It was bound to happen sooner or later.
The snow came down in piles Thursday, and the cabbing was a non-stop affair. I had planned to work only until noon, but the longer I stayed logged onto the dispatch computer, the more fares came my way.
I picked up one guy at his home, and took him to his job at a hospital in Hoffman Estates. As he paid me, a man looking to be around age 30 made eye contact with me and asked, “Are you here for me?”
I shook my head. “Did you call for a cab?”
“Yeah.”
“This company?”
“I think so,” he said. “The receptionist at the E.R. called for me.”
If he had ordered from this company, I was reluctant to take him, as that would be stealing a fare from one of my company “brothers.” So I called our dispatcher, who checked for an order from that particular hospital and found none.
“Hop in,” I said to my new next fare, slightly dismayed since I was within a mile of my home and had planned to knock off for the day after the guy I dropped off at the hospital, though happy to put a few more dollars into my pocket. “Where to?”
“North Barrington.”
BONUS! That’s about a 12 mile trip across a couple different towns, so I could charge a higher rate!
He told me his address and we got underway, and began light conversation. He told me his name was Randy, and that he had spent two nights in the hospital due to what he said the doctors called alcohol poisoning, which Randy said was “Bullshit.”
With the weather falling down all around us and the traffic responding as traffic does around here, it took us nearly a half-hour to get to Miller Road, where he said he lived. Along the way Randy mentioned that so much snow had fallen, with more to come, but he hadn’t hired anyone to plow his driveway. When we finally turned on to Miller Road, Randy pointed to a street sign about 2 blocks ahead and said, “Turn in there.”
I nodded.
Then he blurted, “No, wait! It’s this one!” indicating the street which we had just passed.
I turned around in the gate area of a gated community, and he said, “I’m trying to sell my house. This economy is a bitch.” Then he warned me, “Don’t pull in the driveway or you might get stuck.”
I pulled up to his house, where the virgin snow in the driveway had been violated by one vehicle. The meter read $32.00
“Hey,” he said, “my keys and wallet are on top of my dresser in my bedroom. I’ll run in and get it, and I’ll be right back.”
I’ve done this several times over the three months that I’ve been driving a taxi. Pickups from hospital emergency rooms usually don’t have any cash or their credit cards on them, and I have no choice but to trust them to get their stuff and come back. And they usually do, no worries.
He trotted toward the house, but then, instead of going to the front door, he slipped around the side of the house. Three minutes later I started to get the feeling something was wrong. Another two minutes later and I was pretty sure.
“This guy stiffed me.”
I attempted to pull into the driveway against “Randy’s” warning, but I indeed almost got stuck in the six to eight inches of fresh snow. It struck me odd — if this guy was indeed not coming back — that he would have even that level of compassion. I aborted that attempt and instead drove down the narrow lane to a home where the driveway had been cleared of the deep snow, and I turned around there.
I returned to the house and again sat in front, thinking for a moment that maybe I was being a little hasty. But I looked at the place, and at the “For Sale” sign protruding from the snow, and then I recalled the address he had told me at the beginning of the trip: 611 Miller Road, North Barrington. This house wasn’t on Miller Road, but rather a street that intersects with Miller.
Son of a bitch.
I got out of the car and walked toward the house, tracing his footsteps around the side, ducking under the boughs of a snow-laden pine tree, the needles of which shed some of their burdensome flakes down the back of my jacket collar and onto my bare neck. Around to the back of the house I saw “Randy’s” footprints in the snow leading away from the house and across a field behind the house.
Bastard.
I returned to the car and entered 611 Miller Road into my GPS unit. My hope was that he hadn’t decided to stiff me until he saw how much the ride was going to cost, or until I let him leave the car with the trust that he would return, and that he assumed I wouldn’t remember his address. The GPS indicated that the address was very close, and estimated it would take me 17 seconds to get there!
I drove to the location as indicated by the GPS. The house was at the end of a line of houses, their mailboxes standing at the side of the road with their addresses affixed to the west sides of the boxes. Six-twenty-one, 615 and... At the house on the eastern end of the line of houses, the mailbox was missing from the steel signpost that stood beside the road. Was this 611?
The driveway there had indeed been plowed, so I pulled in and got out of the car. The front walk and porch had not been cleared. I walked around to the back of the house where I saw no cars (and three closed garage doors), and several thoughts occurred to me in the moment: he may have planned this from the start, and 611 may have been a bogus address. If it was, and I went pounding on the door at this place, and the innocent dweller was confronted by an irked cab driver, it wouldn’t be a pleasant experience for either of us. If it was the correct address, and “Randy” came to the door at all, it could get ugly, or even deadly. To me.
Asshole.
I returned to the cab and looked up the number to the local police. Fifteen minutes later, waiting at the same gate area where I had turned around earlier, a sheriff’s deputy arrived to take my statement. He said I would receive a call if they found the guy, or if they had any further questions.
-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+
On another hospital emergency room pick-up I retrieved a father and son from the hospital in Arlington Heights. The father, from Argentina, spoke English with a heavy accent, which was at times difficult to decipher. Conversation, therefore, was limited. And that turned out to be very unfortunate. For me.
Though I am pretty nosy by nature, taxi company rules are explicit for drivers waving the company flag about asking personal questions. It’s none of your business. Don’t ask.
It became apparent that it was the kid, about ten years of age, who was the reason for the trip to the E.R., as I picked them up around 4:30 am, when I overheard him say to his father, “My throat still itches,” in perfect American kid English.
With snow still falling and the roads a mess, the going was slow on the approximately seven-mile trip.
[sniff!]
[sniff!]
[sniff!] [sniff!]
Whatever the kid had was running out of his nose.
A customer a few weeks ago — a family, actually — inadvertently left a box of facial tissue on the rear shelf above the back seat in my car. I thought it an adequate addition to the amenities I offer my customers, which consist mainly of... well... that box of facial tissues. Anyway, I said to the father, “There’s a box of tissues behind you, if he needs some.”
“Ten cue!” he said, and I heard him turn and take a tissue from the box. He said something to the kid, who, so it sounded, refused!
[sniff!] [sniff!]
At least one per minute, it seemed, sometimes coming in flurries of three or more in a matter of seconds.
[sniff!] [sniff!] [sniff!]
After a few minutes, “Would you care to listen to the radio?” I asked the father.
“No. Ees okay. Ten cue.”
[sniff!] [sniff!]
[sniff!]
It became absurd. Absurd situations tend to give me the giggles. It was all I could do not to bust out laughing.
[sniff!]
[sniff!]
[sniff!]
I looked at the time display on the dispatch computer screen: 4:52.
[sniff!] One. I started counting.
[sniff!] [sniff!] Two. Three.
The drive dragged on through the fairly deserted streets upon which the snow fell so hard and fast that the village plows could not keep up to clear them.
[sniff!] [sniff!] [sniff!] [sniff!] [sniff!] [sniff!]
Finally, the adult in the back seat instructed me to turn into a cul-de-sac where he pointed out his house.
[sniff!]
He handed me his credit card.
[sniff!] [sniff!]
I filled out the information [sniff!] and handed the slip for him to sign. [sniff!]
I swiped his card through the slot in the car’s computer and waited for the authorization number. [sniff!] [sniff!]
[sniff!]
“Here you are!” I turned in my seat and handed back his receipt and his credit card.
The man and his boy exited my taxi and entered the flaky white fray outside. The computer’s clock read 5:02. Exactly ten minutes. That was easily only 1/3 of the entire duration of the ride!!
I had counted sixty sniffs! I don’t know how the kid didn’t pass out from hyperventilating!
Somehow I have the feeling that, were the adult in the back seat the boy’s mother, and after his refusal to use a tissue, she would have forcefully wrapped an arm around his head, jammed a tissue in his face and yelled, “BLOW!”
Of course, my fantasies do tend toward the weird....
°
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Wednesday, January 06, 2010
A Bit of a Problem
I recently had another repeat customer of note. I’ve had several repeat customers, but few affect me on our first meeting as this woman did. And I don’t mean it as a good thing.
Very early in this stint driving a cab, I received a late night call to the emergency room of a nearby hospital. Upon arrival I went in to the ER and announced that I was the taxi driver called in. One of the ER staff called out the woman’s name — for our purposes, Lana — and my attention was diverted to the slightly mannish figure I had passed on my way in (I originally thought she was a college-aged boy!), huddled in a chair, apparently sleeping, and wrapped in a hospital blanket. She got up without a word and staggered to the taxi, where she crawled into the back seat and lay down.
I got behind the wheel and asked, “Where to?”
Lana labored to tell me her address, which I entered into my GPS unit.
Several times throughout the 10-minute trip, Lana moaned or grunted. Her manner and apparent incoherence had all the earmarks of someone coming down from alcohol intoxication. And, from the looks and sounds of it, this woman had been several stations beyond hammered. I wasn’t certain, of course, but it was a strong hunch. So strong, that I feared with every moan or grunt that she would spew her stomach contents all over the inside of my cab. I also feared that she would be unconscious by the time I got her home, and that I wouldn’t be able to get her out of my cab.
We neared the point to which the GPS was directing me, and she sat up, and blurted, “Here. This is good.”
I looked around. We were at an intersection between a couple apartment complexes and some sort of commercial buildings. Lana whipped out a credit card.
While I filled out the slip, Lana lay back down in the seat. She signed with an unintelligible scribble, and I said “Thanks.”
Lana opened the rear seat door and leaned out. She grunted in what sounded like apprehension. “Can you help me?”
“Sure,” I said, and got out and went around to help her. She was doubled over and very unsteady on her feet, and I had no confidence she would make it to her home — wherever it was. “Where are you going?”
She pointed to a building that was at least 100 yards away, and atop a hill. She grunted and a word came out. “There.”
“Okay,” I said. “Can you make it?”
“Help me.” It sounded more like a general plea than a specific request.
“Okay, let’s go.” I offered my arm.
Lana remained doubled over as we walked. Though it was late September, the night air was quite crisp and chilly, and Lana wore nothing more than a t-shirt, shorts and a pair of athletic shoes. Despite the concrete stair path about fifty yards away that led to her building’s door, Lana made a bee-line for the door up the grassy hill. We had made it about one-third of the way up when she stumbled and stopped.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“Hold me.” Again, it sounded like it came from deep within her soul.
On her right side, I gripped her right wrist with my right hand and pulled, and I placed my left hand on her back and pushed.
At the door to her building I waited as she fumbled for her keys, got them in the door, and got it open. Without looking at me, she muttered, “Thank you,” and shuffled into the depths of her existence.
+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+
Two months later I received an order to pick up on the same street. When I arrived I realized the address was the same building where I had dropped off Lana that bizarre, chilly night. And sure enough, when the door opened at the top of the hill, Lana came bounding down the stairs. Looking to be around 40, with sandy blond, short-cropped hair, she was a 180-degree turn from the last time I had seen her. Aside from a somewhat vacant, lost look in her eyes, one would never suspect at her appearance that she had any dirty secrets.
She got in the back seat and dictated directions to a destination I did not know. Only a minute or two into the ride she spoke. “Have you ever picked me up before?”
Attempting to sound as neutral as possible, I answered, “Yes. I picked you up at the emergency room one night, and brought you home.”
“Yeah. I thought you looked familiar. I’d remember a handsome guy like you.”
Right. I’m sure you do, I thought.
“You helped me get to the door. I appreciate that.”
Oops!
Her directions brought us to the door of a liquor store literally only about a mile from her apartment.
“Right here,” she said. And then, almost sheepishly, “I’ve got a bit of a problem.” She paused. Did she seek comment or acknowledgment? “I’ll be just a minute, and then you can take me right back home.”
She went in to the liquor store, and, neutrality no longer needed, I shook my head.
She emerged from the store only two minutes later, empty-handed. She got in the car and said, “Okay. Take me home.”
She offered no explanation. I had an array of possible scenarios, from she’s battling demons and she won this round by resisting the desire for liquor to the liquor store clerk recognizes she has a problem, and refused to sell to her. But I’m sure it’s somewhere between those possibilities.
At the bottom of the concrete stair path she again offered her credit card as payment. It was a few minutes to fill out the slip and process the card. She spoke.
“Do you have a card or something? I need cabs every now and then.”
I handed her my card, provided by the taxi company, with my name and mobile number hand-written on the back. I told her that my schedule varies, and to try to call me at least an hour before she needs a ride, if possible, to determine if I’ll be available to pick her up.
Her credit card was approved. I handed back her card and her receipt. She opened the door and spun on the seat to get out.
“Thanks!” she said, raising my calling card in a gesture to me. Then she smiled. “You’re a cutie!” And she was gone.
In a split-second my mind visited the possibilities present in entertaining her interest. “HELL NO!” I shouted in the otherwise empty car.
+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+
Just a few nights ago, as I was outside the door of a customer awaiting pick-up, my mobile phone rang.
“[Farrago]? This is--”
“Yes?” I spoke over the voice, missing her name.
She gave the address. “I need a ride.”
“Who is this?” I asked, though I was certain I recognized the voice, perhaps instinctively.
“Oh,” came the voice on the other end. She reacted as if she had been told she had the wrong number.
“I’m with another customer right now.”
“I need you.”
“I’m not available right now,” I said.
“How long will you be?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t know where he wants me to take him. I’ll call you as soon as I’m done with him and see if you still need a cab.”
There came a couple of uncertain grunts from Lana, and she hung up.
The customer was a local ride, not too long, and as soon as I dropped him off I called Lana, her number saved in my mobile phone’s “Calls” list. There was no answer.
Just to be sure, I drove to Lana’s apartment building and tried to call her again, also banking on the possibility that she was waiting for me to arrive. There was still no answer, and she never came out.
It’s in our nature to recognize need in people and to want to help. Some problems are within our capacity to solve, or at least to offer possible solutions. Others are beyond our help. The taxi driver is often a confidante, sometimes a co-conspirator. There is no oath of secrecy or privacy, though it seems one is implied. Nor is there a Hippocratic oath to help those in need. The damning reality is recognizing when someone is desperately in need of help, and the chasm between ‘want’ and ‘can’ is impossible to bridge.
°
Very early in this stint driving a cab, I received a late night call to the emergency room of a nearby hospital. Upon arrival I went in to the ER and announced that I was the taxi driver called in. One of the ER staff called out the woman’s name — for our purposes, Lana — and my attention was diverted to the slightly mannish figure I had passed on my way in (I originally thought she was a college-aged boy!), huddled in a chair, apparently sleeping, and wrapped in a hospital blanket. She got up without a word and staggered to the taxi, where she crawled into the back seat and lay down.
I got behind the wheel and asked, “Where to?”
Lana labored to tell me her address, which I entered into my GPS unit.
Several times throughout the 10-minute trip, Lana moaned or grunted. Her manner and apparent incoherence had all the earmarks of someone coming down from alcohol intoxication. And, from the looks and sounds of it, this woman had been several stations beyond hammered. I wasn’t certain, of course, but it was a strong hunch. So strong, that I feared with every moan or grunt that she would spew her stomach contents all over the inside of my cab. I also feared that she would be unconscious by the time I got her home, and that I wouldn’t be able to get her out of my cab.
We neared the point to which the GPS was directing me, and she sat up, and blurted, “Here. This is good.”
I looked around. We were at an intersection between a couple apartment complexes and some sort of commercial buildings. Lana whipped out a credit card.
While I filled out the slip, Lana lay back down in the seat. She signed with an unintelligible scribble, and I said “Thanks.”
Lana opened the rear seat door and leaned out. She grunted in what sounded like apprehension. “Can you help me?”
“Sure,” I said, and got out and went around to help her. She was doubled over and very unsteady on her feet, and I had no confidence she would make it to her home — wherever it was. “Where are you going?”
She pointed to a building that was at least 100 yards away, and atop a hill. She grunted and a word came out. “There.”
“Okay,” I said. “Can you make it?”
“Help me.” It sounded more like a general plea than a specific request.
“Okay, let’s go.” I offered my arm.
Lana remained doubled over as we walked. Though it was late September, the night air was quite crisp and chilly, and Lana wore nothing more than a t-shirt, shorts and a pair of athletic shoes. Despite the concrete stair path about fifty yards away that led to her building’s door, Lana made a bee-line for the door up the grassy hill. We had made it about one-third of the way up when she stumbled and stopped.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“Hold me.” Again, it sounded like it came from deep within her soul.
On her right side, I gripped her right wrist with my right hand and pulled, and I placed my left hand on her back and pushed.
At the door to her building I waited as she fumbled for her keys, got them in the door, and got it open. Without looking at me, she muttered, “Thank you,” and shuffled into the depths of her existence.
+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+
Two months later I received an order to pick up on the same street. When I arrived I realized the address was the same building where I had dropped off Lana that bizarre, chilly night. And sure enough, when the door opened at the top of the hill, Lana came bounding down the stairs. Looking to be around 40, with sandy blond, short-cropped hair, she was a 180-degree turn from the last time I had seen her. Aside from a somewhat vacant, lost look in her eyes, one would never suspect at her appearance that she had any dirty secrets.
She got in the back seat and dictated directions to a destination I did not know. Only a minute or two into the ride she spoke. “Have you ever picked me up before?”
Attempting to sound as neutral as possible, I answered, “Yes. I picked you up at the emergency room one night, and brought you home.”
“Yeah. I thought you looked familiar. I’d remember a handsome guy like you.”
Right. I’m sure you do, I thought.
“You helped me get to the door. I appreciate that.”
Oops!
Her directions brought us to the door of a liquor store literally only about a mile from her apartment.
“Right here,” she said. And then, almost sheepishly, “I’ve got a bit of a problem.” She paused. Did she seek comment or acknowledgment? “I’ll be just a minute, and then you can take me right back home.”
She went in to the liquor store, and, neutrality no longer needed, I shook my head.
She emerged from the store only two minutes later, empty-handed. She got in the car and said, “Okay. Take me home.”
She offered no explanation. I had an array of possible scenarios, from she’s battling demons and she won this round by resisting the desire for liquor to the liquor store clerk recognizes she has a problem, and refused to sell to her. But I’m sure it’s somewhere between those possibilities.
At the bottom of the concrete stair path she again offered her credit card as payment. It was a few minutes to fill out the slip and process the card. She spoke.
“Do you have a card or something? I need cabs every now and then.”
I handed her my card, provided by the taxi company, with my name and mobile number hand-written on the back. I told her that my schedule varies, and to try to call me at least an hour before she needs a ride, if possible, to determine if I’ll be available to pick her up.
Her credit card was approved. I handed back her card and her receipt. She opened the door and spun on the seat to get out.
“Thanks!” she said, raising my calling card in a gesture to me. Then she smiled. “You’re a cutie!” And she was gone.
In a split-second my mind visited the possibilities present in entertaining her interest. “HELL NO!” I shouted in the otherwise empty car.
+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+
Just a few nights ago, as I was outside the door of a customer awaiting pick-up, my mobile phone rang.
“[Farrago]? This is--”
“Yes?” I spoke over the voice, missing her name.
She gave the address. “I need a ride.”
“Who is this?” I asked, though I was certain I recognized the voice, perhaps instinctively.
“Oh,” came the voice on the other end. She reacted as if she had been told she had the wrong number.
“I’m with another customer right now.”
“I need you.”
“I’m not available right now,” I said.
“How long will you be?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t know where he wants me to take him. I’ll call you as soon as I’m done with him and see if you still need a cab.”
There came a couple of uncertain grunts from Lana, and she hung up.
The customer was a local ride, not too long, and as soon as I dropped him off I called Lana, her number saved in my mobile phone’s “Calls” list. There was no answer.
Just to be sure, I drove to Lana’s apartment building and tried to call her again, also banking on the possibility that she was waiting for me to arrive. There was still no answer, and she never came out.
It’s in our nature to recognize need in people and to want to help. Some problems are within our capacity to solve, or at least to offer possible solutions. Others are beyond our help. The taxi driver is often a confidante, sometimes a co-conspirator. There is no oath of secrecy or privacy, though it seems one is implied. Nor is there a Hippocratic oath to help those in need. The damning reality is recognizing when someone is desperately in need of help, and the chasm between ‘want’ and ‘can’ is impossible to bridge.
°
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