr. Sanders. You working right now?”
“Nope, I’m off. Just like when you called me a couple weeks ago. Are they running late again?” I asked already knowing the answer.
“Yeah, a half an hour late. Can, can you come pick me up again?”
“Nope. You done burnt that bridge, bruh.”
“What? What do you mean?” he asked in surprise.
“No, man. I came and got you last time after I had already went Out of Service and gotten home. And, you knew that—I told you—but I came and got you anyway. And, when we got to UK what happened? You paid me my $7 and left. That was it. No tip, no thank you, no nothing. I do you a favor and you treat me that way? As far as I am concerned, you can walk to work this morning.”
“Aw, shit, man. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t even realize.”
“Well, you know now.”
“Man, I’m sorry, man. I really am. It won’t happen again.”
“I know it won’t. Burn me once, shame on you. Burn me twice, shame on me.”
“Aw, man. C’mon?”
“Nope, but I’ll tell you what I will do. I can give you the number of another driver if you want.”
His voice chilled noticeably. “What is it?”
“1-859… Are you ready? You got a pen?”
Audibly irriated now, he snapped, “Yeah, c’mon.”
“Aight, here it is… 1-859-EAT-SHIT. Yeah, and ask for Cheap Bastard.”
You know, snapping a cell phone shut to abruptly end a phone call just doesn’t give one the same satisfied tingle as does slamming down the receiver of an old-fashioned landline and hearing those wonderful dying reverberations from the startled ringer.
Dick.
Two years ago today…