Poison in a Pretty Package

Prejudice is alive and well in Chicago. I was dispatched to the Mt. Prospect train station to pick up two passengers under the name Prasalli at 9:00pm. Usually, when it's a time order at a train station, the passenger is coming in on a train.

I arrived at the station around 8:55. The night after Christmas was cool, damp and rainy, with a light drizzle falling as I waited. At 9:00 nearly on the dot two young women approached from the station house and got into my cab. Since no train had pulled in yet, I verified that they were my customers.

"Hi. Did you call for a taxi?"

They were both young, probably college age, both very attractive. They both responded at once. The brunette said, "Yes."

The blond replied, "Who are you?"

"You did call for a taxi?"

Blond said, "We called one of our friends. What's your name?"

I told her my name. "I'm waiting for a customer who ordered this taxi. What's the name you gave when you called?"

Blond said, "Erin."

"Well that's not the name I have on my order."

Blond asked, "What's the name you have?"

Brunette said, "Doesn't matter. He can't take us."

"Prasalli," I replied.

The confused conversation continued, and they told me that they had a couple of taxi drivers they use regularly.

"We find the good guys we like, and we call them when we need rides so we don't get any ...weirdos. You know what I mean?"

I was pretty sure I knew what she meant.

They chatted on and told me that one of their best friends had just died, and that one of their taxi driver friends was apparently coming to get them in an unmarked green van, which Blond was uncertain about getting into. I told them that, as it was now after the scheduled time for my customers' pickup, there was a good chance they wouldn't show, and I could take the ladies to Palatine after all. Resigned to the likelihood that I wasn't available to take them to Palatine, two towns up to the northwest along the rail line, they got out.

The railroad crossing gates came down, signaling the approach of a train from Chicago. The two young women approached me again.
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They both were under the delusion that my incoming customers were a woman, named Priscilla. Blond seemed to be in charge, or at least the stronger personality. "Where is this Priscilla going?"

"Wheeling," I replied, about a ten-minute drive north from the train station.

"Do you think maybe we could ride in your cab with them to wherever they're going, and then you could take us to Palatine?" she asked.

"That's up to my customers," I replied. "If they're cool with sharing, then I have no problem with it, but you'll have to ask them."

Moments later, train in the station, there was a knock on my driver's window. A dark-skinned man with straight hair combed and parted on one side, and sporting a mustache asked me, "Wheeling?"

"Did you call for a taxi?"

"Yes," he replied, his crisp Indian accent evident even in one brief word.

"What name did you leave on the order?"

"Prasani."

It was close enough to "Prasalli" to call it a match, so I told him and the woman who accompanied him that they could get in my car. I mentioned to them that the two young women standing now about 20 yards away from the taxi were interested in sharing a ride, though I'm not sure Mr. Prasani understood what I was saying.

I rolled down the window and called to the women. "Do you still want to share the ride?"

"No, we're good."

I find it amusing that they were willing to do just about anything to get a ride right up until they saw that their car mates were Indian, no doubt the kind of "weirdos" they were so concerned about having as their taxi driver in the random taxi lottery into which calling for a taxi enters you.

So I drove Mr. Prasani and his companion to their destination in Wheeling, all the while contemplating a return to the Mt. Prospect train station on the slim chance that those two young women would still be there. I mean, they were attractive, I am a horny middle aged man and I did want to be a hero. But the more I thought about it, the more disgusted with them I became that they had a change of heart when they saw who they thought was "Priscilla" actually was. So I said screw 'em! I am bound by the laws of this state to serve all customers, regardless of race, ethnicity or gender. If those women had gotten into my otherwise available car spewing racial hatred, I would have had to take them wherever they wanted to go. However, the circumstances as they were, I was not bound in any way to head back to get them, to save them from the rain.

No, as a matter of fact that thought quite pleased me!

Magic Memory

I wish I was a pure atheist, one who never knew what it's like to have felt a duty to a god or a church and their corresponding patterns of behavior. Because those things have left a mark on me, on my cerebral cortex, my instinctive brain. I often call religious indoctrination "brainwashing," and this is why; the trained instinct of belief. It's brainwashing because - despite the rational, reasoned thought that tells me there's no magical, invisible entity holding the universe in the palm of his hand, who knows my every thought and that of every other thinking being in the universe - in unguarded moments I still catch myself thinking of my mother "in heaven," or my father "looking down on me" and approving or disapproving. It's brainwashing because - despite years - decades, now - of consciously brushing off those ideas into the dust-pile of fairly tale - I still can't unthink the thoughts that swim up from the depths of my childhood indoctrination.

Yes, to be free of that ready, instinctive compulsion to regard an active, populous spirit world would be refreshing. To have never felt beholden to a god, a prophet and that guy behind the screen every Sunday would be liberating. But those childhood memories are also responsible for the warm feelings I still get at Christmas time, for the anticipation for Christmas day, when it seems as though the world goes quiet; for the warmth I feel when I hear the songs - reverent or secular (one has to admit, whether a believer or not, that the concept of the nativity of Jesus Christ has inspired some great songs!); for the comfort of the closeness of family and the anticipation of the great food and lively conversation in their proximity.

I guess it's pointless to wish for the things I'll never have, or to be what I can't be, for they're things done that can't be undone. Not without a frontal lobotomy, anyway. And, now that I think of it, I guess I've had the best of both worlds; to a kid - the kid I was - the magic, the fantasy, is real. With age, reason ruled out, and I'd hate to imagine myself a slave to that kind of doctrine, but, with a head still full of those magic moments, looking back has a magic all its own.



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Joint Ownership

I get pretty tired of the people who cry foul about how "we" are taking Christ out of Christmas. Nobody is taking Christ out of Christmas. He's right there where he has always been all along. It's the first two thirds of the damn word!

Nobody is taking Christ out of Christmas. If you haven't noticed by now, here in this melting pot society we call the United States of America, there are more religions than just the Christian ones, and more than just the Christian religions that happen to have high holy days that fall during this time of year. And you know something? Those celebrations are not called "Christmas!" The Jews have Hanukkah, for instance. The pagans — should you happen to consider paganism a religion (I don't) — hold special relevance for the winter solstice, which happens a couple days before Christmas. Every. Frikkin. Year. I'm no expert, but I'm sure there are other groups who observe something special at this time of year, too.

So when collective society at this time of year gushes with "Happy Holidays!" they ... we ... are not taking Christ out of Christmas. We're taking Christ out of Hanukkah, out of the solstice, out of the grand sauce festival of the fellowship of the flying spaghetti monster... wherever Christ is not observed or cherished or wanted. This time of year is not owned by Christians, so don't get so bent out of shape when I don't want Christ to be a part of my celebration, yet I want to honor or respect you — and everyone else who is celebrating something at this time of year — by gushing, "Happy Holidays!"

Just as you wouldn't want me to come to a Christmas party at your church and scream "Praise be to Richard Dawkins!" no Jew is going to be too crazy with you crashing his family's Hanukkah observance and shouting "Jesus is the reason for the season!"

Understand that when your local TV station runs a station ID that reads and blurts, "Happy Holidays!" you and your savior are included respectfully along with everyone else whose religion or belief system finds these days to be something special.

Celebrate Christ in your home and your church, let everyone else celebrate in their own way in their own place, and just shut up already about the generic public acknowledgment of "everyone's" reverence for this time of year!