It's the Knuckles that Go First

***
I always liked Henry. He was a tall, powerful, African American who dressed stylishly in suits and always wore a fedora hat. He was very personable, professional in his driving and a strong advocate for worker's rights - a gutsy position in a business where unions are illegal.

In fact, like many of us, he could wax obsessively about the owners, calling them "pigs," "moral retards" and "scum."

But he was a realist and, when he finally understood that the unions weren't coming back, he put his name on a list to own a taxi himself.

"If you can't lick 'em, join 'em," he told friends. "Doesn't mean I have to act like 'em."

After twenty years, he finally rose to the top of a list. He had a small problem with the industry regulators and I helped him iron out the details so he finally became an owner.

I didn't hear from him after that but I soon began hearing about him. There is a saying that you never know what a person's like until you give him or her a taste of power. Or, as Eric, the dispatcher, put it to me when I first got my cab,

"It usually takes about three months for a new owner to turn into an asshole. With you, I'm figuring on three weeks."

Whatever. With Henry it was faster than that. Some say it was drugs.

The unwritten rule is that if you're a driver, you're a driver. It doesn't matter if you're an owner or not. When you're working, you follow the same rules as everybody else.

Henry made his own rules. Instead of waiting in line to get his taxi every night, he just walked to the front. He stole other drivers fares. He had his own drivers wash and clean his cab without paying them for it. Rumor had it that he was also overcharging them on the lease.

Of course, he could've gotten away with being a "moral retard" himself but he made the mistake of fucking with his company.

He started shorting his payments to them and, when someone else was driving his taxi, he took out cabs without a medallion - which could have resulted in huge fines for the company. As soon as they found out they canceled his contract.

Henry nearly broke the door slamming it when he come into the office looking for Bill, the manager.

Bill, an old-school Italian of about 73, was sitting behind his desk listening to opera online. Russ, an Irish-German of 69, was sitting at the desk talking on the phone

"You muther-fucker," Henry screamed at Bill as he rushed toward him, lining him up for a punch. Henry stood about 6'5" 220 pounds and was an ex-boxer.

Russ, who was almost as big as Henry, stood up to calm him down. He put his hands out in conciliatory gesture and said,

"Take it easy ... relax... take it -"

Henry unloaded on Russ with about 8 quick hammering blows: left-right body, left-right head, left-right body, left-right head.

Guys always said Russ was somebody you just didn't want to mess with. He was still standing, staring at Henry, after the barrage.

Henry paused for second, staring back at Russ.

Then, he threw two more punches. Russ blocked them both, counter-punched and knocked Henry out. Then he and Bill mopped the blood off the floor with Henry's body as they dragged him out of the office and dumped him in the parking lot.

I came by a shot time later to see Russ.

He told me the story and said, "I think I broke my little finger."

"Did you take Henry to a hospital?" I asked.

"Naw - he's okay. He' walked out of here."

Russ shook his bad hand and said.

"Damn it! I can still fight but the knuckles just can't take it anymore."

He walked toward his desk nursing the finger then he turned back to me with a smile and said,

"But - damn that felt good!"