Four Kinds of Karma

I

He was mid-twenties, good looking, nicely dressed in sweater and slacks, obviously well-educated.

I picked him up at the emergency ward of a hospital.

"My brother's dying," he told me.

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Bone cancer - nothin' they can do."

"I'm very, very sorry."

"Thanks I appreciate that," he said, "I was wondering if you'd do me a favor?"

"Sure."

"I have to get some things for my brother - can you wait?"

"Sure - no problem."

Ordinarily, I ask for money up front in these situations but what kind of creep would tell a story like that just to beat somebody out of six dollars?

The answer is the guy I had in my cab. I dropped him off at a Pacific Heights apartment and he never came back. It turned out they called him the "Fare Evader." He beat over a hundred cab drivers out of petty cash with similar tales. 

Actually, I later realized that he had come out of the building wearing a hat. He was with a young woman who looked at me with sad, guilty eyes. He must have bragged to her about his brilliance and my stupidity.

I thought that she felt guilty and wanted to tell me but didn't have the courage.

II

He was early twenties, Hispanic and poor.

He desperately flagged me down in the mission.

He got into the front seat. He could barely speak English. He was crying.

"My mama," he said chocking. "Mama ... die."

"I'm sorry," I told him."

"No dinero," he told me.

"Es bueno," I told him.

It was a six dollar fare. He left crying but grateful, saying, I think, that he would pay me back someday.

III

He was overweight, middle-aged and belligerent.

I picked him up on Fisherman's Wharf.

"You got a problem?" Was the first phrase out of his mouth.

I can't remember what I'd said. I think it was "hello."

"There's no problem," I told him, "I don't take drunks."

"I'm not drunk."

I looked at him closely. He was right. He was only high. He didn't have an excuse for the hostility.

"Then, I don't take problems."

He stuck a twenty in my hand and said with annoyance

"Just take me to North Beach."

"I don't have change."

"You don't need it - it's yours."

Twenty dollars for a six dollar ride? It was a slow night. What's wrong with a little belligerence?

We drove a couple of blocks and he reached out to hand me another twenty.

"What's this?" I asked.

"It's yours."

"Thanks"

"What-da-ya think of that?"

"Of what?"

"My over-tipping."

"There's no such thing as over-tipping. That a concept for the filthy rich."

"Then take this," he said, shoving another twenty in my hand.

I looked closely at him again. There wasn't a trace of generosity or kindness in his face.  All I could read there was arrogance. He was giving me the money to prove his superiority, to put me down.

'Demean me,' I thought, 'demean me.'

He hit me one more time with a twenty and left the cab without a word.

Eighty dollars for a six dollar ride. If that didn't prove his point, what would?

IV

He was in his mid-forties, athletic, wearing a sport coat with no tie, ruggedly handsome.

I picked him up coming out of Michael Mina.

He was polite, friendly and personable.

I was playing a classical station.

"I know this piece - what is it?" He asked.

"I know it, too ... but I can't think of it either."

"Schubert?"

"No Brahms -"

"Brahms Third!" We said simultaneously. 

"It's unusual to hear Brahms in a taxi," he said.

"It's even more unusual to find a customer who knows who Brahms is."

"Touché," he said with a laugh.

It's easy to describe sexual attraction and poets wax endlessly on love but how do you describe "like." I liked this guy and he liked me - an instant connection.

He was a bass who'd had master classes with Pavarotti and was currently singing with the opera in Seattle. He told me about how Pavarotti could project his voice so that a whisper could be heard across an auditorium.

I told him about my girlfriend who is composing a song cycle inspired by classical Chinese poetry. He gave me his card so I could send him her CD.

We talked music and art and politics and life. We talked about nothing.

The fare read $12.55. I thought that he's handed me a twenty as he stepped out of the cab. I looked at it. He'd accidentally given me a hundred. I called out to him and he turned back toward me.

"You gave me a hundred by mistake."

"It wasn't a mistake," he said, "best cab ride I ever had."

Soft Core Porn or the Real Reason You Can't Get a Cab in San Francisco

Nice looking woman in her middle thirties: thin, short brown hair, dressed in a conservative business blouse and skirt.


We passed a couple of cruising hookers.


"Are those women prostitutes?" She asked as if waking from a dream.


"You don't get out much do you?"


She laughed.


"No, I don't. I'm from Utah. I got married in High School."


"Yes - they're prostitutes."


We pulled up to her stop. Instead of paying she leaned forward from the right rear seat and asked,


"Do you think they enjoy their work?"


"Strange question."


"Well - you must know."


It was my turn to laugh.


"I know a little," I admitted.


"Well," she asked eagerly, "do they?"


"I don't know ... maybe at first ... having pleasure isn't what they're about."


"You don't think they enjoy it?"


"Maybe sometimes ... but they're into making money. They have to do it whether they're attracted or not?


"I know what that's like," she said. "I feel like that every time my husband touches me."


She leaned back in her seat and started crying. I watched her for a minute. Then I put the car in park and reached out to hold her hand. I pulled her gently toward me and she rose up, put her arms around my shoulders and sobbed for a few more minutes. When she stopped, I asked,


"So you want to go somewhere?"


She looked at me, studying my face, then nodded.


"Why don't you get in front?"


She took her purse and sat next to me.


"There's a motel on Lombard."


She nodded an OK. We didn't talk. I didn't want to break the spell. While I drove we caressed each other's knees and thighs.


When we got to the motel, I told her to get a room while I parked the cab on the street.  She was sitting patiently on a bench near the office when I returned. She showed me the key with the room number. I took her by the hand and led her to the room. She stiffened up as we walked.


The room was a dump. She looked around and said,


"I don't know why I'm here."


"Why don't you take  your blouse off," I said, "that would clarify things."


She flushed red, smiled and started to take off her overcoat.


"Do you have a condom?" I asked trying to act as if the decision had already been made.


She shook her head.


"Neither do I - I should have grabbed some at the corner store. Let me see if they have any here."


I went into the bathroom. There was a machine. I paid for two and returned. She'd only removed her coat.


"High class place," I said. "They have condoms but no soap."


"I have soap in my purse," she said seriously.


"I won't ask why," I said laughing.


"I won't tell," she giggled.


"You're still wearing that blouse."


She turned a delicious shade of pink and threw me a coy smile as she slowly undid the buttons. Then she quickly took it off, snapped open her bra and tossed it onto a chair, boldly exposing a lovely pair of breasts.


I walked over to her and slowly sucked her nipples without touching her body with my hands. Then I caressed her, we wrapped each other up and kissed. She thrust her tongue deep down my throat and led me to the bed.


I saw her for a few months after that - usually at my place and always when we were both supposed to be working. I had the day shift. She was in sales and could take extended lunches.


The last time, she walked to the door then turned and said,


"I won't be coming back."


Then she pivoted again and left.


A bit abrupt but that's why they call it cab driving.

A Marina Christmas Eve

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.

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!"

A Criminal Mastermind

***
That's what the press called him, "A Criminal Mastermind." As if you needed to be a genius to hold up a taxi driver. If he'd been smart he would have stopped after a few robberies or at least spaced out his crimes. Instead, he ripped off one or more drivers every day for about three weeks.

I guess this is why media thought he was brilliant.  What they didn't know was that serial cab robbers are actually common. And, they all have one thing in common; the perps are always junkies. That why they never quit until they're caught.

But I have to hand it Einstein - he was clever. A 6'5" African American built like a wrestler, he still managed to con over twenty drivers into letting him climb into the backseat of  their taxis. He dressed differently for every crime. Sometimes he wore a suit; sometimes a wig; sometimes horn-rimmed glasses. Once he walked out of a hotel and had a doorman put him in the cab. And he was charming. His talk relaxed the drivers enabling him to slip behind them and put them in a chock hold.

But there was nothing charming about his grip. He seriously injured a few of the drivers.

While he was somehow able find cab drivers gullible enough to feed his habit, few other man of color were able to even slow a taxi down. It wasn't only African Americans. Hispanics, Indians, Arabs, Persians - none of them were getting cabs.

Except, I guess, from me. I'd had a little experience with people sticking guns in my face and, rightly or wrongly, thought I could tell whether or not somebody was dangerous. I do know for a fact that I twice passed up thugs who robbed other cab drivers. I looked for the body language and the eyes - windows to the mind and the soul.

I probably never had so many young brown-skinned males in my cab as I did during those three weeks. And, they were grateful. They were throwing money at me. I was getting twenties for six and eight dollar rides.

The "genius's" mistake was getting into Henry's cab. The mugger put on his usual act with the talk and the charm while he slid behind Henry. Then he directed him into a deserted spot and put on the headlock.

What he hadn't realized was that Henry was deceptively thin and only looked like a pushover. He had long, hard muscles and big hands like Dennis Rodman or Woody Strode and was a powerful man. He wrapped those huge hands around the forearms of his assailant and snapped open the head-lock like it was pair of cheap chopsticks. Then Henry put the creep in the hospital.

I was almost sorry to see the "Mastermind" apprehended. My income dropped about thirty percent the following week.

Don Miguel's

***
Mary's disease was already well advanced the first time I picked her up. I believe she suffered from MS although she never mentioned it. She had difficulty walking from the bank to the cab. I came around to help but she refused me saying cheerfully,

"It's good for me to exercise."

When she got in, I asked her how she was.

"Every day we're alive is a blessing," she told me.

I picked her up about every other week after that - either at her home or at the bank where she was a high ranking administrator. I only realized how high when a thirty-something, middle-managing, Standford MBA type came sheepishly forward as I about to drive away so he could get her to sign some papers and kiss her butt.

Mary simply didn't act like a person with power. She showed no arrogance, no sense of superiority, no need to control, no need to demean. She was one of a handful of true egalitarians that I've ever met.

She didn't just make "conversation with the cabbie" like most people in her position would. She actually enjoyed talking to me and was truly interested what I did and my ideas. I soon began thinking of her as a friend and looked forward to seeing her.

Her condition rapidly deteriorated and within a few months she not only accepted my help in walking her to my cab but depended upon it. A few weeks afterward, she handed in her resignation and retired. She said that she looking forward to relaxing and re-reading the great Russian novels - a passion we both shared.

I hadn't seen her for a couple of months when I took a call at Mary's home. She'd gone down hill fast. She was now using a walker and being helped by a tall, blond woman in her thirties that I learned was her niece, Grace.

Grace had come from Fresno to help nurse Mary who was clearly excited to see me. She talked and gossiped about various drivers who had become part of her social circle. Every now and then Grace would politely ask who somebody was and then silently listen to us converse.

The next time I picked them up, a few weeks later, I gave Grace a warm hello. She ignored me. In fact, she cut off my greeting before I got the second syllable out.

"Don Miguel's!" She snapped, "and we're in a hurry. We're already late thanks to you!"

"I took the call two minutes ago," I said.

She waved my words off with a hostile expression.

"I really don't  have time for chitchat - we're late for an appointment."

All this time Mary was slowly working her walker down a set of stairs. I started up to help her and had just about reached her when Grace snapped.

"Leave her alone! Exercise is good for her."

"I thought you were in a hurry," I said.

She looked at me and started to say one thing but just shrugged and said,

"Suit yourself. Just make it snappy!"

Mary looked at me with huge eyes and a helpless expression but didn't say a thing as I helped her into the car.

"You know where Don Miguel's is don't you?" Grace continued in the same demeaning tone of voice.

"I've never heard of it," I told her truly looking at Mary who continued to silently stare at me. What did she want to say?

"It's a very popular place," Grace insisted.

"It can't be that popular or I would've heard of it."

"Don't be insolent!" she snarled. "I thought you were supposed to know where everything is?"

"There are over 10,000 bars and restaurants in this town. Nobody knows them all."

"If I was a cabbie, I'd know," she told me condescendingly. "It's part of doing a job properly."

'Just like the way you nurse,' I thought to myself without saying it. Mary obviously would pay for any sarcasm on my part.

"Let me call my dispatcher."

He didn't know where Don Miguel's was either.

"We'll," Grace snapped, "We'll just get another cab."

I helped Mary get out of the cab and as I drove away, she followed me with those huge eyes. They were no longer a puzzle to me. What they showed was terror and despair.

Several years later I stumbled across Don Miguel's in a back alley and thought of Mary. I wondered if she was still living in hell or if her disease had feed her.

Walkabout or How Real is it?

***
A rare hot San Francisco day. Dusk falling into night.

I took five young Aussies, three men and two women - all tanned, all attractive - across the Bay Bridge to the train depot in Oakland. I asked them where they were going.

"We're on a walkabout," a tall man replied.

"You mean, you're making it up as you go along?"

"You got, it mate."

"You know, you sound just like a young Mel Gibson," I told him.

They laughed.

"Too bad he don't look like it," one of the girls cracked.

"Too good lookin' for the likes of you."

They started putting each other down and laughing.

"Take it easy on him," I told the girl, "he could look like me."

"Na' that would be an improvement," she said leaning forward from the back seat, putting her arm around my neck, nestling her cheek on my shoulder and peering up at me

I stared into her blue eyes and at her sexy, teasing smile and lost my concentration.

Not a smart thing to do in West Oakland. I took a wrong turn and, then, another wrong turn, went under the freeway and found myself driving through what looked like a bombed-out lunar landscape.

Instead of street lamps, huge Halo projectors rose from the top of twenty-five foot poles casting light down on endless rolls of military-type bungalows. The place looked like a film version of a WWII prison camp.

An ancient Toyota hatchback came careening around a corner chased by three black & whites. A dude knocked out the hatch window and started firing with what-I-took-to-be a 9 mm automatic. Its magazine holds 18 bullets if I remember my TV correctly. Dude fired off about 17 of them without hitting a damn thing. Then, just as the car whipped around a corner, he nailed the leading cop's front tire with a single shot from a 100 yards away.

The cop car spun a half U before the driver took control and brought it to rest. The other patrol cars screeched around the corners with two cops firing pistols out the windows of both vehicles.

I put in reverse, whipped the steering wheel and floored it, spinning a U. I was almost hit broadside by three more cops cars who raced around me with the drivers screaming obscenities loud enough for me to hear.

"Fuckin' A," I said.

"Fuckin' A," the Aussies said in unison, laughing.

"Just like a Oliver Stone flick," one of them reported.

"If you say so," I replied as I sped down the street wondering where the hell I was going. The place looked the same in every direction. The Toyota had taken a left so I decided on a right.  Wrong choice. The Toyota raced toward me from a quarter block away with a five cops cars following close behind. I didn't have time to turn.

"You'd better duck," I said, "dudes sometime confuse us with cops -"

"Dudes," they imitated, laughing as they put their heads down.

Indeed one of the dudes pointed his gun at me and fired just as I ducked. I never found a bullet. It must have gone in one open window and out the other.

"I think it's the badges," I said finishing my thought as I looked up.

That was pretty much it. I kept driving straight until I finally got out of the neighborhood.

"God! I'm sorry," I told my customers who had been quiet since we'd been fired upon. "I don't know the neighborhood - I just took a wrong turn."

"Naw - this was great!" One of them said.

"It's the highlight of the trip," added another.

"At last," the blue-eyed girl said, "we get to see the real America."