H

He was a 6'6" 280 pound black man with useless legs. His wife was a large women herself but it took all the strength the two of us could muster, along with all the strength in his muscular arms, just to get him into the front seat.

"Mind takin' me down to Haight and Webster - I need a little H."

"Is that health food?"

He laughed. "Yeah - it's health food all right," he said, adding, "just being upfront."

"I appreciate that," I said, "the only thing I like better than a drug run is an honest addict."

He laughed again. "We got a comedian here, honey," he said, looking over his shoulder at his wife.

"I thought you was just gonna get some crack, baby" she said, "you know it's not good to mix H and booze."

"You worry about your mixes and I'll worry about mine," he snapped, then turning to me asked, "you gotta a problem with this?"

"The only problem I can think of is getting you back up the stairs."

"You got that right," he said, laughing again.

What could I really do? I don't approve of drugs but, the moment he sat down in my taxi, I was stuck with him. Besides, I did appreciate his honesty and the fact that he was going to a relatively safe place. It wasn't a war zone like Sunnydale and Santos.

He was supposed to meet somebody but, when we arrived, the dude wasn't there so we drove around the block searching for him. We kept circling Haight and Webster to Page and Fillmore and back. We stopped several times to talk with young black men in hip-hop attire. Nobody knew where his connection was. His wife finally got out to find "the man" while we kept circling.

It's an interesting stretch from Haight and Webster to Haight and Fillmore. The projects end at Webster and the trendy bars and restaurants start at Fillmore. In between lie a few nightclubs - places hipsters go to "live on the edge." I wonder how many of them knew how close to the edge they really were down there. Many of those young men wondering back and forth near the clubs carry advanced weaponary. Every once in awhile somebody gets caught in a crossfire.

We stopped to talk with one of the guys. He didn't know where "the man" was either. As we drove off my customer said, "his brother's the one who took my legs."

I couldn't think of anything to say so I just kept slowly driving.

"You nervous?" he asked.

"Not as long as the bullets stay on your side of the car," I said. I can talk the talk.

He thought that that was so funny that he couldn't stop laughing for a long time. Finally he said, "that's the trouble with those little muther-fuckers - they just got minds of their owns. You just never know where they gonna end up."

His wife scored and flagged us down. It took about 15 minutes to get him back up his stairs but he did give me a $5 tip. Considering the time charges involved and the distance, it turned out to be a pretty good ride for a slow Tuesday night.

"You know, you were cool," he said, "I wanna use you again."

"No problem," I said, "just ask for Jack."