I took some days off, for the soul… to “think”.
Each time my kid came home from school to find me on the couch staring into space, he gave me crap, “Dad! You didn’t work, again?!”
I told him, “Son, I’ve been thinking. I’ve been thinking a lot. And you know what? Nothing is wrong right now. Absolutely NOTHING.”
So, it’s Friday morning. And I am now going into work, to drive a cab… in complete peace, come what may. (OM, baby.)
5:25am:
Heading out of the lot of ‘ol Citizen’s Cab in 137 – my trusty Prius, the headlights catch that feral, orange tabby lot cat frozen, er… like a deer. It would seem she is now spoiled after gorging on all the late night BBQ pitched from the recurring congregations of chatty drivers, and the likes of me occasionally tossing her half my lunch. Well not today, Sheba! This PB sandwich is MINE! I have to honk to get her to scram.
And I roll.
5:50am:
It’s post-Starbucks caffeine, purge, and napkin theft. I’m cruisin’ up 16th into the Mission, behind a Yellow. Damn. I quite often break the ice outside the open-air drug market/BART station at 16th & Mission, with a random Mexican headed to his dishwashing job across town.
Well, Yellow’s playing the inside of the two lanes here on 16th. And smartly. Staged MUNI and Google buses invariably clog the outside lane on this stretch, my lane.
As we approach the intersection at Mission, I feign respect by hanging back half a cab length. And as expected, there’s a MUNI bus half blocking my lane pulled over at the stop before the light. The bus is blocking our line of sight to the populated plaza at this potentially lucrative corner as I go to squeeze in between the bus and the Yellow. But suddenly, Yellow jerks right! He cuts me off HARD, veering across my lane and in front of the bus… to pull diagonally to a stop for a flagging Mexican! Fucker! I mean, “OM”.
Well, I was trying to mack him on the run. I guess it’s cool. I mean, after all, nothing is really wrong at this moment? Besides, maybe God will make it up to me with an airport on the next block.
Damn, Alex! There goes your head again! You’re not supposed to expect rewards for your sacrifice! (Or, failed mack.) I’m pretty sure it’s in the Bible. It is un-holy. Remember, you are “at complete peace… come what may”.
I turn on KDFC – 90.3FM, San Francisco’s classical station. They’re rockin’ some Rachmaninoff: Prelude Op. No. 2 in C-sharp minor. (Yes, “OM”.)
6:00am:
I’m still rollin’ without a fare, after having made it fruitless through the Mission and the Castro. And here I am, cruisin’ the dark of the Haight. It’s still quiet, but for the homeless sleeping in various store front crevices. Hey… What’s this bottle blonde doing curled up all fetal in a clean white comforter outside of American Apparel? And with spotless, fashionable white shoes? She must be new to the streets. Well, welcome to Sit/Lie. Here comes Ponch with his ticket book out to get you into the system. “We’re from the government. And we’re here to help.” Good morning, Heather!
6:03am:
Just breached the Lower Haight. A heavy-set black woman in a postal uniform waiting at the bus stop at Scott steps into the street to flag me. I pull over. But instead of getting n back, she mimes for me to roll down my window. What gives? Well, she’s kind of cute with her rotund stature and floppy blue knit cap. I wonder what she wants. I roll down the shotgun for Rosa.
Ms. Parks, “I gonna be needin’ ah ride frum Safeway en ah few minuts. I aint gaht no muny. Buht I buyin’ donuts fer tha construcshun crew owtside dah pos offic. Mmm-hmm. Dat werk need tah be dun.”
Heart-warmed Cabbie, “Awww. That’s really nice of you! Hey, get in. I’ll give you a ride to Safeway for free.”
And Rosa gets in back.
In the short ride to Safeway, I find Ms. Parks as endearing and simple as I’d sensed.
Ms. Parks, “What u tink dey wahnt wit dah donuts, tah drink? Mmm-hmm.”
Cabbie (sipping caffeine), “How about coffee?”
Ms. Parks, “Nahhh, dey gaht dere coffee. Hmm. May-be sum o-range juce. U tink u kin wate fer me? Mmm-hmm. I be rite bac ‘n u kin tak me tah werk aht da pos offic, 3rt ‘n Evins??”
Gushing Cabbie, “I’d be happy to!”
We make it to the Safeway on Market in short order. Rosa gets out and I wait in the lot with my flashers on… wondering if the next leg of this trip to way out in the Bayview is also going to be gratis, per that “aint gaht no muny” comment. Does Rosa plan on bartering for the donuts and OJ? Or do her charms work similarly on supermarket cashiers? Hmm.
Anyway, I get all Zen as I watch the dregs around the lot scour the cracks in the pavement for cigarette butts and, uh, crack. I remind myself that life is just a dream. (Yes, even rent.) For this Buddha that I now transport, for free, is much more real than any virtual currency.
Four minutes later…
Rosa comes out with a big pink box and a jug of orange juice. She pops in back, again.
Ms. Parks, “Gahd bless u. U kin tern ahn dah metah now. Mmm-hmm.”
Whew!
Ms. Parks (continuing), “I bin werkin’ fer dah pos offic fer twinty yeers. Mmm-hmm. Gaht ah 4-0-1 K ‘n ah penshun. We pahrt ah dah in-fra-structah. We delivah tah ru-ral rute ‘n evreethin. Buht con-gress be mesin’ wit uhs. Dey say we ghatta hav muny fer penshuns fer sev’ty yeers! Mmm-hmm. Aint no pri-vate bidness gaht tah hav dat!
Ms. Parks (digressing), “Kin I ax u whaht u tink ah Don-ald Truuump?”
Political Cabbie, “Donald Trump?? He’s a flim-flam man. And a racist.”
Ms. Parks, “He be treetin’ dah symptums. Dey be comin’ en wit dere ‘anch-or babies’. Wes ghat tah pro-tec our cultr! Mmm-hmm. Dese Mex-i-cahs be comin’ entah owr cuntree fer ovah sixy yeers! Us’d tah bee da blahks doin’ dah werk. Buht now da Mex-i-chans tak et ahl! How u tink we gaht dah Spahnn-ish En-qwa-zishun?? Dats how dat stahrt’d. Mmm-hmm. ‘Nn Hitlah to!! Yuhp. Wes gaht tah pro-tec owr cultr! Mistah Trump be treetin’ dos symptums. Mmm.”
Hesitant Cabbie, “I dunno. They say you’re supposed to treat the cause. Anyway, Trump’s a racist. He’d put people in internment camps!”
Ms. Parks, “Wellll, may-bee dat aint so bahd. Dey gaht dem ‘no-go zohnes’ en Lon-don! Wit da Muslims ‘n evreeting. I seen ’em! Mmm-hmm. ‘N dey ghat emptee lahts en Phil-a-delpha. Millions ah dahllers! Shuld bee-long tah da blahks! Weez need owr re-par-a-shuns! Blahks bilt dis cuntry heer! For-tee acres ‘n ah mule! Us’d tah goh tah Occ-U-py meetins. Buht dey be talkin’ me down whin I be talkin’ ’bout blahks gittin dere re-par-a-shuns. Soh, I leff da Occ-U-py. Mmm-hmm.”
(Realistic?) Cabbie, “Yeah, the blacks have definitely been screwed. You guys built this country, for sure. Hell, blacks even built the Capitol building! And designed Washington, D.C.! But I don’t know if reparations are coming anytime soon. The banks own those empty lots. And I don’t see them just giving it away. Or congress getting on board… Don’t you think education is the key to getting ahead? I mean, what would happen when all the reparation money ran out?”
Ms. Parks, “Tah hell wit ed-u-cashun. We shuld be gettin’ milluns ah dahllers ovah milluns ah yeers! We ow’d! Aneeway, da wites be ahfraid ah becomin’ dah mi-nor-i-tee. Buht dey wipe owt owr blahk cultur. Sum blahks evin be wahntin tah move bahk tah Afr’ca!”
We roll up on San Francisco’s main post office, at the edge of town. The meter reads $18.35.
Cabbie (in closing), “Well, I’m not sure Donald Trump has the best ideas, or any ideas for that matter. The blacks no doubt need things to change, though. There has been a lot of focus on the issue now, what with all the cell phone footage showing what’s really going on and all. That’s at least a good thing. Some progress. Maybe something will come of it. But reparations, I dunno. Might take a revolution for that to come about.”
Ms. Parks, “DEN SO BE ET! Heer twintee-wun dahlah. U hav a nic day, drivah.”
And you as well, Ms. Parks.
6:48am:
I just dropped a Marina-Financial shuttle off at 101 Cal. It’s this very nice guy I keep catching flag me all serendipitous, almost weekly, on the yuppie Chestnut strip. Ken always asks me, politely, to tune-in to 680AM – San Francisco sports radio. And he’s always sporting the same outfit, too; khaki pants, a light blue oxford and a dark blue knit sweater vest. But Ken also always ends up just ignoring the radio as he, very sweetly, engages me about my life. I like him. But I do get the sense that it’s all coming from a place where he’s burdened with some kind of rich man’s guilt. Well, he does work at 101 Cal; home solely to private equity firms and hedge funds. But, I try not to judge.
Ken paid $15 cash on the $12.80 fare, as usual. Unquestionably, out of a need to show respect.
And I ‘Accept’.
So it’s post-Ken, and I’m rolling east up Market with the sun on the rise and the morning moving along nicely. Almost immediately, at Market & Kearny, the doorman to the Ritz-Carlton Residences steps into the street with his whistle and flags… er, toots? And Citizen’s Cab #137 dutifully screeches to a stop.
Mr. Belvedere bends outside my shotgun and signals for me to roll down my window. I oblige.
“Can you back up to the white zone, and wait? I have someone going to the airport.”
Why, yes. I do believe I can accommodate.
Score!
But, I better zoom home after that. I gotta get my boy to school by quarter-to-eight. And the gnarly Bay Area rush-hour highway traffic will be kicking-in pretty soon.
And soon enough, another Ken comes strolling out of the Ritz-Carlton Residences. He slides Mr. Belvedere some bills and settles in back, as Mr. Belvedere puts Ken’s bag in the hatch. And likewise, this Ken is sweet and engaging.
Also-Ken, “SFO, please. United. How are you doing this morning?”
We roll towards 101 south shooting the usual shit about kids and politics, as NPR wafts in the background. Also-Ken relays that he is from red Virginia Beach, and groans openly at the thought that he is presently leaving the stomping grounds of (gasp!) Rep. Nancy Pelosi.
NPR, “The DOW is currently down 200 points.”
Breaking the conversation at the news, an even larger “GASP!” emanates from the back seat.
Invested Cabbie, “Yeah, my mom is smart, and retired… And this is a very good mix! She has me invested in some pharmaceuticals. She usually does great, but it kind of hurt to watch my stock go down over the last couple of weeks. I think that guy who jacked up that drug price all egregiously after buying the company might have hurt the whole drug sector.”
Also-Ken, “Oh? What does she hold?”
Invested Cabbie, “Well, I know we had Gilead when it was soaring. But I forget what she has us in now.”
Also Ken (lighting up), “Gilead is one of my strong holdings! You should also look into CelGene. That’s my other ace. They develop cancer drugs and recently acquired a handful of smaller cutting-edge drug companies that look very promising.”
Invested Cabbie, “I’ll tell her! My dad died last Thanksgiving and left me a little bit of money, which is what I’ve invested. Aside from the recent slide, I took a few days off of work to, um, think. And I’m worried that I’m blowing it all. So, I really appreciate the tip!”
We drop with me $50 richer, cash. Thanks again, Also-Ken!
Okay, now to speed back to town to get the boy to school…
7:33am:
I’ve done well. 101 north was not too bad. I’m waiting on the Octavia off-ramp for the light, and it oughta be smooth sailing from here to the Western Addition where I live.
At the red, I take note of one of the usual homeless soliciting in the median with a cardboard sign. This one skinny old guy’s sign reads “HUNGRY. HOMELESS. LIVING ON FAITH.”
Well, I do still have half of my PB sandwich. I call dude over and offer my lunch. And Homeless grins a big warm toothless grin and graciously accepts, as the light turns green. (Meow, baby.)
7:39am:
I’m in my driveway on Post Street. I call the boy down. It’s only a mile or so to his school over in the Marina. And we’re looking good to make his 7:45 pumpkin time.
En route, half way there, the kid breaks teen radio silence with a look of contemplation, and a query.
“Dad… Is there still nothing wrong?”
I am caught flat-footed and see myself as I ramble aloud.
“Well, yes. I guess so. I mean, I could lose a little weight. But as far as I know, I’m healthy. Rent is paid. I suppose I could have a more sustainable livelihood. But really, these are first world problems, son. After all, there were nine people shot and killed at a school yesterday in a town where the sheriff is on record saying the Sandy Hook Elementary slaying in 2012 was a government conspiracy. And that same sheriff once sent a letter to the United States Attorney General saying he and his deputies would not enforce gun laws he saw as unconstitutional, ’cause he didn’t think they wouldn’t stop gun violence, anyway. And the likely Republican nominee for president just puts forth ‘stuff happens’ as his proposed policy response. Hmm. Then, there’s nuclear weapons and global warming and the erosion of the middle class the world over. And there is that terrible war in Syria and the Middle East that’s leaving a human catastrophe in its wake with tens of thousands of families fleeing the war, and dying along the way, only to be ultimately turned away by xenophobic countries that are supposed to be part of the civilized world. Do you know what ‘xenophobic’ means, son?”
Son, “Uh, no.”
Cabbie Dad, “Well, never mind that. Yeah, nothing’s really wrong at this moment. Did you remember to bring your Kevlar vest?”
The day plays out busy…
It’s been great. I haven’t had a second airport. But it’s been one local after another. Like the days of yore, one passenger gets out and another is holding the door of my taxi to replace them. I even feel bad! I’ll be en route to an order and pass several flags I have to turn down along the way. And that is what opened the door for all those scab cabs, the so called “rideshares”. Aside from that, I just like helping people in need. After all, Alexander does mean “helper of men”.
I’m not really sure if this windfall is due to the Global Leadership & Investors Conference down at Moscone Center, or the cruise ship that’s docked at Pier 70, or the lack of competing scab cabs that are conspicuously missing from the street today… I have not seen that many. Is it possible college is back in session? And many of those green drivers are in school? Whatever the case, I’ll take it!
3:15pm:
There’s a good wad of cash bulging in my cargo shorts. I believe this justifies making my next ride my last.
I’m rolling up 18th into the Castro, awaiting that magic “Cha-ching!” of the Cabulous dispatch app, or the shrill crackle of the CB radio with an order to bid on, or the vehement hand of a desperate flag.
At the bus stop before Castro, on the opposite side of busy 18th from me, it’s the vehement hand of a desperate flag. It’s a haggard-looking, short and chubby, middle-aged white woman in thick glasses with a large bag and walker and… OH, GOD!! Absolutely horrific scarring all over her face and arms, as if she’d lost a prolonged battle for her life with JAWS himself! I know it’s October. But Frankenstein would shy away at the sight of it! The horror! THE HORROR!!
I flip a bitch to a cacophony of HHOOOONNNKK!!!
And Fredwina Krueger hobbles towards 137’s back door. I jump out to throw her walker and bag in the hatch, before the surrounding traffic exits their vehicles with pitchforks and descends! But alas, a large bottle of prescription pills falls out of Fredwina’s bag and rolls under the taxi in my haste. I scramble to kneel and reach for the bottle amidst the continued dissonance of HHHOOONNNKK!!!!
I jump back in the driver’s seat, lickety-split! And a raspy Fredwina speaks, with surprising warmth.
“HA! Thanks, driver! FUCK ‘EM! You take Paratransit? I’m goin’ ta 988 Howard. Ya know, tha Plaza Apartments for tha homeless?” Then, “OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD!! WHERE ARE MY PILLS!!”
Driver, “Oh, don’t worry. Your pills are in back with your walker. I, uh, saw them.”
Fredwina, “HA! Thank GOD! I need dem pills!! I dunno if ya noticed, but I got skin grafts all over my body! Nearly died! I also got pancreatic canc… er, a bad pancreas, and diabetes, and…”
Fredwina stops, suddenly distracted. She turns to look transfixed out of her window, with pocked jaw agape.
Ms. Krueger digresses.
“MAN! These men are all GE-OR-GEOUS! And they’re all built like a BRICK HOUSE! Too bad they’re all fags! BOY, I COULD USE SOME! Had ta come here ta get my pills. They all got AIDS ’round here. So there’s lotsa pill stores. HA!”
Fredwina gets back on track.
“That’s tha ONE thing I don’t got! I got COPD. I got that kidney failure. Yup! Dial-I-sys twice ah week. Rest ah my life! They can’t give me no opiates tho, ’cause that give me constipation ‘n make my lungs fall asleep. I was dead once from that, ya know! HA!”
Driver, “Wow! You look WAY too young to have all that! How…”
Fredwina interjects, “How old you think I am!”
Sportive Driver (with a sly smile), “Thirty??”
Fredwina, “HA! You’re playin’ me! I’m fifty-three years old, MAN! Don’ hook no more, now. ‘N I only do crack ’bout once a week these days. I LOOOVE crack! Don’ do it now tho, not like I used ta when I was hookin’! HA! Cops’d bust me fer dope ‘n I’d get processed ‘n be back on tha street hookin’ fer drugs in ah hour! I’ll tell ya, tho. Ya don’ wanna go ta jail fer somthin’ REAL in this city. They keep ya in for ah hundert percent ah tha sentence! I been ta jail in L.A., too. They let ya out with forty. HA! My brother’s there now! I tell ya, Blue Cross sucks! Even with MediCal, when I leave tha city ta go visit ’em I gotta pay $350 outta pocket fer my dialysis!
We roll up on Fredwina’s homeless resource… I mean, apartment. And I jump out of the cab to help with her walker and bag of prescriptions. The meter reads $9.55. And Fredwina hands me up her Paratransit card, telling me to add the 10% government-subsidized tip.
She hobbles off into her building mumbling to herself, shaking her bag of pills. And Fredwina punctuates the ride with one last, raspy, “HA!!”
All in all, it’s been a successful day. From the looks of my waybill, I think I even cracked $200!
Now, time to call it…
3:33pm:
I’m filling up cab 137 just blocks from freedom. I’m at my regular cheapo gas station on Cesar Chavez, of Stoic Ecuadorian fame.
Suddenly, a heart-rendering, rickety voice rings out all pathetic and weak. I turn from the pump to see.
“Pleeeease, caaaan youu taaaake meeee toooo 17th & Cappppp??”
It’s a wretched old man, unhealthy skinny, with grey beard stubble and an aluminum cane bent over all osteoporosis and shuffling towards me… and my taxi!
NNOOOO!!!
Retiring Driver, “Uhhh. Sorry, sir. I’m headed back to the lot for the day.”
Wretched Old Man, “Oooohhhh, oohhh-kkkaaaayyyy. Ohhhh… Ohhhh… I willll neeeever maaaake the cliniiiic nooowww. Ohhhh…”
And W.O.M. turns to shuffle towards all the cars and cabs speeding down Cesar Chavez towards the 101 on-ramp. W.O.M. begins to flail his cane in the air flagging in vain, praying for a cab.
Poor miserable sucker! HA!!
Okay, okay…
“Sir! Sir! It’s ok. I’ll take you. And, this ride’s on me.”
You didn’t really think I would let this guy flounder.
Did you?
—
Photo by Christian Lewis
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