Random Successes

I can't seem to put two thoughts together lately for a meaningful post. The taxi driving still provides fodder I think would make for great stories, but I think I'm suffering from sensory overload; they all just dissolve to a blurry background beyond the field of focus.

Instead, I'll just post pretty pictures. All mine, of course.



I finally completed a successful flip! Not 100% successful, as you can see upon close scrutiny, but the breaks "healed" almost instantaneously on the heat, and I had two "dunky" eggs for breakfast. The above photo was taken on July 6, 2010. I haven't had a successful one again since.



Crepuscular Rays. I got the term "Jacob's Ladder" from a Rush song of that name, off their Permanent Waves album. Kind of a neat song if you can find it and give it a listen (hint: YouTube). Sitting at the Arlington Heights train station, I was treated to this sight one late afternoon after a day of rain. Carrying my camera in the taxi finally paid off somewhat.



Tonight's dinner. And tomorrow's lunch. And meals for a good chunk of the week! Rubbed with olive oil, sprinkled with "Italian Seasoning," and roasted over indirect, 350° heat on my Weber gas grill, alternately turned 180° and flipped over every 15 minutes for an hour and a half, and the meat practically fell off the bone at my mere suggestion! It's the one culinary thing I'm actually good at! Can you say "Mmmmmmmmmmmm?"



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In re: Thematic Photographic #104 - Dotty

Carmi's theme this week was dotty things.


Exposed aggregate concrete • Hoffman Estates, Illinois
July 2, 2010



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Anthem

Oh! Say, can you see by the dawn's early light
What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming
Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the perilous fight
O'er the ramparts we watched, were so gallantly streaming!

And the rockets' red glare, the bombs bursting in air
Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there!

Oh! Say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave
O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave!


We Americans, I say with much hope, memorize the words to our national anthem, but I feel that seldom does anyone really pause to analyze the words and grasp their meaning.

The oft-maligned choice for our national anthem is criticized for its wide vocal range that the average citizen can’t cover and for its anachronistic poetic structure. But rather than wax eloquent about the beauty and bounty of our nation, as so many nations’ anthems do; or strut with musically arrogant pride about our power and might above all others, as so many other nations’ anthems do, ours highlights a mere moment in our history that typifies our collective resolve: we always come through in the clutch.

Written as a poem by Francis Scott Key, it was adopted as our National Anthem in 1931.

Key, sent as part of a party to a flotilla of British ships off of Baltimore harbor during the war of 1812 to secure the safe return of American prisoners of war, was then detained on the ship as plans were laid to bombard Fort McHenry. The bombardment lasted through the night and was so fierce that Key could only imagine total destruction of the fort. But, through the night the light from “the rockets’ red glare, the bombs bursting in air, gave proof” that the American flag seen flying over the fort in “the twilight’s last gleaming” the evening before, was still there.

"Oh! Look there, in the light of the sunrise! You can see it, what we looked on so proudly last night — the brightly colored stars and stripes we saw flying over the ramparts during the battle as the sun went down!

"We could see in the red light of the rockets, and the bombs exploding around it all night, that our flag was still there!

"And now, as the battle is ended, we see that our flag still flies over the land of the free and the home of the brave!"

When I think of the song in terms of the story it tells, I’m filled with the pride Francis Scott Key must have felt that morning when he saw that flag flying “by the dawn’s early light.”

And yes, I cry.

Happy Birthday, USA!

(parts of this post lifted from a May 6, 2007 Farrago post)

The Signs, They Are A- ...Jumble?

I've been regularly taking my camera out on the road with me in the taxi in hopes of finding interesting things to shoot. As luck would have it, I saw something funny that deserved to be photographed, and then Carmi unleashed his most recent theme over at Written Inc.

Signs of the Times.

Here's my contribution...about a week late. My apologies.


Practice What You Preach, o sign master!

No Small Change

Yes, you're at the right blog. Well, that is, unless you landed here by accident. If you're actually here on purpose, welcome to the new and improved Farrago, now with less mystery and more... well, nothing more, really. I just changed some layout crap with Blogger's Layout Crap Changer. I hope you like it.

But there is more change in the air. Be careful...the quarters hurt most. Half-dollars cause the most damage, but who carries half-dollars any more, let alone flings them into the air?

But I digress. Where was I? Ah, yes. Change. We all change a little bit every day. Our cells regenerate themselves at a rate such that we are each really a completely different person than we were something like eight days before. Some of us endeavor never to change, but underwear has a way of falling apart if abused, and we have to put new ones on anyway. Not me. You. No. I mean, them.

I did it again. What am I getting at? What's this about change?

I've started a new blog. No, it's not a replacement of Farrago, nor will it necessarily be a permanent pastime. SHEESH! Take one look around here and you'll realize Farrago isn't even a permanent pastime of late! But my other blog is a diary of sorts, a documentary effort following my experiences with an extreme fitness regimen called P90X. I shared my weight loss and workout stories of last year here at Farrago, but I wanted a place where I could dedicate coverage to my renewed effort to lose weight (again) and achieve real fitness (once and for all).

And that place is P90Xperiment. There I'll comment about the workouts (I haven't started yet, but I hear they're intense), about how I'm feeling, aches and pains, successes, setbacks and whatever else comes to mind in the process of making myself the very picture of health, fitness, and hottitude. Of course, it will contain my usual pithy wit, replete with my wacky, inane, and — yes — moronic observations about things that don't matter to anyone. Not even me, really. But mostly, I'm sure, I'll complain about stuff like, why did I spend money on this thing, what was I thinking when I posted pictures of my fat, half-naked self on the internet despite the fact that anyone to whom I mentioned this idea said I should post before and after photos, I could really go for a jumbo hot dog right now.... No, I mean, really. I'm pretty hungry, as I spent most of the afternoon assembling a chin-up bar, taking pictures of my fat, half-naked self, and creating the new blog, that I forgot to eat dinner. HEY! I'm losing weight already!

So go read it, already. Comments are moderated to keep out cruel, obnoxious comments from strangers. Cruel, obnoxious comments from friends are ...uh ...welcome.



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Void

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Thematic Photographic #101

It's odd that I had taken the photos contained herein with a particular theme in mind, and then Carmi, over at Written, Inc., chose that same theme a couple months later.

In Thematic Photographic #101, Carmi asks his contributors to pay particular attention to the artificially lit nightscape.

And here I go...

Click on a photo to enlarge. All photos ©2010 Tony Gasbarro.

Working the night shift gives me the opportunity to see things as
relatively few people see them, such as urban or semi-urban locales
as desolate, lonely landscapes. Not to mention the freedom to stand
in the middle of a four-lane highway to take a series of shots with-
out being mowed under by a speeding Cadillac!



Nocturnal Oasis. The night surrounds a little cocoon of light and
makes it appear a lonely outpost.



A mix of both artificial light and early morning twilight as the
distant, impending sunrise illuminates the high sky above.



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Murphy's Kitchen

As both my readers are aware, I am not much of a cook, so much ...ehrm... not, that I occasionally blog about my kitchen exploits here, failures as well as successes.

Due to my wacky schedule, I haven't cooked breakfast at home for quite a while. I had the same bacon sitting in my refrigerator for at least two months and, gastrically daring as I am, even that seemed too dangerous today as I contemplated my options.

After my overnight shift in the taxi, I made a morning stop to stock up on a few grocery items. In a purely impulse shopping moment, my eyes alighted on a package of "breakfast links" in the cooler beside the butcher's counter...little sausages made (I believe) right on the premises at my local mom & pop (chain) store. "Hmmm," I thought. "A nice alternative to bacon," I thought. I also had some eggs that were getting old; the sell-by date on the carton is April 15. So I bought a dozen fresh.

Once home I threw away the old bacon. I opened the old carton of eggs only to reveal that it was an entire dozen. In the interest of not wasting an entire dozen eggs, I'm just daring enough to eat those. What doesn't kill me makes me stronger. What does kill me... well....

I got things going on the stove. I even opted to brew up a "pot" of French press coffee, rare for me since I gave up caffeine (again) a few weeks ago. I simmered up four breakfast links over a low-to-medium flame while the water heated up for the coffee and while I prepared the toast and cracked open the eggs (which looked and smelled just fine, by the way) and deposited them in a Pyrex measuring cup/bowl/glass-thing-with-a-handy-handle-and-pour-spout.

As the links heated up, the oils inside them began to bubble, and I noticed that the skin of one of them had expanded balloon-like, and I could actually see the oil pooling inside and boiling! No sooner had I noticed this, and thought to myself, "If that bubble bursts, oil is going to squirt out," the bubble burst and oil squirted out. And of all directions the oil could have squirted out, guess which direction it squirted...

Yes. Right. At. Me. It doused my shirt right at belly level, and now I look like some sort of greasy hillbilly with a greasy hillbilly belly. No offense to any greasy hillbillies among my readers, but I know both of you, and neither of you is a hillbilly. Well, not a greasy one, anyway....

I saw another of the links bubbling up the same way, so I rolled the bubble side to face away from me and watched it burst and douse the other sausages. Suckers!
Toast was done and buttered, I was sipping the first of the first coffee I had made at home in about two months, and the links were all but finished cooking — and squirting. It was now time for the eggs.

In the past I have waxed poetic about my attempts at The Flip, but it has become somewhat of an obsession with me to perfect the eggs-over flip without breaking the yolks, or dropping the whole heap on the floor, or the stove, or the sink...or the ceiling. Since it had been several months since I had cooked anything, I was feeling pretty rusty about the flip, which I haven't even gotten good at, yet, in the first place, even.

I poured the eggs into the pan of bubbling butter, and both the yolks slid toward one side of the pan, huddling together and elongating slightly, appearing almost as apprehensive eyes looking fearfully at me. Hey, I worked all night. I'm tired. I see what I see.

So, with sausagey hillbilly grease-stains on my shirt, I gripped the pan handle tightly, walked the bubbling, fearfully quivering eggs over to the sink, and prepared for the flip. The eggs slid easily back and forth around in the pan, looking at me now in sheer horror. And -FLIP- ...and the whole shebang went only half-way over, perpendicular to the world, and plopped into the pan, edge first, both yolks breaking as they plopped back into the butter.

DAMN.

The only thing worse would be if the damned aged things kill me after I ate them.

I seem to be fine so far.



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Idle Moments

The Vanishing Points cast and crew were a playful bunch. During the run of dress rehearsals and performances at the tiny Boho Theatre and its especially cramped dressing room/makeup/backstage area (there was NO privacy! I saw the women in their underwear...and they saw me in mine, the poor things....), the director and the stage manager saw to it that our off-stage time was occupied with other pursuits so as to keep our voices from drifting out onto stage when they weren't wanted. On the first day of tech. rehearsals, the grueling sessions where the backstage crew cram into a couple of days what the actors have been drilling for weeks, we found in the dressing/makeup area a box full of magazines, puzzle- and coloring books, as well as a box each of coloring markers and Crayola crayons!


Backstage at Boho. In the left foreground are the objects of our
distraction. (Photo: Morgan Manasa)

I thought it was just silly at first, but as my boredom grew, I took a crayon in my hand and flipped through the coloring book, looking at a couple of samples that cast member Mark Penzien had already rendered. I noted that he had applied some shading to some of his works, an idea that had never crossed my mind for coloring books, as I hadn't colored in a coloring book since, maybe, age 8?

I found a picture to my liking and started filling in between the lines.

I discovered along the way that, either due to paying attention when I didn't think I was to my ex-wife's graphic art work, or something I just picked up along the way, I have sort of a knack for shading. Granted, they were just coloring book pictures, but some of them struck me as pretty darn good, if I may say so myself. And I just did.


This was the first one I did.


Since I had very small roles in the play, I had a LOT of down time....



I sorta goofed a little on this one....


I like the shading at the edges of the "fur" in this one.


I love how shading can add character to the
characters! The bug is a little crappy in
this one.


Probably my favorite of the bunch....

There are a few others, but I don't feel they're very good.



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Vanishing Points

In September of 1972, Grand Island, Nebraska saw the grisly aftermath of a multiple murder in which three members of the Peak family — the parents and their 14 year old daughter — were shot to death in their home. A surviving, adult daughter was out of the home at the time, and that woman spent the ensuing years dealing with loss and guilt over the incident, and was the inspiration for a stage drama that fictionalized the events but spared none of the emotion. The resulting play is Vanishing Points by Martin Jones, a story of a young woman's journey through the tragedy and loss, and making her way back into the world.

The crime has never been solved.

The cast of Vanishing Points were:
Stacie Hauenstein (Beth)
Annie Slivinski (Carolyn/Peg)
Rick Levine (Walter/Cliff)
Victoria Bucknell (Barbara/Vicki)
Christopher Sanderson (Lenny/Caz)
Morgan Manasa (Fran)
Mark E. Penzien (Gary)
Tony Gasbarro (Policeman/Det. Sinfeld)

(click on any photo to see full size)


Working a scene with director, Dan Foss, and actors Stacie Hauen-
stein and Christopher Sanderson. (photos: Morgan Manasa)



Stage Manager Rachel Staelens
and Assistant Stage Manager
Derek Van Tassel feverishly scrib-
ble notes on everything from
actors' missed lines to light and
sound cues, to ideas on where to
go for drinks after rehearsal!!
(photo: Morgan Manasa)



Costumer Erica Hohn, left, creates
one of several "tattoos" for Vicki,
one of the characters portrayed by
Victoria Bucknell. Victoria's arm
is wrapped in cellophane, and then
covered with the altered pantyhose
she will wear onstage, upon which
the "tattoos" are drawn with indel-
ible ink. Rather ingenious, I
thought! (photo: Tony Gasbarro)



In our other rehearsal space, our
lead actress, Stacie Hauenstein,
runs a scene with Rick Levine.
(photo: Tony Gasbarro)



"Who's that comin' up the road...?"
An imagined conversation of the
victims in their last moments alive.
From left, Rick Levine, Victoria
Bucknell, Annie Slivinski.
(photo: Tony Gasbarro)



Meanwhile, Beth is getting high
and getting it on with her boy-
friend, Lenny, out in a field some-
where outside of town.... Christo-
pher Sanderson, left, and Stacie
Hauenstein. (photo: Tony Gasbarro)



Beth's dreams are haunted by her
dead parents and sister. One of
the more bizarre — and heart-
wrenching — scenes. Pictured:
Annie Slivinski.
(photo: Tony Gasbarro)



And the living begin to
haunt Beth's dreams,
too. Here, the image of
Beth's brother-in-law,
Gary, tears apart her art
work. Stacie Hauenstein,
left, and Mark Penzien.
(photo: Tony Gasbarro)



In our performance space, The
Boho Theatre at Heartland Studio,
Victoria "poses" for her chalk out-
line as the corpse of Barbara.
(photo: Morgan Manasa)



Yours truly, in his first speaking
role on stage in more than ten
years, as the asshole cop. From
left, Christopher Sanderson, Tony
Gasbarro, Stacie Hauenstein.
(photo: Morgan Manasa)



The full depth and breadth of the
audience space at Boho Theatre.
(photo: Morgan Manasa)



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Cobwebs

Sunday. The day of rest.

Since I started driving the taxi, I haven't really taken many days off. Part of that was due to the fact that, at the same time I started driving the taxi, I also got a rash of roles in plays, the rehearsals for which took up a huge chunk of my time, significant in that said time was when I could be making solid change in the taxi. So I shifted my work hours to nights for a large portion of the "play" time in order to maximize my hours behind the wheel.

Autumn begat winter, and then winter gave way to spring. Lucky Stiff ended its run as the holidays began, and then, as the turkey and mimosas wore off, Vanishing Points went into rehearsals. The performance run hit its stride and the weather reluctantly warmed, and A Tale of Two Cities ground slowly into motion, opening after a somewhat harrowing rehearsal process a mere month after Vanishing Points closed.

I didn't have the creative burden some of the major characters bore on their players, but I subjected myself to a more demanding schedule, resulting in long shifts, sleeping in four-hour (or less) bursts, and by May 1, the final performance of A Tale of Two Cities, I was feeling nonetheless exhausted.

With a quarter of my day back in my hands I faced the option of taking that time to relax, or to hit the road in earnest to rake in as much money as I could.

I did both.

I shifted my working day to the early mornings and either straight through the day, or taking a break around 10:00am and heading back out around 1:00pm and finishing around 6:00, for a 12 hour day. On Friday and Saturday nights, however, I take advantage of the thriving bar scene in one of the towns in my area, starting in the late evening and working the night through, usually for a 14-hour shift each night.

Sunday is my day to transition back to the day shift, and is my day to rest. To my dismay, however, the extra sleep that day has consistently left me with a headache I can't shake until near the end of the day, just around bedtime!

And, finally, today I have taken some time to get back to blogging. Unfortunately for you, my one dear reader who hasn't yet abandoned me (which may, in fact, be only ME), my return to blogging is this creaking, rusty excuse for a post.

In the (Sun)days to come I hope to post more play photos and taxi stories. I started one and saved it somewhere, but have since been unable to find it.

I hope you're having a wonderful, reverent, peaceful Memorial Day weekend!



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Coming Up For Air (and Lucky Stiff photos!)

A Tale of Two Cities is winding to a close this weekend. I've had the last four evenings free and have done an inordinate amount of nothing. Making like a vegetable can be quite fun...until the rot starts...

Anyhoo, as promised MONTHS ago, below are some shots from Lucky Stiff, with pithy, irreverent captions. Or not.

The Lucky Stiff cast: Ryan Gilbert, Kendel Lester, Lisa Cantwell, John Rodrick, Andy Berlien, Danna Marie Pantzke, Jesus Mata, Sarah Greenfield, Danny Shannon and Tony Gasbarro. All photos by David Ropinski. Click on a photo to embiggerate.


An early scene, as a commuter
(far left), after the death
scene, and before my appearance
as the corpse.


The ensemble number "It's Good
To Be Alive." I'm in the wheelchair.
From left: Danna, Danny, Farrago,
Ryan, Sarah.


A detail shot from "It's Good To
Be Alive." I'm in the wheelchair.
From left: John, Farrago, Ryan.


Another ensemble number,
"Speaking French," where I get me
some. Not a bad score for a dead
guy, huh? I'm in the wheelchair.
From left: Kendel, Ryan, Sarah,
Farrago, John, Danny, Jesus,
Danna.


Jesus Mata claims that Lucky
Stiff was his first musical ever. Re-
gardless, the man stole the show.
Here is a glimpse of his genius in
one of his many ensemble roles,
this time a much mustachioed nun.
This scene was a riot. I'm not
in the wheelchair. From left: Jesus,
Danny, Kendel, Ryan.


Shenanigans behind
my back...


The big climax. There was intrigue,
and guns, and... maid costumes!
From left: Andy, Sarah, Lisa,
Ryan, Farrago, Kendel, John.


Everybody loves Farrago. From left:
Lisa, John, Farrago, Ryan, Kendel.

Resurfacing II

Ooops. Here I am again.... It is embarrassing that I find myself compelled to apologize for the dearth of posts here at FARRAGO lately. I haven't often — if at all — mentioned the other play I was cast in during the run of Lucky Stiff, a drama called Vanishing Points, but we went into rehearsals in earnest mid-January. We closed a four-week run last night. (See reviews here.) Coupled with trying to make rent each month in the taxi, I am left with little time to write.

During the run of Vanishing Points (photos to soon follow) I was also cast in a return to NEIU's stage, an April production of A Tale of Two Cities in which I will portray the evil Marquis de St. Evremonde. Busy? To say the least.

Oddly enough, there haven't been too many new stories from the back seat to share here. Either nothing much of note has been happening, or I'm just becoming desensitized to what does happen back there. Either way, I haven't been inspired much to tell any tales. Perhaps I will.

In any case, I'll probably throw a few things up here in the coming weeks, but as ATOTC gains speed before take-off, be certain I'll disappear again. I'm considering taking the summer off from my pursuit of an acting career and focusing on earning a living, paying rent, and reconnecting with my other passions and friendships. Do stay with me, if I haven't lost you already.



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The Awesome Absurd

I was treated to this sight Thursday morning as I finished my shift in the taxi. The surrounding landscape is a huge pile of snow thrown to the edge of my apartment complex parking lot. Apparently this had been attached to the front bumper of my taxi the night before and probably broke off when my weight hit the seat as I got in. Then, due to an interesting coincidence of timing, clear, cold weather, and the fact that my mind was blank enough to be distracted by such things, I saw it.


Photos ©2010 Tony Gasbarro.
Click on a photo to embiggerate.

The sun was up, but barely high enough to peek over the summit of the snow mountain. The small bluff upon which the "stalagmicicle" stands is just tall enough to be illuminated by the sun around the base of the structure.

The structure itself basks in the the sun, reflecting and diffracting its light in natural perfection.

I look at these photos and can't help but think that it looks like I deliberately lit this scene, but it was just there for me to take in. A little plebeian, I know, but you take joy where you can find it.



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Why Can't America Do This Right?

It's chocolate milk, people. Milk, cocoa, sugar.

Why do we always have to add crap to stuff? Who demands that the simple be made complicated?



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Kid Sniffles and the Unlucky Stiff

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....



°

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.



°

What next?

This is a very recent (December 29, 2009) photo of me. If this looks weird to you, it's a mirror image, and I haven't the technology to flip it...and it is me.

So I have hair again. Almost. Not certain if the director of the upcoming play I'm in will want me to keep it, so until I know, I must keep it.

So, what next? keep growing it? Comb-over? Mullet? .... Mull-over?



°

The Gypsy Prince

I knew long before I ever got behind the wheel of a taxi cab that cab drivers love — nay, prefer — long rides. They’re more money per minute.

One cool evening I sat on one of the posts in this quaint northwest suburb, and the dispatch computer in the car sounded the alarm that I had a fare. The passenger name was Susie, a name and address I had been called to only two evenings earlier.

I drove to the house and pulled into the driveway, but instead of the young Susie, out came a young man carrying a small armload of clothes. He got in, said, “Hello,” and told me where he wanted to go: “Clark & Division.”

I turned to face him, mildly incredulous. “Downtown?”

“Yes, sir.” Tee hee! He called me “sir.”

“I just want to make sure you know how much that’s going to be.” He was asking me to take him into the heart of Chicago, about 25 miles away.

“How much will it be?”

“I don’t know, exactly. I have to run the meter. It could be up to seventy-five dollars.”

“That’s fine,” he said, unblinking.

And so we went on our way.

I mentioned to him that two nights earlier I had picked up the woman Susie from the same address where I had picked him up.

“That’s my sister.” He leaned forward and offered his hand, which I took. “I’m Ricky.”

I had noticed a resemblance to his sister, not that I had gotten a great, long look at her. They bore the identical traits of an olive skin tone and strange, slightly bulging, blue-gray eyes. Where Susie is very petite, Ricky is considerably bigger, both in height and in girth.

Conversation continued, and soon he had lured me into talk about politics, a subject cab drivers from this company are instructed to avoid, even though he and I were on the same side of the political fence. I mentioned voting, and he responded that he can’t vote. I pressed him for the reason.

“I’m only sixteen.”

I had to turn around — briefly — to look at him. With his looks, demeanor, and voice, he presented himself as around 25 or so. But sixteen?

My apprehension was telegraphed by my stammering before my words could deliver the concern. “Are you going to be able to pay for this ride?”

“Oh, no worries. My mom will pay you when I get there.”

I don’t remember how we got onto the next subject, his family’s heritage, but I think I expressed my curiosity regarding his skin tone. Middle Eastern? Greek?

“We’re gypsies,” he clarified. “Have you ever seen the palm-reading places around these towns?”

“Yeah,” I lied. I’m certain I had caught a glimpse of one here or there, but I couldn’t say where one was off hand.

“My parents own those. My parents and my aunts and uncles.”

“Oh,” I nodded.

“They’re just big scams.”

I stifled a laugh. “Really?!”

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s all bullshit. I mean, come on! We’re gypsies. It’s what we do.”

“So what exactly does that mean, ‘gypsy?’ I mean, I know gypsies are somewhat nomadic. What is your family’s heritage?”

“We’re gypsies. That’s it.”

“No, I mean...” What did I mean? “Do you have any relatives from ‘the old country?’”

“Yeah. My grandmother.”

“Does she speak the language of her heritage?”

“Yeah.”

“What language is that?”

“’Romanesh.’ It’s kind of a mix of many languages, just like gypsies are a mix of many cultures. We have no country of our own. Everybody hates us, even worse than Jews. We’re just a bunch of thieves.”

I thought I heard quotation marks, in his voice the voice of his critics. I feared I was touching on a sensitive subject and, perhaps, upsetting him or making him upset himself, so I tried to switch back to a safer subject — like politics — again!

It was a long ride — about 40 minutes — and a long conversation. The topic drifted here and there, but seemed to keep coming back to Ricky’s gypsy roots.

“It’s in my blood. I was scamming when I was six years old. I had a woman — the mother of a friend of mine — giving me money every day. I told her my parents were poor and couldn’t afford to give me lunch money. She gave me ten dollars every day for months. She even bought me clothes and school supplies!”

His tales started to seem rather tall, and I began to doubt whether they were exactly what he said they were, or if they were real at all. I felt my interest begin to wane as my disbelief grew, and my feedback ‘uh-hums’ and ‘uh-huhs’ started to feel forced. But he was on a roll, now, seeming to enjoy stringing me along on his tale of con artistry.

I continued to engage him in conversation, a passive spectator to the imagery he created across the air.

“...And the whole family, basically, works scams together.”

“Like what?” As if it was any of my business.

“Okay. When it all boils down, I’m a thief.”

I suddenly got a dim view of the immediate future. “Okay, now, you’re not instilling a whole lot of confidence that I’ll get paid for this ride!”

“Oh, no,” Ricky smiled. “I’m not that kind of thief. You’ll get paid. Don’t worry.”

He might as well have added, “Trust me.”

“Here’s what I do: basically I steal tons of shit, usually from stores like Best Buy; expensive shit, electronics, small packaging and all. Then we make bogus sales receipts for each one, and then we go to different stores — never the one where we stole the shit — and use the bogus sales receipts to return the merchandise for cash.”

It all sounded plausible, and like he indeed knew from experience what he was talking about. I got a slight chill that climbed up my spine with the thought of his reasons for telling me all this, and what possible consequence — should he be legit...as it were — his divulging it to me could have.

When he finished his confession I was speechless. What would I have said? “You’re a naughty boy! Stop that!”

We approached the corner of Clark and Division streets in Chicago, and he said, “When you turn onto Clark you’ll see a psychic storefront on the other side of the street. Just pull in front of it, and I’ll run in and get your money.”

I did as he asked, and when I stopped the meter it read $67.40.

He pointed a finger toward the storefront. “See that woman in the white top?”

I looked, and I saw her.

“I’m going to go in and get the money from her.” He opened the right side rear door. “Been a pleasure talking to you. I’ll be right back.” He stood erect and then paused. He bent again to poke his head in the doorway, a wry smile stretching his face. “Keep an eye on me now. I might rip you off!”

He gave voice to the exact sentiment I was hiding in my silence! I couldn’t suppress a nervous chuckle as I blurted, “You bet I will!”

He walked across the street and into the psychic’s lair. He spoke to the woman in the white top. He pointed out the window toward my taxi. She looked out at me. She didn’t appear to have been expecting to see him, and she appeared none too pleased that he asked her for money. Gypsy thief in the family business or not, he was still a teenage headache to his parents, sucking money out of their pores.

The woman in white stepped out of view. Then Ricky stepped out of view. For a minute or two. What’s my next move if they don’t come back? Do I cross the street? Do I brace for confrontation? Do I call the cops? I chuckled at myself and at the absurdity of the situation. The kid seemed so damn likable! But then, I guess that’s the way it’s played, the grease that makes the gears turn, that which makes the con man an artist.

Without much more waiting, Ricky emerged from the psychic’s shop and approached me.

“See? I told you I’d be back!” He handed me four 20-dollar bills. “Thanks again. Keep the change!” He spun back toward the store and disappeared inside.

I rather absently checked my pockets to make sure nothing was missing, and I made my way back to the northwest suburbs, thoughts of Ricky — and more questions about him than I had answers — running through my mind.

Just about every day I drive past the house where Ricky and Susie live, and each time I pass by I look at it — usually at night — and usually there’s a light on upstairs illuminating what is either an unfurnished room or a stairway foyer, and each time I wonder. What are you up to in there?



°

Freaky Weirdness

I think it's safe to say that I'm not what most would describe as the typical cab driver. Number one, I am "the best cab driver EVER." Two, I hear enough horror stories from passengers about other cab drivers whose rude behavior, foul attitudes, and questionable driving skills have left them with elevated blood pressures. Unfortunately some of those other hacks drive for the same company, so I often find myself apologizing to the customer for the dud they got before. Three, I speak English.

I'm a nice guy; it even says so on my personal calling card. I don't know if so many other cab drivers from Eastern Europe, the Middle East or Africa are just plain unfriendly, or if their lack of a full grasp of English makes them reticent and therefore seemingly rude, or worse, if the language barrier has caused so much rude treatment from passengers that they no longer give a shit any more. All I know is that, as a taxi passenger I experienced such a lack of service at times that I had to shake my head. When I started driving a cab, I got it into my head that I would never treat passengers like baggage and, so far, I think — I hope — I haven't wavered from that.

Little Old Ladies and Fair Damsels
Good news: one of my passengers is in love with me. Bad news: she's 83 years old.

Early on in my cab-driving career I picked up Rose. The instructions for her fare, every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday are fairly particular: no phone calls, no mini-vans, "must be on time-SHE HAS TO MAKE IT TO DIALYSIS!!" The first time I picked her up — at 4:00am — she stood on her walk just outside her door and apologized for her slow speed, and commented that she had suffered a mild stroke some months before, and still had some difficulty walking, and she didn't see in the dark so well. So I walked to her and offered her my arm. Every time since then (I have missed a few, getting sent by the dispatcher on other calls before I could position myself in Rose's zone in time to get her fare from the computer) it has been the same scenario. I pull into the driveway of the house where she lives with her daughter, positioning the car where she has the least distance to walk. She is always, ALWAYS waiting at the front door for her cab and is often already making her way down the driveway by the time I get to her and offer my arm.

Few of the other cab drivers who have received the order for her fare have ever done that, but rather have just sat in their car and waited for her to get there. Others have helped her as I do, but, she says, those drivers have quit or otherwise disappeared.

Rose's is an extremely short ride; it's less than a mile from her home to the renal center where she has her dialysis done, and the fare is only $3.80. That pisses off most cab drivers. I go out of my way to make sure I get the call so that Rose is taken care of properly. She's Italian, and was delighted to learn that I am half Italian. She has promised to portion off some of her family's approaching holiday meal for me to take home with me, and she has told me I'm in her will! She has said to me repeatedly, "You are with god," or something like that, in answer to which I just bite my tongue and smile. It's not that I fear to upset her or that I don't want to start an argument, but rather that I fear she might be carrying a rolling pin in her bag. She might be a frail old woman, but she is Italian, so she probably has a few good swings in her, and, despite the macular degeneration, no doubt has excellent aim!

---+++---+++---+++---+++---+++---

This morning I had dropped off Rose at the renal center and made my way toward the shopping center where I normally sit and wait for the computer to assign me my rides, about 10 miles away to the northeast from Rose's renal center. Around 4:20am, perhaps not quite halfway there I was on a wide stretch of main arterial roadway approaching a pass beneath an interstate highway. There I saw a most peculiar thing: a car straddled the center dividing curb, its emergency flashers activated. As I neared the car the thought ran through my mind: How the fuck did you get THERE? The dividing curb is, at the very least, eight inches high. At the nearest intersections on either side of the bridge, the curb is much too wide for the car to straddle, so I had no clue how the car got there.

But then I realized the car was probably stuck. There were no emergency vehicles around, so I decided to stop, if only to make sure that the driver was unhurt and had called anyone for help. I pulled in front of the car and into the narrow end of the nearby left-turn lane, activated my emergency flashers, and got out of my cab.

As I approached the car, a very attractive young woman got out from the driver's side (into the opposite-direction traffic lane!) and approached me. She was holding her mobile phone to her ear and was frantic and near tears as she tried to explain to me what had happened.

After spending the evening in Chicago, she had driven a friend to his car at a nearby commuter train station in this far northwest suburb, and then headed toward home in a west suburb about 20 miles to the south. She told me she was simply exhausted (though she admitted having had a couple drinks early the evening before, I didn't smell any alcohol on her) and in unfamiliar territory. She made a left turn toward the underpass, but misread the intersection and started heading east in the westbound lanes. She had quickly realized her error and, thinking she could hop the median, she attempted to do so, and got hung up on it, with the underbelly of her car resting on the concrete shelf about two feet wide.

Jen, as she told me her name, didn't know what to do, so I helped her to calm down and told her she needed to call a towing company. She looked up the nearest on her internet-enabled mobile phone, and was told a truck would be there in about 30 minutes. She kept voicing her wish that we could just push the car to a point where her front tires could get traction, and she could just drive off, but I showed her that her driver's side rear-wheel wasn't even touching the ground. Unless the Incredible Hulk happened to drive by, there was no way we two were going to make that car budge.

I told her that, if a policeman happened to show up, she shouldn't tell him that she was "simply exhausted," but to just stick with the "unfamiliar territory" part because, even if her car was drivable, he probably wouldn't let her drive home if she was indeed that pooped. I then told her that I would stick around to wait with her and, if she couldn't drive the car home, I would take her.

Some passer-by must have reported an accident because, just as the tow truck arrived, so did no fewer than four cops: two Cook County Sheriff's deputies, one Illinois State Police trooper, and one local municipal cop! At first they believed there had been a crash, but after I told them, and then Jen told them that I had come along shortly after her mishap and offered to help her, I actually saw one of them gesture toward me and heard him tell her, "He's a nice guy."

See?

The young driver of the tow truck made his assessments, called his supervisor, made some more assessments, and determined that he didn't have the right kind of truck to get the car off the curb. The local cop called another towing service, and told us it would probably be another ten minutes until that one arrived.

After the deputies and the trooper left, the local cop stuck around to keep traffic clear of our area while we each waited in our cars for the tow truck. As I was in front of everyone, I noticed in my rear-view mirror that the cop was talking to Jen through her open driver's side window. He was fairly young, so I figured he was making time with the beautiful young Jen. Hell, I would've were I he. Him...?

A few minutes later I heard a soft knock on my window. It was the cop, telling me that he had instructed Jen to get in my cab after her car was squared away, and to have me take her home. I told him that I had already offered, and that I would cut her a break on the steep fare the trip would be, not wanting to take advantage of her, and all. At least not financially.... OOPAAHH!

He told me that she was to go home, and that if she told me to take her to her car, I was to call the police and let them know. Great. Conscripted snitch.

The flatbed tow truck driver arrived and within 15 minutes had Jen's car off of the median and on his truck. The cop said that the car was being taken to a nearby auto dealer where the tow truck driver would leave instructions for their service department to assess any damage to the undercarriage and make sure it was roadworthy.

Jen said that the cop had told her that if she directed me to where her car was taken, he would arrest her! The poor kid was embarrassed, exhausted yet certain she was okay to drive, and fearful of confronting her uncle and his wife, with whom she lives, the latter whom is the co-signer with Jen on the car loan.

I entered her address in my GPS and told her to just try to relax on the drive and maybe take a nap. However, on the way we got into a conversation. She's 25 years old, a student in her final year of a management degree at a local university. We got to talking about the suburb where she lives with her aunt and uncle, and I asked if she grew up there. She said, "No. I grew up in the south suburbs."

"Really?" I asked.

I grew up in the south suburbs, in a town so far south and to the edge of the same huge county that holds Chicago — Cook County — that when I mention Chicago Heights, I assume no one has heard of it, let alone knows where it is. So unless I'm talking with another south suburbanite, I simply refer to my childhood roots as "the south suburbs."

"I'm from the south 'burbs. Which one?"

She said it with the confidence of a long-lost child, certain no one was ever going to find her. "Chicago Heights."

It was our good fortune that we were stopped at a red light at the moment. In mild shock I slapped the steering wheel. "You're kidding me!"

"What? Why?"

"Did you go to Bloom [High School]?"

"Yes...?"

I reached my right arm back behind the passenger side front seat and offered my hand.

"What are you doing?!"

I couldn't find the word, "alumna" in my vocabulary, so all I blurted out was, "Alma Mater! That's my Alma Mater!"

It was her turn to be shocked. What a freaky, weird coincidence that she could be stranded so far from her home in so unfamiliar a place, and the one dude who comes to her rescue, himself so far removed from the place of his roots, is from her home town!

"Oh, wow! This is so strange!" She took my hand in hers, warm and soft, and squeezed gently.

We shared a few of our individual memories from "da Heights" — as it is not always affectionately referred to — and our mutual sadness at its slow demise, a once hale and hardy, thriving burg, now a dying patient withering away to skin and bones, pocked with sores and cancers and important things missing.

I got her home, charged her $25 for a $56 fare, in return for which she authorized a $30 charge on her debit card.

The incident ate up most of my morning, precious Monday hours ripe for airport rides for good money. But sometimes doing something nice for someone, or doing something for someone in need is worth more than any amount of money I could have made in those hours. Bonus that she was über-cute. Double bonus that we're homies!

Scene From a Taxi Cab — The Sequel

The cab sits at one corner of an intersection in the trendy downtown area of the quaint suburb, an intersection with one bar on each of three corners, and three on the fourth. It is a fairly slow night, so the cab driver has decided to try his luck trolling along the stream of passers-by on the street.

Before too long the right side rear passenger door opens and a woman gets in quickly, sitting heavily with a sigh.

"How are you, tonight?" she asks, her tongue thick with the effects of much alcohol.

The hairs on the driver's neck stand up as the woman's voice rings familiar in his ears. He turns to look at her, but his memory is too foggy. Could it be her?

"I'm well. And you?"

"I'm good," she says. "But I'm ready to go home."

After a beat waiting for her to give him an address, the cabbie asks, "And where would that be?" all the while feeling quite certain he knew.

"I'll tell you the way."

The cab driver heaves his own heavy, quiet sigh, fearing another wild goose chase through the streets of this town. He puts the car in gear and rolls forward.

"Are we... what street is this?" the woman asks, twisting around in her seat to take in her surroundings, her display of awareness encouraging to the driver.

"We're on Vail, ma'am," replies the driver. "Cambpell is just behind us."

"Okay. Take a left at the next street."

He drives according to her instructions.

Mere seconds later the passenger heaves another sigh. "I just moved here recently."

"Where from?" Now he is convinced this is the same woman.

"Oh, from points far away..."

"Cagey," the driver thinks to himself as he secretly rolls his eyes.

Her instructions are precise and accurate, and within only a few minutes of leaving the bar, the cab pulls up to the woman's apartment building. It is indeed the very same place. She is indeed the very same woman.

"How much is it?" she asks, squinting at the red LED of the meter.

"Three-eighty," recites the driver. He recalls the woman's previous ride in his cab and the fare of $8.00, and appreciates just how confused and disoriented — and drunk — the woman was the last time. He also remembers that she was three dollars short then, too.

The woman hands him a five-dollar bill. He pulls out a single dollar bill to make change, as he never assumes a passenger will tip, but before he can hand it to her, she says, "Wait. Give me the five back."

The driver does as she asks, and she then hands him a ten-dollar bill. "Give me three back."

The driver adds two more singles to the one he has already pulled out, and hands them all to her.

"Thanks."

"You're very welcome."

The woman pauses a moment, and then hands the three singles back to the driver. She opens the door, pauses, and then says, "Make sure I get inside, okay?"

"Absolutely." The driver looks at her over his shoulder.

The woman lingers. She opens her wallet again and pulls out the five-dollar bill she had originally chosen to pay with, and hands it to the driver. "Thanks."

"Thank you!"

"Have a good night!" The woman leaves the car and slams the door.

The cab driver, true to his word, stays and watches the woman make her way to her apartment, the very same 6B to which he helped her the last time they met. As she enters her apartment and shuts the door, the irony strikes him that, despite her lack of memory of their first meeting, she had not only repaid him for the amount she fell short the last time, but she had tipped well for both rides!

He pulls away from the apartment building and catches a glimpse of a pair of street signs, and is struck with the revelation that there is a GPS problem with this part of town: Salem and Miner do intersect.

Resurfacing

Hello. Remember me? I have been woefully remiss in contributing to my blog. It's not necessarily that anyone cares, but if one is to maintain a presence somewhere, one has to be... well... present.

Much has gone on in the month and a half since I last posted, mainly in the taxi, as that is where I have spent practically Every. Last. Waking. Moment. of my life recently. Let's see... there's the story about the gypsy kid, and the one about the ousted husband, and then there's the return of the drunk lady, and another about the polite puker.

Last, and certainly not least, is the story of Lucky Stiff, with photos (all of them of me, of course (ooh! Freaky use of "of," no? Heh!)).

With this post to act as a sort of syllabus for the course of the next few, I can be held to sharing all of them with you over the course of the next few days or weeks. ...or months.


Cast and crew of Lucky Stiff, Northeastern Illinois University
Stage Center, November 19 - December 12, 2009, with me
front and almost sorta center, where I belong.



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