Tragic Stupidity

***
I pulled up at four-way stop. The street changed from a two-way to a one-way heading in my direction on the other side of the crossing. It also turned into a steep hill leading up to a freeway entrance.

Two Asian kids around ten years old were skateboarding down the hill. One of them fell just as I stopped but the other one was careening out of control, flying toward the bottom.

A thirty something, badly-shaven, white guy with black hair drove an old Buick slowly toward the stop on my right. He glanced at me and floored it so he could beat me to the right-of-way. He probably didn't think he needed to look up the hill because of the one-way sign.

I wildly honked my horn, sticking my arm out my window and pointing at the boy, who sped into the intersection.

The man flipped me off without looking at me. His car didn't swerve or brake so I don't think he saw the boy before he killed him.

The driver stopped quickly after hitting him, looked out his window at the body that had been thrown about thirty feet, then floored it again and raced away.

I got out and ran to the boy's mangled body hoping against hope that I could help him in some way but the only thing I could do was try to comfort his stunned and horrified brother.

The killer either didn't know the neighborhood or panicked because he pulled into a cul-de-sac and a truck driver, who'd seen the crime and followed the man, blocked him off until the police arrived. 

The killer's attorney tried to claim that "the cabby" had caused the "accident by honking his horn." The jury didn't buy it but maybe the judge partially did.

He only gave the guy two to five for involuntary manslaughter.

A Charming Couple

***

The were charming. Mid thirties. Good looking. In shape. Fashionably dressed. They were heading to Gary Danko's for dinner before night clubbing.

The woman did most of the talking. She wanted to know how I was and how the night was going. She was smart enough not to ask me how long I'd been driving a cab.

"I'll bet you do something else," she said, leaning her forearms on the back of the suicide seat and nestling her head on top of them. I could smell her perfume. Delicious.

"Yeah," I told her, "I drink a bit and I sleep."

"No no no," she said laughing and gently pushing my shoulder with her hand, "you know what I mean. You must be a musician, an artist. With that voice, I'll be bet you're a singer."

"Yeah - in fact I do sing a bit."

"I knew it!" She exclaimed rubbing my arm.

"But," I added sheepishly, "what I really do is write."

"I knew it!" she exclaimed again, this time squeezing my arm. Then she turned to her husband. "Doesn't he look like a writer, Bob."

"Yeah," he said. "You know ...  you sound just like William Buckley."

"Nobody's perfect." I sotto voiced.

They burst out laughing.

I sucked it in.

I'd had a horrible night. I'd been on a negative roll and had had one asshole after another after another work me over. I was fairly new at the time and didn't know how let things slide or how to quietly take revenge. I felt anguished, degraded and lonely.

The couple  introduced themselves to me. He was Bob. She was Caroline. We talked about my writing. Caroline had been a lit major before going into law.

"I'll bet you get a lotta material driving a cab?" Bob mused as we pulled up the restaurant.

"You know," Caroline said, leaning closer to me, "Bob and I both forget to ask for receipts sometimes."

"And sometimes," Bob said, "cabbies don't have them."

"Is there any way," Caroline continued, "that we could get a few blank ones."

"Of course," Bob added, "they'd be a good tip involved."

I reached into my briefcase and gabbed a stack of receipts. There were maybe - I didn't count - 75 or a 100. I felt such gratitude toward Bob and Caroline for breaking my isolation that I held out the stack toward them saying,

"What you have to do is catch a cab driver in a good mood."

Their eyes dilated. They held their breath. Caroline's mouth stayed slightly open in a smile. She reached out slowly and carefully, not too fast, as if not to frighten my hand away and gracefully relieved me of the receipts.

The exchanged a quick look. Non-verbal communication. What the look said was "smuc."

The meter read $9.40.

Bob gave me a ten.

"Don't forget the tip," Caroline said.

"Of course I won't forget - whatdaya think I am?"

Bob peeled off two one dollar bills and handed them to me. Then with a twinkle in his eye, he peeled off one more.

"Thanks for the receipts."

The War Against Cabbies

***
Jack was an airline pilot in the USSR flying out of Moscow. When the Soviet Union collapsed in 1991 so did the economy and Jack lost his job. But he had saved enough as a pilot to finally realize his dream of moving with his wife and son to America. 

He changed his name to Jack from Yuri in honor of  Jack Nicholson and his favorite movie, One Flew Over the CuckCoo's Nest.

Of course all the jobs for airline pilots in the USA were filled and he worked cleaning up in New York restaurants for awhile before moving to San Francisco to drive an old friend's taxicab. It was tough, thankless work but it paid the bills and gave him a chance to practice English while he looked around for a position with the airlines.

After a few years, he realized that cab driving would be his career from then on. It was a huge disappointment but he came to look at it as if he was flying an airplane only on the ground. He prided himself on his knowledge of the city and his ability to navigate every route in the best possible way.

The girl, the woman, was about 23, stylishly dressed, a little homely and rude. When she stepped into the cab she ignored his greeting, looked through him and snapped out a command,

"Union and Laguna - Kearny to Pine to Franklin to Union to Laguna!"

Jack hesitated for a moment than said,

"I don't think it such a good idea."

"What you think doesn't matter - this isn't a subject for debate! "

"But lot of construction on Pine right now."

"That's California - there's construction on California."

"Yesterday on California - today Pine."

"Am I paying for this or are you? Take Pine!"

"But its total gridlock, it stupid -"

"I'm stupid!? If you're so smart why don't you get yourself a fucking job!"

"But -"

"No 'but' Boris - you have to do what I say!"

"Suit yourself," Jack shrugged

"Who should I suit, Boris? You?" she said taking out her Smartphone playing with it.

Jack shrugged again. He took a right on Kearny, drove three blocks making two lane changes in the process and took a left on Pine. He'd been wrong. The gridlock wasn't total. It didn't start for fifty yards but it went on for a least four blocks up the hill. Jack tried to get over to the right lane so he could escape down an alley but the light changed and traffic cut him off before the could make the maneuver.

The cab moved four or five car lengths during the next three lights while the girl concentrated on texting.

"Can't you driver faster?" she snapped without looking up from phone.

A quick, chuckle escaped Jack's lips.

She looked up and stared wildly about at the traffic.

"You did this deliberately!" she shouted. "You think this is funny?!!!"

"No - ridiculous ... you want Pine. This is Pine."

"Well - Boris, I'm not paying for this!"

"Yes - you chose the route, you must pay - and my name's not 'Boris,'" he said as he pulled out a copy of the taxi regulations.

"Here," he said turning toward her to show her the specific rule, "look at the this."

"No Yuri - you look at this," she said as she spit a big gob into his face.

He reflexively backed-handed her. She fell against the seat and bounced up toward him.

"Faggot!" She screamed and spit at him again.

This time he slapped her hard enough to shut her up.

The City decided to suspend his taxi license for six months to a year because he had never had a complaint before. But this wasn't enough for the girl. She took him to court.

"I'm truly sorry," Jack told the judge. "I don't mean to hurt girl ... I never do violence before ... never hit wife or son growing up ... never hit anyone. It's just ... in my country spit on a person is the greatest insulted ... I caught by surprise ... never hit before ... I never hit again ... I just so insulted ... please ..."

The judge took away his license permanently.

The woman, the girl, an aspiring actress, triumphantly told the press, "It's a victory for all women in the war against cabbies."

A Driving Lesson

The car hit us from behind just as we were about to turn.  It was only a tap but I wanted to make sure that there had been no damage.

I was just putting my clipboard aside when I noticed the driver of the other car standing next to my window glaring at me.

I gave him a big, friendly smile, stepped out on the passenger side and walked with him to the back of the car. He was tall and thin, in his mid-twenties and wore an expensive leather jacket.

We glanced at the bumpers and everything looked okay.

     "You must have rolled back," he said.

A ridiculous statement if I ever head one. The street was level. Besides, as I told him,

    "We were already moving forward."

He started hollering at me. I was so stunned that I can't remember what he said. I only knew that there was a point I wanted to make so I ignored his outburst and began speaking.

     "You shouldn't -" I started to say but he interrupted me before I could finish.

     "Get outta my face!" He screamed, moving threateningly toward me.

     "There's no need to be rude. I was just trying to say - "

     "Get outta my face!" He screamed again.

Who was he to tell me what to do?

    "I'll get in your face if I feel like it," I replied taking a step forward.

     "Back off!" He, as usual, screamed, "Or I'll kick your ugly face in."

     "That's not a nice way to talk," I said with a smile. "All I've been trying to say is -"

     "My God!" He screamed in exasperation, "There isn't even any damage!"

     "True," I agreed, "But irrelevant to my point. You shouldn't -"

      "I'm gonna ruin your whole day!" He threatened.

I ignored him and tried once again to speak.

    "You shouldn't -"

     "I'm gonna fuck you up for life!"

     "You shouldn't - "

     "Suit yourself," he cried as he shoved me in the chest.

Now you'd think a guy with his attitude would've learned how to fight or at least have taken a few boxing lessons or one of those self-defense courses. If he had, it didn't show. He had big hands but a weak grip. I easily took his fists off me and pushed him away.

     "Okay - you asked for it," she snapped.

Then he let out a Kung Fu yelp and leaped toward me swinging a wide, wild left hook. It was one of the most ridiculous and pathetic moves I've ever seen. I almost broke out laughing. I was so amused that I took mercy on the fool, held back my punch and made my move. I bull-rushed him, threw him down on the pavement, pinned his arms with my knees and sat on his chest.

     "I'm sorry, " he said, "I'm really sorry."

     "You shouldn't -"

     "I didn't mean it," he cried out.

     "You shouldn't -"

     "I won't do it again! I won't _"

I was just about to slap him when he sensed my intend and shut up.

     "You shouldn't," I calmly and quietly told him, "tailgate."

Mary Beth was still sitting in the driver's seat when I got back to the car. In the excitement of the argument, I'd forgotten about her. As I climbed into the passenger seat, I tried not to notice the womanly body thrusting out of her school uniform. 

She clutched the steering wheel so tightly that her knuckles turned white. She stared at me with wide, dilating, blue eyes.

     "We can only hope he'll learn from this experience," I said. "Now let's finish that right turn - but cut it a little sharper this time. You shouldn't ... you wouldn't want to end up on the wrong side of the street.

Three Rights Make A Left

*

Shirley MacArthur spent the afternoon of her 84th birthday getting lessons from me on how to make lane changes on two of the busiest streets in San Francisco (Fell and Oak.) Shirley hadn't learned how to drive until she was 35 and never liked changing lanes. If she needed to go left, she drove one block past the desired street and then made three right turns.

The strategy worked fine for almost 50 years - until she had to take a driving test. Shirley needed a teacher and chose me when she found out I was a cab driver like her late husband. I'd taken up teaching because I'd burned out on full time cab driving and needed a mental break. I would drive taxi three days and teach two or three.

It made me a more careful driver. I mean, I couldn't very well tell fifteen year-olds to slow down than race around like a lunatic myself. I became the world's safest cab driver and the most dangerous driving teacher. My taxi colleagues had a different view and took to calling me, "the old lady."

Ironically, they also thought I was crazy to take on such a dangerous job. Yeah - not a safe occupation like driving around with a couple hundred in cash in a city filled with junkies. And, I can't remember a single driving student threatening to re-arrange my face.

The truth is that I found teaching a little dull - a real danger because you never knew when a student might suddenly whip a left in front of a charging semi.

I specialized in drivers that were either very good or very bad because they both demanded all my attention: the good ones because I could teach them advanced skills and the bad ones because they kept me alert. Part of this approach included teaching seniors who needed to be re-tested.

Age by itself didn't seem to be very important in determining their chances of improving. The main quality required was the ability to learn new and different ways to do things. Some people could still adapt at 90, others were hopelessly set in their ways at 60.

The classic example was changing lanes. This is where most senior drivers fail. The generation before mine had not been taught to look over their shoulders. Instead they only used the mirrors. But, of course, you can't see everything unless you take an over-the-shoulder glance. In California, if a driver doesn't do it, he or she flunks the test.

I had one student who had failed three times because he neglected to take that glance. He was only in his forties but I've never taught anyone so impossible. I had him make at least 50 lane changes and had to tell to look every single time. At the end of the lesson, he turned to me and asked, "Can you look over your shoulder too much?"

This sort of hardened mentality wasn't a problem with Shirley. She was sharp and she was game. The only difficulties were getting over her fear and teaching her to make those lane change in heavy traffic - the toughest technique in driving. We spent three rush hours going up and down, whipping from one lane to another, on those insane, congested streets. The next day she easily passed the test.

"You're a great teacher," she told me as I drove her home, "you should stick to teaching ... I always tell my cab drivers to get out of the business - it's just too dangerous out there."

"Yeah, " I said laconically, "I know."

"No, you don't," she said. Then she told me about her husband.

They were in love and were very happy together. They opened a small cafe that gradually became successful. Her husband drove the cab a couple of nights a week to help with the expenses. When the cafe started to bring in enough money he decided to finally quit driving.

"On his last night," Shirley told me, "on his last ride, he picked up a crazy ex-marine dressed like a WWI Russian officer and he killed my Bobby with a sword ... so, no, you don't know how dangerous it is."

Anger

*

A thin guy in his middle thirties. Said he used to drive cab at my old company. He started dropping names. I knew some. I didn't know others. In the cab business you can talk to a driver for years and not know his name. I was going to say "his or her name" but I always know the names of the women.

"Remember Jack?" the ex-driver asked.

"The dispatcher?"

"Yeah - he died last year.

"It wasn't soon enough!" The words exploded out of me. "I'm glad he's dead!"

We were both shocked by my outburst.

I drove in on in silence for a few minutes while he looked nervously about as if trying to decide whether nor not he should bolt. He finally decided that I wasn't immediately dangerous and changed the subject. I think he talked about the Giants until we arrived at his destination where, as is the custom with many ex-cab drivers, he under-tipped me and walked off smiling as if he'd done me a favor.

I turned off the car and sat stunned, staring out over a small park. I had no idea that I carried so much anger, so much hatred around with me.

Jack was the head dispatcher at my first company twenty years earlier. He was tall and well-built with dark hair and good looks. He spoke in a whinny, New York intellectual, Woody Allen way, as if he'd read every book in the world and found them all beneath him. He knew endless trivia about Joyce, Pound, Stein etc. and constantly made allusions to their works.

His intellectual pretension was one of the things I despised most about him. I mean, here he was  - this superior being, talking about Baudelaire while extracting $5 from me before he'd let me go to work.

"- Hypocrite reader - my fellow - mon frere." Personally, I doubt he'd ever gone beyond Cliff Notes.

I took him home in my taxi once and he talked to me as he was an aristocrat straining to communicate with the common man. ("I mean, what do say to such people?" ) He told me that before he'd been "chosen" as a dispatcher (i.e. connived, lied, bribed and blew his way into the job) he was "just a cab driver."

Jake showed us "just cab drivers" what he thought of us every day.

The shifts changed daily at 4:00 pm. And, every day at precisely 4:00 pm, Jake went to the bathroom. He stayed there for 15 or 20 or 25 minutes while dozens and dozens of drivers waited in line losing money, while dozens and dozens of customers desperately wondered why there were no cabs on the street. When he finally showed up, wiping his runny nose, Jake looked at the line of waiting drivers with a sardonic glint and nonchalantly, slowly, started handing out the medallions.

One day, when he'd taken an especially long time fixing his nose, when he was finally reaching out to give me the my taxi license, his hand stopped in mid-air while he started hitting on a nearby woman driver. All smiles and charm. This went on and on.

"Is it okay if I get my medallion?" I finally snapped.

He looked at me and tossed the metal through the window with contempt.

"You don't have to be rude!"

"I don't have to be rude?!!! Fuck you!"

I was walking back to get my cab when a big hand grabbed me by the shoulder and spun me around to see Jake hunched a little over, ready to launch a round-house right at my head.

"Come on asshole!" He screamed, "Come on! Fuck me?! Fuck you!"

Jake was as big as I am and, with those big hands, could probably hit hard enough to do some damage but he didn't know how to fight. He was getting ready to throw a slow, sweeping punch. I'd have stepped inside, blocked it and hit him fiver or six time before he could react. It would have been the only punch he threw.

But, I made a mistake. I hesitated and waited for him to move first. And, when I hesitated I thought - thought about how beating on him would cost me my job and how I only took it in the first place because nobody else would hire me. On top of this, Jake would probably have me arrested for assault. All the guys in line would testify on his behalf because they were in the same situation as me.

Suddenly, Jake was right up eye level. My hesitation had emboldened him. He filled with the courage of a beast preying on the weak.

"Come on! Come on!" He screamed, getting closer and closer until he almost bumped my chest.

I stared at him, paralyzed by realism.

"That's right!" He yelled, backing up a step while sticking a finger at my nose. "You don't fuck with me! You wanna get along around here, you get along with me! You got that?"

I turned and walked away. He grabbed me by the shoulder again and spun me back around.

"I asked you a question!" He demanded, "You got that?"

"Yeah," I finally said, "I got that."

I turned and looked around me, my face turning red with humiliation. The other drivers were all staring at the the ground.

I felt the same sense of humiliation every time I saw him after that, every day that he kept me waiting before handing me the medallion with smug superiority, every time that I handed him the $5.

Even more humiliating was the thought that it was all my own fault that I was even there. I should have been the doctor or the lawyer my parents wanted me to be. I should have written better books. I was a "cabbie" - a loser - and Jake rubbed my nose in it every day.

I try to be a follower of Mahatma Gandhi but I'm not that pure. If I'd hit Jake, I never would've thought about him again. I might has well have. They "didn't like my attitude" and canceled my lease a few months later anyway. As it was, as it is, I'd let the anger fester and grow for 20 years ... over a pretentious smuc.

Living the Blues

*

Tori thought the staging in Aida was tacky.

"Did you expect Radames to ride in on a real elephant? " I asked

"They didn't even have a horse for the triumphal march."

"It's a recession," I said, "they save money on the staging."

"But with Aida the sets are are the main thing," Francoise added.

A specular trio (mezzo, tenor, soprano) finale made me forget everything else about Aida. For me the music is always what it's about, but I wasn't going to argue - it was Francoise's night. After 20 years, she finally owned her medallion; 20 years of driving cabs five or six nights a week to raise three kids on her own; 20 years with no vacations; 20 years of worrying every month about the rent. No, I wasn't going to argue. I raised my bottle of beer.

"To Francoise," I said toasting her.

Tori and Barry,  Francoise's daughter and her boyfriend whose names I never caught joined in, clicking bottles and glasses.

"To Francoise!"

She clicked her glass with us and tossed back a warm, lovely, impish smile.

Yes, I was drinking my beer from a bottle. Inappropriate for a discussion of Aida, perhaps, but perfect for the dumpy, half-empty, blues bar we were sitting in.

It was a pickup night and an old black man standing next to his wheel chair was singing Otis Reddings' Dock of the Bay backed by two aging white guys, a young Asian and a middle-aged Samoan playing  guitars; a half-blind Mexican on a toy piano and a young, blond woman blowing wonderfully on a harmonica. You tell that they either were (or had been) professionals but they were a little out of sync. When the piece ended, a couple of guitars introduced themselves to each other.

As the night went on they got better and better as our conversation grew warmer and friendlier.

We were a good match for each other, the band and us. We were all a little beat up and maybe had seen better days.

Tori, Francoise and I could all have lost 30 pounds without noticing it and Barry always wore a hat to cover his bald spot. Tori and Francoise were artists, Barry a cameraman and I try to write but we all earn our living driving cabs. Probably always will.

We been lied to, we'd been cheated, we'd been robbed, we'd been mistreated.

But, at that moment, as a bass guitar played a duet with the gravel-voiced singer and the harmonica jabbed beautifully over the top, as we rocked in time to the soulful beat, as I noticed Francoise's daughter smiling with adoration at her mother, I wouldn't have lived it any other way.