The $52 Tip

At risk of belaboring the fact that I’m a taxi driver these days, I share another story from behind the wheel. One surprising observation I have made since starting the night shift about three weeks ago is that I have drunk passengers more frequently on weeknights than I do over the weekends.

One evening last week — Tuesday or Wednesday — it might have even been the same night as the woman who didn’t know where she lived — I received a fare notice to pick up a passenger named Kevin at a 7-Eleven store nearby. It was only about eight minutes away, and the roads were desolate. I arrived at the convenience store and saw no one waiting outside, and the only person inside was the store clerk sweeping the floor. I stepped in and asked if someone named Kevin, waiting for a cab, was here. The guy looked at me with a confused expression, and said, “No.”

I had another fare or two afterwards, and then I got a fare to pick up at a particular address, which the dispatch message indicated was a White Hen Pantry. The name on the order was Antonio. I drove past where the address was supposed to be, but there was no White Hen Pantry. I drove in both directions along the road to see if there was one a block or two in either direction, but there was not. I returned to the address and saw that there was a liquor store there, and there was a man waving at me. He seemed a little upset — and drunk — and asked me what took me so long. I explained the confusion, seeing as there was no White Hen for miles around the liquor store. Then I asked the guy if he was Antonio.

“NO!” he shouted. “I’m Kevin.” One must bear in mind that we were several miles away and hours after the no-show at the 7-Eleven store.

I put two and two together and realized the call was indeed for Kevin, so I told him to hop in. He carried a plastic grocery bag containing I don’t know what, and he clutched a bottle of some kind of liquor, the brand or spirit I could not make out. Immediately, he said, slurring heavily, “How ‘bout you turn off that meter? You’ll make a lot of money with me. I’m serious.”

It sounded as though he wanted me to do something shady or illegal — or he wanted my help for him to do something illegal. I told him that I had to leave it on so that my dispatcher knew I had a customer and wouldn’t try to send me to another fare. He kept insisting I turn it off in return for some grand jackpot at the end of the ride, but I kept refusing.

He never told me an address, just gave me directions: turn here, go past that light and take the first left, etc.

The first stop along the way was a grocery store that appeared open, but was not. He got back in the car and once again insisted that I turn off the meter, or I wouldn’t see the cash potential.

So I turned it off. He told me to roll on. At the end of the parking lot where the grocery store and a strip mall are, he guided me to a bank’s drive-up ATM stand. There was the cash potential of which he spoke! He stepped out of the car and got some cash, and then got back in and directed me forward. The meter was on again, and this time, when he told me to turn it off, I said, “Look, if you’re going to pay me as handsomely as you say you are, then what difference does it make what the meter reads?”

He replied with indifference. He directed me around a corner, beyond which loomed a large gas station, closed.

“Shit!” He muttered. Despite the fact that he had been sipping from his bottle for the entire ride, it was apparent he was looking for another place to buy liquor. I began to wonder if Antonio at the “White Hen” liquor store had refused his business.

After one more unsuccessful attempt at getting me to turn off the meter, Kevin said, “Okay, my friend. I guess you’re not interested in making a lot of cash. Just take me home.” I followed his directions until he told me to stop outside an apartment complex. He asked me what he owed me.

I said, “Well, the meter shows eight dollars, but the first time you got me to turn it off, it read thirteen dollars.” I knew, if it ever came down to an argument and calling a cop, I was likely stuck with what the meter read at the moment. “Just pay me whatever you want.” I really just wanted him and his stupid, drunken game out of my cab.

Kevin handed me a twenty-dollar bill and said nothing. I never assume — at least not out loud — that I’m being given a tip, so I made change and handed back twelve dollars. He sat there with a smirk on his face for a few moments, and then he handed the change back to me.

He got out of the car, stood by the open rear door, and then he said, “Here,” and he handed me another twenty.

“Thank you very much,” I said, as it was indeed very generous. He weaved off on his way to I know not where.

A little while later, after the night had gone quiet, I moved to the back seat of my cab so I could try to go online outside a free WiFi hotel. I had no success at that particular moment, and, for no apparent reason, I looked down at the seat. Obscured in the shadows cast by the front seat in the harsh dome light of the cab was another twenty-dollar bill! Kevin had indeed come through on his promise to make the night worth my while, but not entirely as he had intended!! The good Samaritan in me was inspired to take the money back to him, however the closest I could get to him was the apartment complex where he lives. I know not which building or apartment is his.

So, score one — or 52 — for Farrago!



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