Intuition

When I say to other cab drivers that I've worked nights for twenty years and never been robbed, they either don't believe me or tell me I'm lucky. But, I'm telling the truth. I haven't been held up and I owe it all to Officer Paul Weiner.

Weiner trained us and during orientation told us that we had to pick up anybody and everybody who wanted a cab.

"But isn't that dangerous?" I asked, "I mean, you can tell that some people are trouble just by the way they move, they way they look, their gestures, they way they look at you. "

"You can't tell nuthin!" Weiner yelled, getting in my face like a Marine Corps drill sergeant.

"But sometimes you can see it com -"

"You can't see nuthin,” he bellowed. "You don't pick ‘em up, it's refusal to convey! That’s the law!"

The reason I owe my perfect record to Officer Weiner is that he started me thinking seriously about how dangerous the job could be and I decided to ignore his rule.

I can see the point of the law. It's a product of the sixties. It's aimed at racial profiling. And, of course, you can't convict somebody of a crime because of the way they move or look. But only a fool would ignore the warning signs of aggressive body language or a sadistic stare. There is a difference between punishing somebody and protecting yourself. Are such distinctions too subtle for the law?

Personally, I've never turned anybody down because of race. In fact, innumerable large, minority men have told me that I was only cab driver who would pick them up. Contrary to stereotype, I've usually been tipped very, very well by these people.

The reason I raised my questions to Weiner in the first place was that I'd been mugged by two white junkies a couple of years earlier.

The thing is that I saw them: I saw that they were scumbags: I knew they were dangerous: I could even see them targeting me.

But I ignored the signs. Why? Because it was a lovely Sunday afternoon on Hyde & Vallejo streets on Russian Hill in San Francisco with strolling couples and cable cars passing by while I was walking home from a Laundromat.

Hyde & Vallejo might be the safest corner in the world. It never entered my head that I could be mugged at such a time in such a place. If it had, my rip-off artists would never have gotten close enough to point a butcher knife at my guts.

One of them walked by me then turned around holding the knife concealed by his jacket. They other blocked me from behind. They got $6.00. It was well worth the price for the lessons they gave me. It’s paid me back a dozen times over since I started driving cab.

I’ve passed by thugs that I know have robbed other drivers. When I was working for City Cab a dispatcher gave me an order at a corner on Cortland to pick up three guys at 2 am. I took one look at them, drove by and called the dispatcher, telling him not to call the order again. He called it anyway. 

The dirtballs robbed the next cab driver that came along. The dispatcher later claimed that I'd never talked to him. But, of course, the company could have been put in a delicate situation. They might either be busted by Wiener for refusing to call an order or sued by the driver for putting him in harm's way.

Whatever – the moral of my tale is: always be aware of your surroundings and trust your perceptions. Your intuition is smarter than the law and swifter than your brain.

A Work of Genius

He was 22, thin, good looking, medium height and hip. He'd always been hip. He'd been class treasurer in high school and helped edit the yearbook. He usually obtained the booze and milder drugs for his college fraternity parties and got laid at every other one. While his clothes - faded jeans with a hole in one knee, green turtle-neck, white jean-jacket - were a tad retro, they were hip because he wore them.

En route we had a hip conversation about Miles. He contended that Kind of Blue, which I was playing, was Davis's greatest album. I held the less conventional view of preferring Sketches of Spain. 

"I like the melodies," I told him. 

He grudgingly accepted that as a legitimate position - although an inferior one.

When we arrived at his destination, he climbed out of the back seat and came around to my window to pay. He started to hand me a ten dollar bill, then paused and said, 

"You know if you could really write what cab driving's like - I mean if you could really capture the experience - it would be literature."

"Well," I hesitantly started to say, "I've made a few notes here and -"

"No! - No!" he interrupted, waving his bill in front of me as to erase my words. "No - if you could really just get it down - you could create a work of genius."

He stood staring at some point over my head. 

If only he had the time ... if only he chose to dedicate himself to the task ... Yes! Cabbie would be his first best seller, the next avaunt on the non-fiction novel ...

"That was $7.90," I said.

"Oh, yeah - yeah," he said, remembering me. "Make it eight."

"Thanks a lot," I said, handing back his two bills.

Enraptured in his vision, he missed my mild sarcasm. 

"I wasn't just a documentarian," he would tell Charlie Rose, "I was one of them."

 His success would give him the time he needed to write his major opus, Ulysses as a Young Narcissist and Other Tales.

He turned and wandered across the crowded boulevard, floating obliviously through the braking cars, honking horns and screamed obscenities on the soft velvet warmth of his fantasy.

I'll Shoot You in the Face!

Two, long, lovely natural blonds from Minnesota sat waiting in the back seat of my taxi. What we were waiting for was the owner, a short man in his forties, who was standing outside his bar arguing with a tall black man.

"You come in here again and I'll shoot you in the face!" he yelled.

The black man just stood and looked down at the little man. I couldn't figure out what the argument was about. The black man appeared to be sober and was cleanly dressed but he was ghetto. That was probably it. It was an upscale, North Beach place. The owner was probably just a racist.

"What'd I do?" the black man asked.

"Just don't come in my bar," the little man yelled, "you do it again and I'll shoot you in the face."

He finished his threat and jumped into the cab next to the blonds. He rolled down the window and repeated the threat one more time. "You come in again and I'll shoot you in the face."

He was clearly saying it to impress the blonds. They exchanged a look. They were not impressed.

He turned in my direction, shook his head and said, "whatya think of that?"

"I think it's a bad idea to make threats that you don't intend to keep," I said. "You just –"

"Who asked your opinion?" the owner shot back belligerently.

"I thought you did?"

"When I want your opinion, I'll let you know."

"Or what? You gonna shoot me in the face?"

"I wouldn't waste a bullet on your fucking face - you want the ride or not?"

"Or not."

"Well fuck you," he said climbing out of the cab, "Come on girls - let's dump the bum."

"You sure you wanna go with that jerk?" I asked the blonds. "I''m better looking and I'm taller."

They exchanged another look. They instantly agreed about the shortness of my financial status. Wordlessly, they climbed out of the taxi.

It appeared that the owner had been in arguments with cab drivers before and it looked like he was going to do the number one irritating thing that a customer can do - leave my rear side door open so that I would have to get out of the cab and walk around to the other side in order to close the door.

"Don't slam my door," I said.

"Fuck you!" he said, slamming the door shut.

A couple of years later, they found the owner in the doorway of a Tenderloin dive with a big hole in his forehead. Maybe if he'd let me finish my complete sentence, he'd still be alive.

" – you just never know who you're talking to."

Actually, that's not bad advice for me.

The Brazilian

"Thanks for driving slow," said the wife.

"Yeah," said the husband, "that last driver was insane."

"Literally insane," added the wife.

"He flew over that steep hill," interjected the husband. "You know – the one from that movie."

"And he was laughing like a lunatic," he added.

"Lit-er-al-ly insane," said the wife.

"Did you ask him to slow down?" I inquired.

"Yeah," he said. "We made that mistake."

"He went twice as fast," she added. "And laughed twice as loud."

"We didn't get the number but he was Brazilian."

"Somebody should report him before he kills somebody – do you know who it is?"

"Let me think," I said. "You're sure he was Brazilian?"

"He was talking about the Brazilian soccer team."

"And he wore a colorful T-shirt that said Brazil."

"There are a lot of Brazilian drivers," I said. "And that sounds like all of them. There's one guy I'm thinking of – was he really ugly?"

"Oh, my God, no!" said the wife. "He was gorgeous! Ab-so-lute-ly gorgeous!"

"He wasn't that good looking," said the husband.

"Then, I don't know who it could be," I said lying.

It had to be Tony. He did drive very fast but everyone drives fast in Brazil. Besides, he was a pro. He didn't tailgate and he was in control. I don't think he ever even had an accident. He probably thought he was entertaining the couple.

I didn't have a car for a year and took taxis everywhere. I confess that most cab drivers go too fast for my tastes. I'm not above bailing from a taxi if I don't the driving. The dispatchers at my company called the order for my nightly ride home as,

"The old lady wants a cab at the garage."

One time when Tony was driving me home I did ask him why he was in such a hurry.

"I'm getting old, man," he said. "I need to save some money."

"Old?" I said laughing, "What are you? Twenty-eight?"


"Yeah – I know I look young but I'm forty. I dye my hair."

"YOU dye your hair?"

"Yeah. I really like women."

"Let me get this straight ... YOU have to dye your hair to get laid? You can't image how good that makes me feel."

"No – getting laid's no problema but I like women in their early twenties. Twenty-two is my ideal."

"My ideal is any woman who is too old for you. Why don't you send me your rejects?"

"It isn't just the woman," Tony said laughing. "I need the money for my daughter. She's fifteen and she needs a kidney. I have to save $25,000 for the operation. Then, I can give her my one of my kidneys. If I don't do it soon, it'll be too late. When she gets her kidney I'll slow down.

END

My Best Ride

I took a radio call on a looping street where Cow Hollow meets the edge of the Presidio.  The address was almost at the top of a steep wooded hill upon which lived some of the richest and most power people in San Francisco. The house looked like a stone monastery cut into the cliff with twin turrets winding up the slope on different sides. It had a huge wooden door with a large brass knocker. I raised the knocker as high as it would go and let it loose. It fell and slammed into the door, making a thud that echoed up unseen stairways.

The evening was clear and I could see an almost full moon rising through the trees. I took time to relax and breath in the cool, fresh air. I looked up toward the mansions on top of the bluff and decided that if I ever had the money to live in one, I wouldn't. Too much trouble.

"Are you driver?" An accented voice asked from behind me.

I turned to see a exotic Asian woman looking at me. She was dressed in a way that I'd never seen before. She was wearing a tan coat over a multi-colored vest over a green blouse with a patterned skirt so thick it reminded me of a kilt. Individually nothing seemed to match but, taken as whole, everything fit together – highlighting a lovely face with high cheekbones and light brown eyes with gold specks around the pupils.

'Out of my league," I thought.

She was carrying a cake box.

"Let me take that for you," I said

She smiled warmly and thanked me as she held out the box.

A tall, handsome, causally elegant man in his forties stepped out of the doorway carrying a bouquet of roses and handed them to her.

I put the box in the back of the car and climbed into the driver's seat while they talked.

He was enamored but shy and hesitant. She was uncomfortable and very polite. It quickly became clear that he wasn't getting anywhere and never would.

I decided to talk to her.

"Lovely flowers," I said as she stepped into the back seat.

"Yes," she said indifferently. "Is it common in your culture to invite some person to party and have them cook for you?"

"Maybe if they live on this hill," I said laughing. "Otherwise – no. Is that what he did to you?"

"Yes – I hate cooking."

"Then you'd have liked it better if he did the cooking and you gave him the flowers."

"I would have preferred that he cooked and I ate."

"If it had been me I would've cooked for you AND given you the flowers."

"Are you being French with me?" She asked smiling.

"No – I'm Irish."

"No – what do you call it," she asked, "When man is forward with woman he does not know?"

"Impertinent?"

"Yes," she said with a light laugh, "but what is slang?"

"I think "fresh" is the word you're looking for and, yes, I was being a little fresh. Does that bother you?"

"Not at all. I'm accustomed to such behavior."

"I can well imagine."

"Yes of course, " she said as she opened the cake box and, with a pair of chop sticks, took out a large Chinese dumpling and handed it to me on a napkin. "Try this."

"Thanks," I said as I bit into it. "My god! This is delicious!"

"Of course," she said. "My cooking is proof that one can be great at something even if he hates it."

"I thought the Chinese were supposed to be humble."

"Is there something I should be humble about?"

"Not that I can see ... how come you were partying with flower man?"

"He is Mandarin student of mine. He does business in China. He says he will marry me so I can get green card."

"Why don't you? He's rich and good looking."

"Do you think I would marry some man just for money?"

"No – No – No insult intended."

"Well – I wouldn't! That's not me. Besides, I don't trust him. If he has me cooking for him on date he must only want some servant."

"Good point – where do you teach?"

"Only private students now. I'm trying to get job at some college. I taught at Nankai University in China."

I suddenly had an epiphany.

"I've always wanted to learn Chinese?"

"Really!" She said suddenly excited. "We must exchange numbers."

"Yes of course," I said. "But first I have a question that I hope you don't think is fresh."

"Go on."

"You have beautiful, brown eyes. I've never seen a brown-eyed Chinese before. How did you get them?"

"Brown eyes are common in my family. My ancestors lived in Dunhuang during Tang Dynasty. It's on Silk Road. Some Turkish must have got in there somehow."

"I'm glad he did. Dun Huang? I'd like to go there someday."

"Me too. It was capitol when Tibet ruled China. They have caves with wonderful Buddhas and painting of flying angels. I've seen pictures. But I've never been."

"Maybe, we can go together."

She thought that was so funny she couldn't stop laughing for a long time.

"Maybe so," she finally said with a teasing smile, "maybe so."

______________

Some Years Later

Streaks of pink were beginning to splash though the dark sky as the sun reached upward for the horizon. The sillouettes of sand mountains began to fill in with color. The train had been vastly oversold. Men, women and children were sleeping on the floor, making it hard for me to navigate my way back from the bathroom without stepping on a body.

We were lucky and had seats at a table but I took turns lending mine to my fellow travelers who thought me very polite for a foreigner. I am polite but the truth was that the tables were so small that I was much more comfortable standing. I would have slept like a horse if I could have.

A man graciously rose from my place the moment he saw me returning and I sat down next to Piaoliang who had slept curled up like a cat all night long. She had a scarf wrapped around her head like a Muslim woman to protect her from the cold, night, desert air. All I could see were her closed eyes.

I looked up and could barely discern the outlines of a town in the distance. I looked down and saw gold, speckled, brown eyes looking up at me.

"Woman dao da Dunhuang," I told her. "We're arriving in Dunhuang."