Here I stood in San Francisco in the 21st century and I'd accidentally found my way to the Aryan Brotherhood. I thought people like Franks were extinct. Why is it that racists always assume that, if you're white, you agree with them? I mean, I'd met the guy over a conversation about The Snow Leopard for god's sake.
"Yes," I said smiling weakly, wondering how long it would take me to find another job.
The racial element didn't turn up much in day to day life and I stopped planning to leave. The conversations among the drivers were about the same as they were everywhere else except that I didn't get a chance to practice my broken Spanish or my barbaric Chinese.
Like all cab drivers, they lied about how much money they made. Every one of them had a story about his $500 days. Ridiculous! I could never figure it out. The driver talking would be lying and the driver listening would know he was lying and the driver talking would know that the driver listening knew he (the talking driver) was lying and ... they'd talk like this for thirty minutes. Made me long for the porno rap of my construction days.
After I'd been there about two months, Franks started complaining about this "A-Rab" who owed him $150 for underpaying his long-term lease. The "A-Rab" took the cab home with him and owned the car so Franks had no way to get the money. All he could do was bitch, which he did obsessively every time I saw him.
One afternoon when I was waiting for my cab, a mechanic ran over to tell Franks that the "A-Rab" had snuck into the garage to fix his car. Franks and the mechanic ran over to the garage.
A few moments later I heard a crash and, through a window, I could see Franks punching the guy while the mechanic held him. I couldn't believe it! For $150?
I ran over with three or four other guys and pulled Franks off. He spun to throw a punch at me then pulled it back when he realized that he was staring eye-level at my chest. He looked around with a dazed expression on his face. It must have seemed like his Aryan brothers had turned on him. I could read the next thought that crossed his forehead. It said, "lawsuit."
Franks suddenly became apologetic and misunderstood.
"This is isn't what it looks like," he said.
"That's good," I told him, "because it looks like a split lip and a broken nose."
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