Christmas Eve. I should've gone home to celebrate but I made the mistake of taking one last call in the Marina.
They weren't that young, they weren't really in a hurry, they weren't really drunk and they weren't having a good time. The men wore tuxedos and the women black evening dresses. They milled about the taxi staining to make witty repartee.
For me, the significant detail was that there were six of them: three men and three women.
"I'm sorry," I told their leader, "I can only take five. Take two cabs."
He was tall, athletic, handsome and 35. They were all athletic, handsome and 35. Four of them were Caucasian. One man was African American. One women, India Indian. One man and one woman were blonds. Neither the African American and the Indian nor the blonds were couples. They appeared to be mixed and matched by a conscious need to be P.C.
"We've already been waiting an hour," the leader said
"There's no insurance if I take six," I told him, "I'd be fired if there's an accident."
"We'll give you a really big tip," he said.
"We're not going far," the blond woman added, leaning forward so that I could see her tits and giving me a lovely, gracious smile." It's almost midnight. We'll never get another cab."
"Anything for you," I half joked.
"Great," she snapped, shutting off the smile, "22nd and Missouri - The Elysium"
"The what?"
"The Elysium," she repeated with irritation, "the new condos at the bottom of the Potrero Hill."
"Oh yeah - the one's right across from the projects."
"It's a transition neighborhood," she said sharply then immediately began conversing with her friends - although I don't know if you could qualify the way they interacted as a true conversation. They appeared to know each other fairly well but they lamely struggled to connect, often making long pauses between subjects and sentences.
They made jokes that weren't funny and then laughed too hard. They talked about mutual friends and acquaintances. They name dropped: one knew Gavin Newsom, another knew Warren Hinckle. They all knew Wofgang Puck. They'd attended Dartmouth, Northwestern, Standford or USC. One of them was in on the founding of Napster - although he didn't buy any stock. Another belonged to the same fraternity as Larry Summers. One couple decided not to move to Atherton because the Marina was "more real." Another "just loved" living in the fog on "top of the hill" in Daly City.
From the Marina to the bottom of Pot Hill is actually halfway across town so I had to listen to their dispirited chitchat for a long time.
"It's midnight," the blond said. "Merry Christmas Bob. Merry Christmas Jean. Merry Christmas Emil. Merry Christmas Mary. Merry Christmas Kevin."
Bob turned and said:
"Merry Christmas Christine. Merry Christmas Jean. Merry Christmas Emil. Merry Christmas Mary. Merry Christmas Kevin."
Jean then said:
"Merry Christmas Christine. Merry Christmas Bob. Merry Christmas Emil. Merry Christmas Mary. Merry Christmas Kevin."
Emil then said:
"Merry Christmas Christine. Merry Christmas Jean. Merry Christmas Bob. Merry Christmas Mary. Merry Christmas Kevin."
May then said:
"Merry Christmas Christine. Merry Christmas Jean. Merry Christmas Emil. Merry Christmas Bob. Merry Christmas Kevin."
Kevin then closed by saying:
"Merry Christmas Christine. Merry Christmas Jean. Merry Christmas Emil. Merry Christmas Mary. Merry Christmas Bob."
They smiled wanly at each other and we rode the last few blocks in silence. As we pulled to a stop, I turned to them and cheerfully said,
"Merry Christmas Christine. Merry Christmas Bob. Merry Christmas Jean. Merry Christmas Emil. Merry Christmas Mary. Merry Christmas Kevin."
I never cease to be amazed at how some people strive toward being cliques when they're in a taxi.
Christine, Bob, Jean, Emil, Mary and Kevin looked at each other appalled and aghast - stunned by my temerity in not only addressing them with such familiarity but in making a sardonic comment they didn't understand. The looked back and forth at each other in confusion with mouths half agape then fled the cab as quickly as possible.
"Was that supposed to be funny?" Bob asked Christine, Jean, Emil, Mary and Kevin as he stepped out of the cab.
The meter read 14.80. Kevin thrust two rolled up bills into my hand.
I unrolled them - a ten and a five.
"This is your idea of a really big tip?" I asked laconically.
"That's all we've got," he snarled.
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