Class Warfare: The Tarvia Battle

I drove an attractive French woman from SFO to an exclusive neighborhood in San Anselmo. I went into my "the smartest cab driver in the world" act and discussed Sartre, Proust and Gide with her as if I knew what I was talking about. She was pleasant and down to earth; humoring me by seeming to enjoy the conversation.

She lived in a private circle with only a single entrance from the street. When we arrived, a rope had been strung across the street with a sign tied to it saying, "KEEP OUT." There were a couple of adults with three or four teenage kids watching us from a nearby porch.

I leaned out the window and shouted,

• "Can you let me in? This woman needs to get home."
• "We're paving the street," a kid shouted back. "Can't you read?"

The all looked at me with unpleasant, sarcastic expressions.

I asked the woman where she lived and she said it was about a block away. This was a problem. She'd been living in Paris for 6 months and we had about 250 pounds of luggage in the cab. The trunk was full and there was a huge closet-case in the back seat.

Just when I about to get out and start lugging the stuff, the guys on the porch dropped the rope. This didn't jibe with previous nastiness but I wasn't about to argue. I quickly drove into the circle and took my customer to her home.

As I unloaded the luggage, I got an idea of why they've roped off the entrance. A special kind of tarvia had been poured on their street and my wheels had sunk down about a foot into it, leaving deep ruts where I had driven.

When I drove back to the entrance, the nasties had stretched the rope back across the entrance with five of them standing evenly spaced across the street to make sure that I didn't break through.

• "You broke in!" One of them shouted. "You broke in!"
• "You let me in," I shouted back.
• "You're lying! You're lying!" a few of them shouted.
• "We've got you! We've got you!" a couple of more shouted.
• "The cops are on their way!" another one yelled.

The cab was sinking deep and deeper into the tarvia during the exchange. I started laughing, stepped out of the car and walked toward the men. They scattered and ran as if they were being confronted by a crazed axe-murderer.

I loosened the rope, went back to the car and drove out.

• "The cops'll get you! The cops'll get you!" They screamed.

Actually, I only talked to one cop and I drove to the police station to see him on the advice of my company. A nice young guy who had yet to be done in by donuts.

• "They say you crashed though their barrier," he told me.
• "No - they put it down," I told him. "At first I thought they'd let me in but I guess they were really being sarcastic - as in 'can't you read you stupid cabbie!'"

The cop didn't say anything but he nodded as if what I'd said made sense.

• "Kind of serves 'em right doesn't it?" I added.

He smiled and said he'd check it out.

Last I heard of it. From time to time I enjoy images of the nasties driving over my ruts to get to their homes - cursing me all the way.