Just Ask for Steve

A big, black man wearing a blond, full-length fur coat and a fedora hat came out the motel room followed by his white wife and three little children, ages maybe four to six. He was a very friendly, personable man - a born salesman. He sat in the front talking me up while his wife took care of the kids in back.

I drove them out to the Sunnydale housing projects. He asked me go into the middle of a courtyard between several buildings, which I did.

The moment I stopped the car, guys came pouring out of the buildings and swarmed the cab like mosquitos on a fresh cut. If asked by the police to describe them, I would say that they were African Americans between 16 and 30 standing from 5'6" to 6'8." Most wore white tee-shirts and the most amazing thing about them was that they were all in shape. It was like being engulfed by a basketball team; or, rather by a whole conference. I didn't do a count but there had to be at least 30 or 40 dudes out there.

Yes, my perception had been right. My customer was a born salesman. And, what he was selling, in his personal and friendly way, was crack-cocaine from out of the windows of my taxi.

Did I think of calling the police? Did I ask my customer, "Do you realize that you are involving me as accessory in a felony?" No I did not.

What I did was sit and think that, when I was growing up in my middle-class neighborhood with it's quiet winding streets in the middle-class city of St. Paul, I imaged doing many things in my life but I'd never imaged living through a moment quite like this one.

When he finished his business, I drove him back downtown to his motel. The fare was something like $28. He gave me $30. Then, he paused, said "hell - you were great" and gave me an extra dollar.

"No man," he continued, "you were really cool - I wanna get you again."

"Fine with me," I told him, "just ask for Steve."