Buddy

If I'd realized how drunk he was I never would have let him in my taxi. I wasn't paying attetnion when he came out of the bar. He'd already flopped into my front seat before I had a chance to do anything about it.

He was tall and wearing an expensive three-piece suit, 50 years old and 50 pounds overweight. He was so loaded he could hardly speak. I needed to have him repeat his address several times before I could understand his slurr.

"San Carlos ... San Carlos."

That was a relief. We were already in the Mission. It was little alley six or seven blocks away. I wanted to dump him as soon as possible.

As we approached his street, he recovered some of his gift of speech.

"Don't take the long way, buddy," he slurred, "I was born in this town."

"I'm not taking you anywhere but home, buddy - what's the address."

"San Carlos. I told ya San Carlos buddy."

"Were on San Carlos, buddy."

"No - San Carlos buddy - top of the hill."

"You mean the city of San Carlos?"

"Right buddy - top of the hill."

"That's meter and a half. It'll be $70 or $80.

"Yeah yeah, meter and a ass. Top of the hill buddy."

Just when I was beginning to like him, he ignored my "No Smoking" sign and lit a cigarette.

"There's no smoking in here," I told him pointing to the sign.

"Whataya gonna do about it?" he asked as he leaned forward and, keeping the cigarette in his tightened lips, blew smoke in my face.

I pulled the cigarette out of his mouth and threw it out the window.

"Hey buddy!" He wheezed, sizing me up for a punch.

I put my right forefinger between his eyes, an inch from his face, and said,

"You can chase it if you want."

"So that's how it is," he said, backing off.

"That's how it is."

I turned on the classical station. The music tends to pacify drunks. We drove for 30 or 40 minutes without talking. By the time we reached San Carlos, he'd sobered up enough to give me clear directions to his home.

"Here we are buddy," he said, pointing at a large bungalow, "second house from the top."

I pulled up and he got out, staggering only slightly. The meter read 64.75. Ordinarily I would've have lowered it to 55 because we did go a little out of the way but not for this jerk.

"Let's just say 64 plus 50% equals $96."

"Well ... you can forget the 50%, buddy. I'm not payin it."

"But I told you up front."

"I don't care what ya told me. I'm gonna to give you some money and you're gonna take it."

I thought about this. I hated to give in to the prick but this wouldn't be exactly a high priority item for the cops. It was friday night. By the time they came, if they came, I would have lost the $32 and more in time.

"Okay just give me the $64."

I made a mistake by folding so quickly. He became drunk with power in addition to the alcohol.

"I don't have cash," he said, smiling in a way that let me know that he was lying, "can you take a credit card?"

"We're not set up for it."

"Lucky for you," he said laughing, "it isn't any good anyway."

"Listen buddy - I took you home. You've heard great music. We've played your game. It's been fun but I've gotta work. Just pay me ... please."

"You're gonna have to take a check, buddy."

"Can I use your telephone? My cell isn't working."

He graciously invited into his kitchen and handed me a phone. I called 411 and loudly asked for the number of the San Carlos police. Buddy thought that this was really funny. When I told them the street number, they didn't recognize it. He took the phone, gave them the street again and started complaining that I wouldn't take his check. He gave the phone back to me and the cops told me that the address was actually in the city of Belmont - a half block away from San Calos. I had the wrong police department.

"Let me make the call," Buddy said smiling in triumph and taking the phone.

He started boring the Belmont cops with a monologue about his check and the current climate of mistrust. I went looking for a bathroom. As I walked down a hallway, I head a tv playing in the distance. I followed the sound and found a wiry woman with with brown, greying hair watching the tube.

"Don't freak out," I calmly said as she began freaking out. I quickly told her the tale ending with, "he's making me call the police."

She shot out of the chair and walked to the kitchen so rapidly that I could hardly keep up with her. She grabbed the phone out of Buddy's hand, apologized to the police, hung up and, without saying a word to her husband, opened a drawer and counted out $110 for me. Then she opened a small purse and gave me an additional 40 cents. Despite her shock, her anger, her anxiety and, probably, her despair, she tipped me exactly 15%.

As I walked toward the door, Buddy started after me.

"Nobody messes with my family, buddy," he said threateningly.

"Stop it!" his wife snapped in tone of voice that let us both know that whatever shards of a sex life had remained between them were now history.

I'd had smoke blown in my face: I'd been insulted and threatened, taunted and demeaned: I'd let myself be humiliated: I'd lost at least $30 in time.

But hey - this is cab driving.

There's a grand view of the Bay from on top of the hill, one hundred ten dollars and forty cents isn't bad for two and a half hours' work and I may well have delivered the coup de gras to a truly horrible marriage. Not a bad night so far.

I head for the airport. Friday night. It should be moving.