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.
Showing posts with label scene from a taxi cab. Show all posts
Showing posts with label scene from a taxi cab. Show all posts
Friday, December 18, 2009
Thursday, October 22, 2009
The $52 Tip
At risk of belaboring the fact that I’m a taxi driver these days, I share another story from behind the wheel. One surprising observation I have made since starting the night shift about three weeks ago is that I have drunk passengers more frequently on weeknights than I do over the weekends.
One evening last week — Tuesday or Wednesday — it might have even been the same night as the woman who didn’t know where she lived — I received a fare notice to pick up a passenger named Kevin at a 7-Eleven store nearby. It was only about eight minutes away, and the roads were desolate. I arrived at the convenience store and saw no one waiting outside, and the only person inside was the store clerk sweeping the floor. I stepped in and asked if someone named Kevin, waiting for a cab, was here. The guy looked at me with a confused expression, and said, “No.”
I had another fare or two afterwards, and then I got a fare to pick up at a particular address, which the dispatch message indicated was a White Hen Pantry. The name on the order was Antonio. I drove past where the address was supposed to be, but there was no White Hen Pantry. I drove in both directions along the road to see if there was one a block or two in either direction, but there was not. I returned to the address and saw that there was a liquor store there, and there was a man waving at me. He seemed a little upset — and drunk — and asked me what took me so long. I explained the confusion, seeing as there was no White Hen for miles around the liquor store. Then I asked the guy if he was Antonio.
“NO!” he shouted. “I’m Kevin.” One must bear in mind that we were several miles away and hours after the no-show at the 7-Eleven store.
I put two and two together and realized the call was indeed for Kevin, so I told him to hop in. He carried a plastic grocery bag containing I don’t know what, and he clutched a bottle of some kind of liquor, the brand or spirit I could not make out. Immediately, he said, slurring heavily, “How ‘bout you turn off that meter? You’ll make a lot of money with me. I’m serious.”
It sounded as though he wanted me to do something shady or illegal — or he wanted my help for him to do something illegal. I told him that I had to leave it on so that my dispatcher knew I had a customer and wouldn’t try to send me to another fare. He kept insisting I turn it off in return for some grand jackpot at the end of the ride, but I kept refusing.
He never told me an address, just gave me directions: turn here, go past that light and take the first left, etc.
The first stop along the way was a grocery store that appeared open, but was not. He got back in the car and once again insisted that I turn off the meter, or I wouldn’t see the cash potential.
So I turned it off. He told me to roll on. At the end of the parking lot where the grocery store and a strip mall are, he guided me to a bank’s drive-up ATM stand. There was the cash potential of which he spoke! He stepped out of the car and got some cash, and then got back in and directed me forward. The meter was on again, and this time, when he told me to turn it off, I said, “Look, if you’re going to pay me as handsomely as you say you are, then what difference does it make what the meter reads?”
He replied with indifference. He directed me around a corner, beyond which loomed a large gas station, closed.
“Shit!” He muttered. Despite the fact that he had been sipping from his bottle for the entire ride, it was apparent he was looking for another place to buy liquor. I began to wonder if Antonio at the “White Hen” liquor store had refused his business.
After one more unsuccessful attempt at getting me to turn off the meter, Kevin said, “Okay, my friend. I guess you’re not interested in making a lot of cash. Just take me home.” I followed his directions until he told me to stop outside an apartment complex. He asked me what he owed me.
I said, “Well, the meter shows eight dollars, but the first time you got me to turn it off, it read thirteen dollars.” I knew, if it ever came down to an argument and calling a cop, I was likely stuck with what the meter read at the moment. “Just pay me whatever you want.” I really just wanted him and his stupid, drunken game out of my cab.
Kevin handed me a twenty-dollar bill and said nothing. I never assume — at least not out loud — that I’m being given a tip, so I made change and handed back twelve dollars. He sat there with a smirk on his face for a few moments, and then he handed the change back to me.
He got out of the car, stood by the open rear door, and then he said, “Here,” and he handed me another twenty.
“Thank you very much,” I said, as it was indeed very generous. He weaved off on his way to I know not where.
A little while later, after the night had gone quiet, I moved to the back seat of my cab so I could try to go online outside a free WiFi hotel. I had no success at that particular moment, and, for no apparent reason, I looked down at the seat. Obscured in the shadows cast by the front seat in the harsh dome light of the cab was another twenty-dollar bill! Kevin had indeed come through on his promise to make the night worth my while, but not entirely as he had intended!! The good Samaritan in me was inspired to take the money back to him, however the closest I could get to him was the apartment complex where he lives. I know not which building or apartment is his.
So, score one — or 52 — for Farrago!
°
One evening last week — Tuesday or Wednesday — it might have even been the same night as the woman who didn’t know where she lived — I received a fare notice to pick up a passenger named Kevin at a 7-Eleven store nearby. It was only about eight minutes away, and the roads were desolate. I arrived at the convenience store and saw no one waiting outside, and the only person inside was the store clerk sweeping the floor. I stepped in and asked if someone named Kevin, waiting for a cab, was here. The guy looked at me with a confused expression, and said, “No.”
I had another fare or two afterwards, and then I got a fare to pick up at a particular address, which the dispatch message indicated was a White Hen Pantry. The name on the order was Antonio. I drove past where the address was supposed to be, but there was no White Hen Pantry. I drove in both directions along the road to see if there was one a block or two in either direction, but there was not. I returned to the address and saw that there was a liquor store there, and there was a man waving at me. He seemed a little upset — and drunk — and asked me what took me so long. I explained the confusion, seeing as there was no White Hen for miles around the liquor store. Then I asked the guy if he was Antonio.
“NO!” he shouted. “I’m Kevin.” One must bear in mind that we were several miles away and hours after the no-show at the 7-Eleven store.
I put two and two together and realized the call was indeed for Kevin, so I told him to hop in. He carried a plastic grocery bag containing I don’t know what, and he clutched a bottle of some kind of liquor, the brand or spirit I could not make out. Immediately, he said, slurring heavily, “How ‘bout you turn off that meter? You’ll make a lot of money with me. I’m serious.”
It sounded as though he wanted me to do something shady or illegal — or he wanted my help for him to do something illegal. I told him that I had to leave it on so that my dispatcher knew I had a customer and wouldn’t try to send me to another fare. He kept insisting I turn it off in return for some grand jackpot at the end of the ride, but I kept refusing.
He never told me an address, just gave me directions: turn here, go past that light and take the first left, etc.
The first stop along the way was a grocery store that appeared open, but was not. He got back in the car and once again insisted that I turn off the meter, or I wouldn’t see the cash potential.
So I turned it off. He told me to roll on. At the end of the parking lot where the grocery store and a strip mall are, he guided me to a bank’s drive-up ATM stand. There was the cash potential of which he spoke! He stepped out of the car and got some cash, and then got back in and directed me forward. The meter was on again, and this time, when he told me to turn it off, I said, “Look, if you’re going to pay me as handsomely as you say you are, then what difference does it make what the meter reads?”
He replied with indifference. He directed me around a corner, beyond which loomed a large gas station, closed.
“Shit!” He muttered. Despite the fact that he had been sipping from his bottle for the entire ride, it was apparent he was looking for another place to buy liquor. I began to wonder if Antonio at the “White Hen” liquor store had refused his business.
After one more unsuccessful attempt at getting me to turn off the meter, Kevin said, “Okay, my friend. I guess you’re not interested in making a lot of cash. Just take me home.” I followed his directions until he told me to stop outside an apartment complex. He asked me what he owed me.
I said, “Well, the meter shows eight dollars, but the first time you got me to turn it off, it read thirteen dollars.” I knew, if it ever came down to an argument and calling a cop, I was likely stuck with what the meter read at the moment. “Just pay me whatever you want.” I really just wanted him and his stupid, drunken game out of my cab.
Kevin handed me a twenty-dollar bill and said nothing. I never assume — at least not out loud — that I’m being given a tip, so I made change and handed back twelve dollars. He sat there with a smirk on his face for a few moments, and then he handed the change back to me.
He got out of the car, stood by the open rear door, and then he said, “Here,” and he handed me another twenty.
“Thank you very much,” I said, as it was indeed very generous. He weaved off on his way to I know not where.
A little while later, after the night had gone quiet, I moved to the back seat of my cab so I could try to go online outside a free WiFi hotel. I had no success at that particular moment, and, for no apparent reason, I looked down at the seat. Obscured in the shadows cast by the front seat in the harsh dome light of the cab was another twenty-dollar bill! Kevin had indeed come through on his promise to make the night worth my while, but not entirely as he had intended!! The good Samaritan in me was inspired to take the money back to him, however the closest I could get to him was the apartment complex where he lives. I know not which building or apartment is his.
So, score one — or 52 — for Farrago!
°
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Scene From a Taxi Cab
The cab pulls up to the bar, the driver searching for the name of the establishment to be sure he’s at the correct address. Outside the bar, a young man points at the cab driver, indicating that he’s the one who called. Next to him is a fairly attractive blond woman, but she is apparently quite drunk.
The young man holds the woman by an arm and she staggers as they approach the taxi, and the driver opens the automatic rear window from the controls on his door. The young man appears displeased.
“Here ya go, buddy,” he says.
The driver consults the words on his computer’s screen. “Are you Ryan?”
The young man’s expression reads frustration; fear, even. “No, but I think he’s the one who called. We called your cab company, anyway.”
“Okay.” says the cab driver. “I’m here.”
The young man opens the rear door and guides the woman into the seat. He shuts the door and says, “She’s all yours.” He leaves without another word.
“How are you this evening?” the cab driver says cheerfully.
“Mm wunnerful,” says the woman from under her stylish hat. She neither sounds nor looks like she feels wonderful.
“Where are we off to?”
“Take me home,” she says sloshily.
The cabbie feels a twinge of the absurd. “And what’s the address?”
Silence follows. Then the woman sighs thickly. “I don’t know.”
Ever helpful, the cabbie reaches for his GPS unit on the center console between the seats. “Is it here in town?”
“Yes,” the woman slurs.
As the cab driver begins to tap on the screen the name of the town, the woman gushes, “It’s at Salem and Miner.”
The cab driver backs out of the GPS address finder and goes back in through the intersection finder, entering the name of the town again. After entering the second street name, the GPS unit reads, “No information.” The streets don’t intersect.
“I can just tell you how to get there,” blurts the woman. And as the cabbie puts the car in gear, the woman adds, “He said it would all be paid for...”
Another twinge hits the cabbie, and he quickly decides that, since this is a short ride anyway, it’s most important that this woman get home safely. If she has no money, so be it.
He drives the car under the inebriated woman’s direction and, after her second utterance of “Where are you taking me?” he decides that following her directions is an exercise in futility. He stops the car and asks her again for the address.
“It’s at the intersection of Salem and Miner.”
“Ma’am, the GPS says those streets don’t cross.” He thinks for a moment. “Do you have your driver’s license? I’ll just get the address from that.”
“Yeah, I have my driver’s license,” she blathers. “Oh. But I don’t have one for this county. I just moved here.”
Gritting his teeth, the cabbie says, “Can you remember the address? If you can’t, then we’re stuck here.”
In drunken despair the woman whines, “Please help me.”
“I’m doing my best, ma’am,” says the exasperated cabbie, “but without an address, I can’t get you home.”
The woman heaves a huge sigh. “202 north Salem.”
“Excellent!” says the cab driver as he subtly shakes his head in the dark car and enters the new information into the GPS unit.
No more than a minute into the trip, the cabbie hears the sound of a cigarette lighter being operated. He turns to face the woman. “There’s no smoking in this cab, ma’am.”
She flicks the lighter again.
“Ma’am, this is a no-smoking cab! Please put the cigarette away.”
The flame licks the end of the cigarette, and the tobacco glows red.
The cabbie pulls to the curb and stops the car. “Ma’am! There is no smoking in this cab, PLEASE PUT THE CIGARETTE OUT.”
She says, “Okay. It’s out.”
The cabbie looks at the cigarette still clutched in her fingers and notices that the cigarette is indeed out. How she managed that he could not guess.
A mere few hundred yards down the road, the cabbie hears the lighter flick again. He just wants to be rid of this woman, now, so he simply opens both rear windows and locks out the rear controls so she can’t close them. He takes silent glee when he hears the woman pushing her window button to no avail.
The GPS guides them to the address, but the woman points to a building across the street. “It’s that one there.”
There’s no parking lot entrance from the street they’re on, so the cabbie backs the car to the intersection and pulls to an entrance across the sidewalk, but it is clearly not a parking lot entrance, but rather to a loading dock of some sort. “Ma’am, are you sure this is it?”
“Yes, I’m sure. You have to go back to the other street.”
Gritting his teeth again, the cabbie reverses the car back onto the street and returns to the street where he originally stopped.
“It’s this one,” says the woman, this time pointing to the building opposite the one she indicated the first time, right where the GPS had guided them in the first place.
The cabbie stops the meter at $8.00. The woman digs in her wallet and produces a five-dollar bill. The cabbie can see that it is the only paper currency there.
“That’ll do. Let’s just get you home.”
The woman looks at him. “What’s your name, anyway?”
“I’m Tony,” he says.
“Tony, I love you!”
He steps out of the car and walks around to the passenger side rear door, which the woman has already opened. He offers a hand, which she accepts, and guides her toward the building, entirely uncertain if she’s even at the right place.
“Which apartment is it?” he asks.
“Six B,” comes her reply.
Of course, six B is on the second floor. The cabbie is fearful that she’ll never make it up the stairs on her own, so he helps her stagger up both flights, and then he helps her to her door.
The woman fumbles for a minor eternity in her purse, but can’t find the keys, so she thrusts the purse at the cabbie who takes the handles and holds the purse open in order that the woman can fumble two-handed. She produces a set of keys and lunges at the lock, but she can’t manage to single out a key, let alone fit it into the lock. She thrusts the keys at the cabbie, and he finds one that looks like a house key. It slides into the lock effortlessly, but, try as he might, he can’t turn it.
“Are you SURE this is your apartment? Are we at the right building?” he asks, picturing a man on the other side of the door, trembling in fear and aiming a shotgun at the door.
“Yes, this is my place.” The woman tries the door handle, but the door is still locked. “God, I have to pee.”
“The key’s not turning, Ma’am. I don’t know what else to do.”
She lunges at the door once more while the cabbie, stuck with his own sense of responsibility, looks helplessly down at his cab parked at the curb, beckoning him return.
Finally, a minor miracle occurs and the door opens to reveal a fairly nice interior and an unenthusiastic, white Pekingese looking up at her as if to say, “Again?”
The woman staggers to the doorway, and the cabbie puts one, final steadying hand on her back. She makes a futile grab for his hand and stumbles into her own living room and says, “Wait. Come here.”
“I’m sorry, Ma’am,” says the cab driver, backing away from the doorway, HELL NO! screaming through his mind. “I’m not allowed to go inside.” He pulls on the door handle. “You have a nice night, now!”
“No! Wait!” In her attempt to keep the door open, her weight carries forward and she pushes the door shut.
Heading down the stairs, the cabbie chuckles to himself, shakes his head, and pities the woman for the morning she is about to endure.
°
The young man holds the woman by an arm and she staggers as they approach the taxi, and the driver opens the automatic rear window from the controls on his door. The young man appears displeased.
“Here ya go, buddy,” he says.
The driver consults the words on his computer’s screen. “Are you Ryan?”
The young man’s expression reads frustration; fear, even. “No, but I think he’s the one who called. We called your cab company, anyway.”
“Okay.” says the cab driver. “I’m here.”
The young man opens the rear door and guides the woman into the seat. He shuts the door and says, “She’s all yours.” He leaves without another word.
“How are you this evening?” the cab driver says cheerfully.
“Mm wunnerful,” says the woman from under her stylish hat. She neither sounds nor looks like she feels wonderful.
“Where are we off to?”
“Take me home,” she says sloshily.
The cabbie feels a twinge of the absurd. “And what’s the address?”
Silence follows. Then the woman sighs thickly. “I don’t know.”
Ever helpful, the cabbie reaches for his GPS unit on the center console between the seats. “Is it here in town?”
“Yes,” the woman slurs.
As the cab driver begins to tap on the screen the name of the town, the woman gushes, “It’s at Salem and Miner.”
The cab driver backs out of the GPS address finder and goes back in through the intersection finder, entering the name of the town again. After entering the second street name, the GPS unit reads, “No information.” The streets don’t intersect.
“I can just tell you how to get there,” blurts the woman. And as the cabbie puts the car in gear, the woman adds, “He said it would all be paid for...”
Another twinge hits the cabbie, and he quickly decides that, since this is a short ride anyway, it’s most important that this woman get home safely. If she has no money, so be it.
He drives the car under the inebriated woman’s direction and, after her second utterance of “Where are you taking me?” he decides that following her directions is an exercise in futility. He stops the car and asks her again for the address.
“It’s at the intersection of Salem and Miner.”
“Ma’am, the GPS says those streets don’t cross.” He thinks for a moment. “Do you have your driver’s license? I’ll just get the address from that.”
“Yeah, I have my driver’s license,” she blathers. “Oh. But I don’t have one for this county. I just moved here.”
Gritting his teeth, the cabbie says, “Can you remember the address? If you can’t, then we’re stuck here.”
In drunken despair the woman whines, “Please help me.”
“I’m doing my best, ma’am,” says the exasperated cabbie, “but without an address, I can’t get you home.”
The woman heaves a huge sigh. “202 north Salem.”
“Excellent!” says the cab driver as he subtly shakes his head in the dark car and enters the new information into the GPS unit.
No more than a minute into the trip, the cabbie hears the sound of a cigarette lighter being operated. He turns to face the woman. “There’s no smoking in this cab, ma’am.”
She flicks the lighter again.
“Ma’am, this is a no-smoking cab! Please put the cigarette away.”
The flame licks the end of the cigarette, and the tobacco glows red.
The cabbie pulls to the curb and stops the car. “Ma’am! There is no smoking in this cab, PLEASE PUT THE CIGARETTE OUT.”
She says, “Okay. It’s out.”
The cabbie looks at the cigarette still clutched in her fingers and notices that the cigarette is indeed out. How she managed that he could not guess.
A mere few hundred yards down the road, the cabbie hears the lighter flick again. He just wants to be rid of this woman, now, so he simply opens both rear windows and locks out the rear controls so she can’t close them. He takes silent glee when he hears the woman pushing her window button to no avail.
The GPS guides them to the address, but the woman points to a building across the street. “It’s that one there.”
There’s no parking lot entrance from the street they’re on, so the cabbie backs the car to the intersection and pulls to an entrance across the sidewalk, but it is clearly not a parking lot entrance, but rather to a loading dock of some sort. “Ma’am, are you sure this is it?”
“Yes, I’m sure. You have to go back to the other street.”
Gritting his teeth again, the cabbie reverses the car back onto the street and returns to the street where he originally stopped.
“It’s this one,” says the woman, this time pointing to the building opposite the one she indicated the first time, right where the GPS had guided them in the first place.
The cabbie stops the meter at $8.00. The woman digs in her wallet and produces a five-dollar bill. The cabbie can see that it is the only paper currency there.
“That’ll do. Let’s just get you home.”
The woman looks at him. “What’s your name, anyway?”
“I’m Tony,” he says.
“Tony, I love you!”
He steps out of the car and walks around to the passenger side rear door, which the woman has already opened. He offers a hand, which she accepts, and guides her toward the building, entirely uncertain if she’s even at the right place.
“Which apartment is it?” he asks.
“Six B,” comes her reply.
Of course, six B is on the second floor. The cabbie is fearful that she’ll never make it up the stairs on her own, so he helps her stagger up both flights, and then he helps her to her door.
The woman fumbles for a minor eternity in her purse, but can’t find the keys, so she thrusts the purse at the cabbie who takes the handles and holds the purse open in order that the woman can fumble two-handed. She produces a set of keys and lunges at the lock, but she can’t manage to single out a key, let alone fit it into the lock. She thrusts the keys at the cabbie, and he finds one that looks like a house key. It slides into the lock effortlessly, but, try as he might, he can’t turn it.
“Are you SURE this is your apartment? Are we at the right building?” he asks, picturing a man on the other side of the door, trembling in fear and aiming a shotgun at the door.
“Yes, this is my place.” The woman tries the door handle, but the door is still locked. “God, I have to pee.”
“The key’s not turning, Ma’am. I don’t know what else to do.”
She lunges at the door once more while the cabbie, stuck with his own sense of responsibility, looks helplessly down at his cab parked at the curb, beckoning him return.
Finally, a minor miracle occurs and the door opens to reveal a fairly nice interior and an unenthusiastic, white Pekingese looking up at her as if to say, “Again?”
The woman staggers to the doorway, and the cabbie puts one, final steadying hand on her back. She makes a futile grab for his hand and stumbles into her own living room and says, “Wait. Come here.”
“I’m sorry, Ma’am,” says the cab driver, backing away from the doorway, HELL NO! screaming through his mind. “I’m not allowed to go inside.” He pulls on the door handle. “You have a nice night, now!”
“No! Wait!” In her attempt to keep the door open, her weight carries forward and she pushes the door shut.
Heading down the stairs, the cabbie chuckles to himself, shakes his head, and pities the woman for the morning she is about to endure.
°
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