Big Marcy

I apologize up front for the upcoming crude language about large ladies. While I harbor no ill will for the bigguns, I decided to write this in the way it was discussed. Remember that we are, after all, cabbies!

After midnight our informal cab stands form across the street from any number of bars. One such stand has generated a regular customer: Big Marcy. Her qualities include the following:

+ 300 lbs or more
+ dumb
+ lazy
+ mean
+ alcoholic
+ needs alcohol rehabs and Weight Watchers.

She likes to curse, especially at cab drivers and her skinny husband. She treats him like a slave, barking orders at him. Also, Big Marcy is a short ride and she doesn't tip. Despite all this, I'm sure she's a fine woman. I'm the Pope, by the way.

Because people can't smoke in bars in California, there's usually a crowd of smokers in front of bars. Like hawks we watch these crowds for a raised hand or the yell, "Taxi!" Some people just give The Look, as if that's sufficient. When we get a taker, the guy first in line will start his car, do a U-turn, and pull around to the bar. We also watch these crowds for pukers and other undesirables. Fortunately for us, Big Marcy is easy to spot.

Standing around with other drivers, somebody will yell, "Marcy!" and the first driver will get in his car, readying to leave the stand if she wants a cab. Sometimes drivers get belled to her, meaning she called HQ from her cell. If the driver refuses the bell, he loses the next hour's worth of bells, making refusal a bad option. He might get an angry call from the cab company owner, too, and that's not pleasant.

Last night Marcy came out of a bar and jiggled her way through the throng of smokers and came to rest at the curb. We became anxious. From our vantage point across the street, we saw her raise a chubby arm. We all looked away, pretending not to see.

The arm waved with vigor, and the jokes commenced:

She's burning a lot of calories waving that arm around. We shouldn't spoil her workout by picking her up.

These old taxis don't have suspensions that can handle a girl like that.

I don't like it when my tailpipe drags on the ground.

Do you think she'd fit in the trunk?

They don't need a cab. The skinny little husband can give her a piggy-back ride.

Too bad there's not a Jenny Craig around here. We could drive by on the way to her house as a subtle hint.

(I did warn you we're cabbies. I'd like you to believe I didn't join in.)

Then the worst thing that can happen, happened. Big Marcy reached into a purse the size of a carry-on and pulled out a cell phone. The first driver jumped in his taxi, started his car, and was gone for the night. The second driver leaned in his window and switched off his radio. So sorry, he joked, I didn't hear my radio.

The third driver was looking dejected. After dispatch tried in vain to reach the first two, the third was called. I was fourth in line and, needing him to accept the bell, made a mockery of telling him it was his duty to answer the radio and take the bell. Is he a person of strong moral fiber, or not? "The honorable thing to do," I explained, "is to help that poor woman." If my appeals failed, I'd have to offer him cash.

With a lot of cursing before keying the mic, he accepted the bell, then proceeded to light a fresh cigarette. We all laughed at the slow pace he was setting. Big Marcy, meanwhile, is watching us from across the street. Then the driver did something that has never been tried before. He moved his front seats all the way back, easily done by leaning in the open windows and pressing the buttons. "My seat motors are broken," he practiced. "Think she'll fit back there?"

One smart-guy pointed out that the skinny hubby will take the back seat, and Marcy will take the front. He hadn't thought of that, but he quickly recovered, moving the passenger side seat all the way forward, then tilting the back of the seat all the way back.

Before he left he said something about not being able to reach the pedals, but he did well, considering. He made his U-eey and pulled to the curb. We watched poor ole Marcy open one door and then another, then give up.

Dispatch came on the radio:

Dispatch: What happened with Marcy? She's saying you refused to drive her.

Driver: She doesn't fit in the car. The electric seats aren't working, so we couldn't make it work.

Dispatch: 10-4.

He then went on to the next driver, who never answered.

Tonight the driver who had the "seat malfunction" received a call from the owner, who tried to catch him in the lie by telling him to bring the car to the mechanic immediately to get the car worked on. It was a blown fuse, the driver explained, and he had just replaced it.

That night the owner made an announcement on the radio: All drivers will pick up Marcy, with no exceptions.

We've gone through that with several other bad customers, like Reed and the deceased Marzetti. Now we'll have to put more work into it, just like with those others. We'll have to monitor Marcy's whereabouts during the course of her drunken evenings and evade by changing stands legitimately. I have trouble remembering, so maybe I'll use the small notebook I keep in the car for gambling pools.

If I miss the radio calls giving away her movements, I can always do what I do with the others: pay some other driver to take the bell. Somebody will usually take an idiot off my hands for $5 or $10.

Weird women

I was belled to a residential address in an average neighborhood. Only the garage was visible, and there was a Toyota in the driveway covered in dirt and twigs, obviously unused for a long time. I went through a gate in a row of shrubs and found a backyard with a pool. Everything, including the pool, looked dirty.

A woman of about 60 walked towards me, wearing dirty jeans and a dirty shirt, with a drink in her hands. I'm thinking: "Here we go, another live one." She called for the cab and she'd be ready to go in a minute. Another woman of similar age and cleanliness walked up to me and hugged me, saying, "George, it's good to see you again." There are two of these morons, how nice. I said I'm not George. She introduced me to her friend, calling me George again. "Nice to meet you," I said to the woman I had already met, "I'm not George."

The woman who hugged me had deep red gashes in her cheeks. She explained that her husband had beaten her and she is divorcing him. "I put that bastard through law school!" she yelled.

The woman who called for the cab gathered up some debris that was obviously trash, put everything into a white, plastic garbage bag, and got in the back of the cab. We headed for the Amtrak station downtown, which would be a $28 ride or so.

She told me she had just been let out of jail after getting a DUI, and it was in jail that she had met the other woman. To commiserate their fate, and celebrate being released, they spent the last three days drinking. She claims to have been at a party, drinking heavily, when she decided to go to another party. Being too drunk to drive, she asked a young man -- who seemed sober -- to drive her. So they went together to another house. This party was very rowdy, and after a couple of hours the police showed up (she didn't say if this was in San Diego).

Her ride took off running, and as far as she knows, he got away. She doesn't know why he ran, but speculated he had outstanding warrants. She waited for the cops to cool things down, then got in the guy's truck to drive home. She got a few miles before getting pulled over for DUI. The rest is history.

We arrived at the Santa Fe Depot, and she thanked me and gave me a $10 tip on top of the good fare.

The day after I met the two women, I was belled to an Albertson's grocery store. There I picked up a disheveled man, about 30, with a bag of booze. He was a little off, and I thought he might have mental problems. He gave me his address, and I noticed it was next door to the house where I'd picked up the weird woman the day before.

He chatted non-stop the whole way, saying that he is an alcoholic and lives off an allowance from his father, who is an attorney. He lives next door to them in one of their many houses. He also said his parents are getting a divorce, and that he was disappointed at that.

Me: Why?

Him: Why am I disappointed?

Me: No, why are they getting divorced?

Him: I'm not sure.

I was hoping he'd explain how his parents had fought so violently that injuries, jail time, and divorce resulted. Unfortunately he said no more.

Vomit

I was sitting on a cab stand with two other drivers, and we were out of our taxis, talking. A cab from another zone stopped on the street next to us, coming to a screeching halt. The back door popped open and a young man with a baseball cap leaned out and barfed for at least two minutes. We were revolted. The guy finally got out of the cab and paid his driver.

The driver looked at us, and without exchanging a single word, we had a conversation: Sometimes this job sucks. These drunks are tiresome. Good luck, my friend.

He got in his cab and drove off.

Meanwhile, the drunk guy held up both arms, index fingers extended: "I'm ready for the next round!" He staggered across the street and into one of the bars.

At least he had the sense to deposit the contents of his stomach outside the guy's taxi.

The Look

I believe I've mentioned the look before, but never as The Look. Sitting around a cab stand one night we were discussing how strange it is that some people just watch us drive by, saying nothing and making no hailing gestures, but then when we're several car lengths past, they'll shout angrily. It's as if they're willing us to stop, and then get angry when this strategy fails. Finally, somebody referred to this as The Look.

It's nice to have a formal name for a common, and comical, phenomenon. We often leave these people to their own devices, assuming if they're foolish enough to try to hail a cab with only their eyeballs, they're probably not going far and they're probably not big tippers.

Mystery destination

I was belled to an alley address, and by the house number and neighborhood I knew it would be a problem. Older folks congregate in that area, and while I have nothing against the elderly, they don't make for good taxi customers. What follows is typical.

A man and woman, each over 80, and the guy may have been in his 90s, were waiting for me. They spent several minutes getting in the car, talking the whole while.

Me: Okay, where are you going?

Him: What?

Me: Where are you going?

Him: 6th Avenue

Me: What city?

Him: 6th Avenue

Me louder: What city?

Him: 6th Avenue

Me, remembering that he hears quite well, as he and his wife were conversing at a low volume just moments ago: In what city?

Him: 6th Avenue, then I'll tell you where to go.

Me, turning to stare at him: I need a city, and I also need a cross street or address.

There was dead silence as he looked at me, then past me out the windshield. I started my stopwatch (part of my wristwatch) about ten seconds into this, holding my hand high so he could see what I was doing. He responded when the chrono showed 28 seconds.

Him: Why aren't we driving?

Me: Where on 6th Ave?

Him: 6th Avenue.

A man cannot sigh longer or louder than I did. It simply can't be done, even with training and determination. I can't scream at him -- I'll be him in 50 years. I gave up and drove him towards 6th Ave in downtown San Diego. For all I knew he wanted National City or Losfuckingangeles.

Dispatcher, after a few minutes: 92

Me: 92

Disp: Did you pick up?

Me: 10-4

Disp: Where are you going?

Me, with teeth clenched: No idea.

Disp: Why not?

Me: He won't tell me.

Disp: Do you need assistance?

Me: I need a Tums.

Disp, in an understanding tone (she had taken his original phone call): 10-4

When I got on 6th Ave, I pulled over as soon as I found a clear space along the curb. After an eternity he and his wife were out of the car. The rear door was open, and I saw that they were both up on the curb (well away from the car). The man was looking through his wallet. I realized I didn't want the money, I just wanted to get away. I jammed the throttle, which automatically closed the open door, and drove away.

Gotta love the ER

When a security guard at the local emergency room, with an unhappy look on his face and rubber gloves on his hands, stuffs Cousin It into the back of the cab, you know it's a bad one. The guy I had the other night looked foul, smelled foul, and he was all hair. It was long, greasy, gray hair, with matching mustache and beard, and only his beady eyes and a small nose were peaking through. He had to move his head around to look at me through all the hair. I couldn't help but smile at his appearance, and then when the smell hit me, the smile disappeared.

When he was situated in the back seat, the security guard handed me a voucher which stated SVDP as the destination. No idea what that is, and the guard didn't know, either. Cousin It said "Trolley Court." I had never heard of that, so I asked if it was the 12th and Imperial trolley station. He mumbled in the affirmative.

My radio call:

Me: 92

Dispatch: 92

Me: I've got a live one to 12th and Imperial.

Dispatch, chuckling: 10-4

Another driver: I've got some spray if you need it.

Me: That's okay. I'm going to roll through a car wash with the windows down.

I said that with Cousin It in the car, but he was barely aware of the world, so it really didn't matter. I couldn't picture him working a telephone to make a complaint.

When I was getting close to his destination, on the only road that leads in there (National to Imperial, then left), I saw that roads were closed and traffic was logjammed. A Padres game had just let out of Petco Park, which is one block from the trolley station, and traffic from the game was fierce. A traffic cop rudely told me I had to turn right, going east on Imperial, directly away from Cousin It's destination. I went one block and then pulled over and helped him out of the car.

The guy got angry and said it wasn't where he wanted to be, and I tried to explain what happened, even though he saw and heard for himself. Not wanting to repeat myself, I got him out of the car and left.

I am not a stalker

We have a regular customer who likes to drive around, then return home. He's such a weirdo that I've been paying other drivers to take him. The fee to avoid him: $5. I've mentioned this before. It's sort of a commodities market, invented by yours truly, where the commodity is idiocy.

Last night I was alone on the stand nearest the weirdo's apartment, so there was nobody around to take him off my hands. I picked him up and he wanted to drive around. I usually ignore him completely, not answering his questions unless they're pertinent to the drive, and then only with a nod or a simple yes or no.

But this time I paid attention to him, and sure enough, his drives have purpose. He's stalking somebody he has a crush on. He asked me to drive very slowly down one block, and I watched him look intently at a darkened house. He mumbled to himself, "His truck is there, but no lights are on."

Then he asked to go around the block and drive by again. After we went by the house for the third time, he asked me to stop the car and back up slowly. When I refused, he tried to get angry. "This taxi won't be used to stalk anyone," I explained to him. I told him to pick a destination or we'd return to his apartment. He was mute, so we went back to his place, where he paid me -- with a $2 tip -- without saying a word. Is it any wonder I pay to avoid people like this?

I always wonder if these characters suspect that a lot of haggling goes on, and hard cash exchanged, just to avoid them.

The $7 idiot

There is something to be said for a job that trains you to look at a complete stranger and, before a word is uttered, know his character. I recognized an idiot just by the way he looked at me and walked across the street to my taxi. He told me where he was going, and I knew it would be a $7 ride.

En route I discover he's extremely drunk (I had picked him up outside a dive bar), and he was lamenting an $82 bar tab. He was quite a small, skinny guy, too. How could he have swilled down $82 in beer? Unless maybe he included some bar friends on the tab? I always pay attention to people who say how much they spent, which happens surprisingly often, so I can bring it up when they decide not to tip me. As in: "You have $82 to spend getting drunk, but can't spare a few dollars for a tip?" I never ask for a tip except when drunks are concerned. They won't complain to HQ.

To digress a bit, I recently discovered that when people are fallen down drunk, they can't read the meter, which just happens to be clearly and brightly lit. I told a drunk the fare was $22, when the meter said $7, and he gave me $22 and started to get out. I quickly told him I made a mistake, and gave him the correct change. I don't steal, but I wonder if any of our other drivers have tried this? I'll ask around.

Anyway, the $7 idiot tells me he needs an ATM, and then he'd like to stop by a 24-hr McDonald's. A $7 ride became a $15-20 ride, and I'm in better spirits. I stop at the curb in front of an ATM, and he gets out. When he returns to the car, he comes to my window instead of getting in. I already know what has happened, but I failed to fully grasp the depths of his idiocy.

Him: I lost my card.

Me: How much cash do you have?

Him: I lost my card.

Me, adopting the voice I use with toddlers: I heard you the first time. How much cash do you have?

Him: I think I left it at the bar.

Me: Hello?! How much cash do you have?

He opened his wallet, and I could see it was empty. I started the engine and drove off. I could hear, "Hey! Hey!" get fainter and fainter as I got farther away from the idiot.

Where do people like that come from? I've spent plenty of nights (long ago, I would like to mention) where I was wasted, and needed a cab. I was always courteous to the driver and I always had money.

Master of time

For years I've worn a digital watch that has a stopwatch feature. I never used it much until I started driving cab. Whenever I get a reservation, or time call, I arrive early and then start the meter when the appointed time arrives, and I also start the stopwatch. When the customer finally ambles out of their house and gets in the car they might complain that the meter already shows $5 or whatever. They always (this is a 100% certainty) lie and say they were only "a minute" late. I bring up my stop watch and say something like: "You were thirteen minutes, forty-seven seconds late." Now....I always restart the meter for customers unless they're assholes about it.

The stopwatch works well for the dispatchers, too. When I announce a no-go, they sometimes claim I couldn't have been there more than a minute or two. All argument ceases when I say: "I've been here precisely six minutes and eighteen seconds."

The long way

I drove three people, two guys in their twenties, and a woman. When I exited the freeway on the way to a downtown hotel, I deliberately took the Harbor Drive exit rather than the one labeled "downtown". One of the guys said: "Where the fuck are you taking us?" My reply: "The fastest, cheapest way."

When we arrived at the Hyatt Grand Manchester the meter showed $26.60. I asked what the earlier ride had cost, when they took a cab from the Hyatt to South Bay. They admitted it had cost $34 and change. They offered no apologies, and no tip.

I had some other mentally challenged people later. They asked if there were any good seafood restaurants on Coronado Island. I suggested the Boathouse or Peohe's, both of which have excellent reputations. They discussed it among themselves, eventually settling on the Boathouse. "That's where we're going," they said, partially to themselves. When I got on the ramp leading up to the Coronado Bridge, one of the women in the back seat said, "Where are you taking us?"

Me: To the Boathouse. I thought we just discussed this.

Her: We have ferry tickets.

Me: You're taking the ferry to Coronado? That's the first I've heard about that. Do you want me to turn around?

Her: No, we're already on the bridge, let's go straight to the Boathouse.

Guy in the front seat, to the woman: You're confusing him.

Me: For the record, I'm not confused.

Annoying customer

Last night I was belled to a residential address. It was dark out, but I could see the address number on the side of the house. Through a picture window I could see about five adults and one little girl, perhaps six, watching TV. I backed up, pointing the car at the windows, and flicked my high beams twice. Legend has it that it's illegal to use a spotlight or flashlight, and it's frowned upon to use a horn after 10 p.m. I immediately put the car in a normal parked position on the street, making sure all my lights were on -- normal car lights and the taxi light on the roof.

The little girl came to the window and looked at me. After about a full minute, she went and sat down, deciding not to alert the adults that a taxi was in front. I flashed my lights several times, and toggled the roof light (I left the car on the street, not pointing towards the house). The little girl came to the window again (nobody was more than ten feet from the windows), and this time spoke to a woman. She pointed at me, and the woman looked. Then the little girl sat down and they all watched TV some more.

I started my meter and turned off the car and lights, and began to read a book. I had officially made contact, which is when HQ allows us to start the meter. Undoubtedly some drivers start it immediately, and we also have some drivers who never start the meter until people are in the car. I only do it if people are rude.

After several more minutes a woman came out to the car with the little girl. It was the same woman who saw me. She asked about the meter and I explained that I turn it on when contact is made, which is ethical and legal. In many circumstances we can turn it on before making contact (such as a reservation with a specific time). "Oh," she said. "But you didn't come to the door, or call." Me: "The girl told you I was here." She said "Oh" once more, then let it drop.

I don't let customers like her change the way I treat everyone -- which is very well. Some drivers let it get to them, and those are the stereotypical guys everyone knows about. They're surly and only respond once, with a nod.

A cold breakfast

I got Stan again. He's a local drunk who normally goes downtown and normally pays for his ride. The last time I had him he refused to pay and I had to summon the police (post here). He learned from past mistakes, which were, in the order he made them:

1: customers really do have to pay for waiting time
2: cab drivers won't put up with being told to "fuck off" four or five times, and
3: cab drivers will call the police to make people pay (and it's only a matter of time before he gets a driver who will fracture his skull)

This time around he decided to try to beat the system by getting a ride to an all night diner, then paying, then getting out and ordering breakfast to go. Before he got out of the car he asked if I was going to be "in the area." I would be. Then he asked if I was planning on sitting "right here." Absolutely. He verified just before he closed the door: "Are you going to be waiting right here when I come back from the restaurant?" I assured him I would be waiting. You can see this coming... I dropped it in Drive and lit up the rear tires, speeding away the moment the door closed, and I tapped the horn twice to make sure he knew my exit was not a misunderstanding.

I then called the few remaining drivers on duty and explained the situation. When he called for a taxi again, from the diner, no car showed up. He called back ten minutes later. When dispatch asked where the driver assigned to the call was (not me), he said he couldn't find the diner. That's an obvious lie, as we all know very well where that diner is located. Another car was sent, and ten minutes later Stan had to call again. This time the driver said he was "almost there," and eventually picked up Stan and drove him home. Breakfast was quite cold by then, I'm sure.

Scorecard
Ted 2
Stan 0

I'll let you know how the next round goes.

From the ER

Last night I picked up a guy from an emergency room who smelled awful. I won't describe the smell, as it'll induce nausea (for me, anyway). A security guard was standing with him near the ambulance dropoff/pickup area to make sure he got into the car. That's a bad sign. Often a regular staff worker or a doc will be with them, and sometimes they're alone. Security usually means trouble. I asked the guard softly if this was a "live one," and he just shrugged and handed me a payment voucher.

The guy's stench was so foul that I had to put all the windows down and replace my usual San Diego baseball cap with a knit cap -- something I don't often do in San Diego. But it was about 60 degrees out, so it was chilly with the windows down. The guy immediately complained that he was freezing, and put his window up. I put it down and locked out the window switches. "You smell too bad for the windows to be up."

I asked him why he was in the hospital, which I always ask. It may be a bit rude, but curiosity always wins out. "I had a seizure, I guess," he said. I asked if he was epileptic, and he said, "No, I'm alcoholic. Whenever I quit drinking I have seizures."

He complained all the way to East Village, which, rather sadly, is our version of LA's Skid Row. There isn't any "dumping" of homeless people around here, as far as I know, but East Village is where most of the charity missions are set up. This guy wanted 10th & B, which has a Del Taco and Burger King on the corner, but no charities.

Later, I was belled to another ER. This guy smelled considerably better than the last one. When I asked where he was going, he said "Dallas, Texas." Most ER people are ... how to say it delicately? ... complete loons. He seemed to fit the bill. After a moment of silence, he gave me a street address in San Diego, in Mission Valley near Qualcomm Stadium.

As I began driving, he explained that he ended up in the ER after going into insulin shock and having a seizure just as he was boarding a plane to Dallas. He said he was going there to take his mother off of a respirator at a hospital. It was time to "let her go," he said. Now he was frustrated because all flights are overbooked for Christmas travel, and his mother would have to wait.

Our conversation was good after we made it over the hump of the mother situation. I could tell he was upset, but calming down somewhat. He lives in central Wyoming on 20,000 acres, and he's in San Diego temporarily, doing some consulting work. I didn't ask what sort of work. When we arrived at his apartment, which he complained about ($2k/mo was a lot of money, he said, for a tiny little place; not at all like Wyoming), he gave me $40 for a $32 fare and said, "Keep it. Merry Christmas." I wished him the same and said I was sorry about his mother.

So here I am whining about my financial situation for two months straight, and I've just met one homeless guy who ends up in an ER when he tries to quit drinking, and one guy with a serious diabetes problem who is unable to fly half way across the country to end his mother's life. The first guy will spend Christmas alone, outside, hoping for a free meal and probably a bottle of cheap wine. The second guy will be spending Christmas alone in a small apartment, far from home, probably thinking about saying goodbye to his mother and burying her next week.

I'm thinking of these ER rides as much needed perspective at Christmas time.

Avoiding Marzetti II

One of our drivers is doing battle with Marzetti II, the old fogey who gets on everyone's nerves (see this post for info on him). When this driver is unfortunate enough to get him, he leaves the right rear window down and turns off the global window switch.

Apparently Marzetti II swears up a storm. He can't handle the wind blowing on him. The driver tells him the window is broken and can't be raised. It took two trips before Marzetti II took note of the cab No. and, when he calls our HQ for a taxi, he's now saying he'll ride in any car except that one. The driver is a little worried he'll call the owner, but if that happens he'll just say the window is intermittant. When/if they call him in to get it fixed, they won't find anything wrong with it. Heads will be scratched, and he'll get off without too much trouble.

Now that I think of it... Yeah, my windows are giving me trouble, too. So is the trunk, for that matter, and anything else to get me out of driving Marzetti II.

Looking into my crystal ball, I can see the future clearly. Over the course of a month, word will get around, and everyone's windows will stop functioning, mysteriously, when Marzetti II needs a ride. The cab company owner will put it together and get on the two-way radio to announce that all drivers will be picking him up or face dire consequences. I've seen this kind of thing before. Something similar happened with Reed.

The Dead Pool

As a side note, Marzetti II has to be in his 90s, and he's in poor health. A couple of weeks ago I started a dead pool on him, and we presently have five drivers with a guess recorded as to the date of the man's death. This is morbid, and perhaps sick, and that's just the way it is. One driver, when I approached him with my little spiral notebook and pen, said he wouldn't be part of something like that. I explained that he wouldn't have to put money in if he didn't want to. It could be "just for fun", and that way he might avoid a trip to Hell. He still refused.

Gollum has been added to the list, as well. Even though Gollum has a full, four-point walker and moves at .0001 mph (I can read about six pages of a novel in the time it takes her to get from the front door to the curb), most have her hanging on for another two to three years. (More on Gollum here and here.)

Accusations and hysterics

I was accused of theft last night. Here's the scenario: A female customer with two friends asked to be driven to a hotel. It was a $14 ride, and I got her there with no trouble. She held out a credit card.

Me: I'm sorry, I don't take credit cards. I'm cash only.

Her: You do take credit cards.

Me: No, I don't.

Her: That's not true. You're lying to rip off your company (she was angry and serious). I rode in one of these cabs this morning and he took my credit card, so don't give me this crap about not taking credit cards.

Me: It's cash, or I'm calling the police.

Her: How dare you!

Me: What's is gonna be?

Her, hysterical: I want your name! I want your cab number! I want your employee number!

So often the qualities of meanness and stupidity are manifest in the same individual. I've seen it countless times. So I handed her my cab permit, which has everything except an employee number. As a 1099 independent contractor, I'm not an employee, and thus no number. She refused to believe that, too. She eventually gave me $20 and said to keep the change, and demanded a receipt, which I gave her. She said she would be calling the cab company to expose my theft "forthwith". I cheerfully suggested, "You do that, honey."

I went away feeling great, especially because Louie was working dispatch and would be answering the phone when she called. Louie is actually a woman, but she's so mean we call her Louie, after the Danny DeVito character on the old show, Taxi. I've actually never met a woman quite like her, but that's a story for another day. Louie never needs a reason to rip somebody's head off, and when this uppity customer called, there is no doubt Louie let her have it.

Thursday night rides

British guy notices bad driving

I picked up a British guy going to the airport. He's in San Diego for a conference, and is going to LA this evening to give a speech at another conference, then flying back. His airline ticket said American Airlines, but usually when people go from San Diego to LA, it's American Eagle, the commuter version of American. Since the ticket said American, I dropped him off at the American gate at terminal two, but I waited as he tried to check his bag at the curbside check in, just in case.

A few seconds later he turned and looked at me, then came back with his bag. It was the commuter terminal, according to the skycaps. Odd that the ticket didn't say American Eagle. Anyway, en route from T2 to the commuter terminal, a shuttle van turned into us. I saw him coming, honked, and gave him some room.

Guy: That's the third time somebody did that to us on this trip. Does that happen a lot?

Me: Unfortunately, yes. Sometimes they signal, and then swerve into you, but usually they don't even bother signalling. I always drive with my thumb on the horn button.

Near collision with Mr. Fire Hydrant

On the way back to our taxi zone from the airport, I was doing 65 in the fast lane on I-5 southbound, with no traffic in front of me. The limit is 65, so I always drive it when there's room. A Red Cab was driving much slower, probably 40, in the next lane over. As I zoomed up on him, he moved into my lane. I had to slam on the brakes, not quite hard enough to start the ABS. The huge yellow hood of the Crown Vic dove straight down. The Police Interceptor didn't do that.

I moved one lane to the right and went by. As I pulled even with him, I saw him looking at me and waving in a friendly manner. It was Mr. Fire Hydrant, our driver who had gotten himself fired for running over a hydrant. This is the guy who couldn't find a Marriott hotel after working for weeks. Once an idiot, always an idiot. (Hydrant incident here; navigational challenges here)

The "trampoline"

I picked up a sailor from a bar, and noticed he was walking with a limp, and one hand was in a cast. He said he was on leave, back home in Michigan, two months ago, when he got in a bar fight. It was him and his brother against two other guys. He had a broken hand and ankle.

Me: Doesn't the Navy punish you for that, too?

Him: Normally they would, but I told them I fell off a trampoline.

That's clever. He said he didn't mind getting hurt because the Navy goes easy on injured personnel. After 30 days medical leave, he was put on duty, but all he had to do was 3-hours per day "watch", where he kept an eye on the Navy drunk tank, making sure nobody injured themselves.

Customer on the radio

I drove another Navy guy, with two Navy buddies. After I started driving, he picked up my mic and said: "What is this, car 92?" I cringed.

Guy: 92

Dispatch: 92

Guy: 92 to the Star Bar, downtown.

Dispatch: 10-4

It was a flawless example of radio usage. The guy handed me the mic and said: "This ain't my first rodeo." That was damned funny.

A few blocks later we passed a group of women walking along the sidewalk. The guy said to his buddies: "Those are whores. Fifty bucks each, probably." I said: "That's cheaper than dating." The guy: "You're all right. What's your name?"

Stan, a real ass

My last ride was a real winner. It was Stan, a regular, about 35, alcoholic, usually going from one or another dive bar to his condo in downtown San Diego. I've driven him 10 times or so, and he never remembers me. It's usually a $16 ride, and he rarely tips. This time I was belled to a residential address and was surprised to see Stan stagger out to the car. He's usually at a bar. He was on his cellie, and when he got in the back seat, he left the door opened and asked me to wait a minute.

Him, to phone: Am I staying or going?

Woman's voice, from phone: You better just go.

Him: I want to spend the night with you.

Woman: Well I'm not spending the night with you, so you better go.

Him, to me: I guess we can go.

He wanted to stop at an all-night diner to get food to-go. I stopped and said I'd be happy to wait. He went inside, then came out and asked me if I wanted anything. "Anything you want," he said. "It's on me." After thinking for a few seconds, I said, "How about a Coke?" He went back inside to add that to the order. He came back out, presumably to wait with me, rather than inside.

Him: I'm not paying for you to wait here, am I?

Me: Yeah. It's only $5 for 15 minutes. It's not much.

Him: I'm not paying for waiting.

I pointed to the sign on the dash that says "Waiting time, $20 per hour"

Him: I'm taking the cost of breakfast off the tab.

Me: What do you mean by that?

Him: You heard me.

Me: Are you saying you're not going to pay the full meter amount?

Him: You got it.

Me: Then I'm not driving you home.

He ignored me and walked into the diner. Not five seconds later he came back out and got in the cab. "Take me home," he said.

Me: What about the food?

Him: Don't worry about it. And I'm not paying for the waiting.

Me: You have to pay what the meter says.

Him: Fuck you, I'm not paying.

By now I was two blocks from the diner. I pulled over.

Me: If you're going to say 'fuck you', you can get out right here.

Him: That's what I'm going to do. Fuck you.

Me: That'll be $5.60 (the amount showing on the meter)

Him: Fuck you.

Me: I'm calling the police.

Him: Go ahead, fuck you.

I got out of my car as he started to walk away, down the sidewalk. Just then a cop drove by going the other direction. I whistled and held out my arm: "Officer!" He swung a u-turn and pulled in behind me and jumped out.

Cop: What's wrong?

Me: I've got a refusal to pay.

Cop: Close your door and stand on the sidewalk.

Another squad car pulled in behind the first one, and that cop got out and spoke with the first cop and Stan. The second one came over to me and asked what he owes, and I said $5.60. He went back, and he made Stan get out his wallet and get some money out. He walked back to me and gave me a $10 bill. I gave him $5 and said the guy could keep the change. Then I left.

I got on the radio immediately and let the other drivers know that Stan wasn't in a paying mood tonight, so they should think carefully before picking him up when he calls again.

I went 10-21 (radio code for "gone for the day") right after the Stan incident. It was 2:40 a.m., about my usual quitting time. I left the radio on as I drove home, just in case Stan attempted to get another cab. As I was filling my gas tank at the station near my apartment, I heard one of our drivers announce a flag from XYZ diner to downtown. That had to be Stan. It was our driver who is such an asshole a lot of regulars refuse to ride with him. I never thought I'd find somebody who refused to ride with me, but was okay with the asshole. Tomorrow night I'll ask if he had any problems getting paid.

ER nonsense

I'm starting to loathe emergency rooms. Whenever I get belled to an ER, it's a worthless experience. I do make some money, so it's not completely worthless, but I'd gladly give up the money in exchange for never picking up bums. Last night I got a live one -- an Hispanic male, perhaps 50, almost too drunk to speak, and that was after he had been "cleaned up", including a washing and a new set of clothes. I wouldn't have wanted to see him before the alleged cleaning.

The ER doc asked me what the fare would be to San Ysidro, which is right along the border with Mexico. It's around $45. "Okay," she said. "This gentleman has $90 in his pocket. He'll pay cash." She and an orderly went back into the hospital, and the "gentleman" sat in the back seat.

Him: How much gonna be?

Me: $45 or so.

Him: Bullshit.

Me: You have to pay, or you don't go home.

Him: Bullshit.

I turned the car off and went into the hospital. I informed the ER doc that he refused payment. Obviously, I'm not driving anyone free of charge. So she gave me a hospital voucher, meaning they'll cover the cost.

The ride itself was uneventful, except that he kept babbling. Initially I made an effort to understand him, but it was fruitless. I put on some talk radio and turned it up loud enough to drown him out. Reception wasn't good way down there, but static was better than his babbling.

I got him to his address, which was a residential house in San Ysidro. Surprisingly, he recognized it. Sometimes they can't. In those cases I usually point at a house and just say, "Go." This one was slightly better. No tip, but at least I'll get the fare from the hospital.

Brain surgery and air races

Last night I was staging in front of a nicer restaurant, having foreknowledge that a lot of long rides came into that restaurant about two hours earlier. You tend to accumulate knowledge from the streets -- watching enemy cabs do dropoffs, speaking with doormen and bartenders, etc. So I'm standing outside my cab with the radio turned all the way up so I can hear my number. I'm chatting on the cell with a friend. Three guys walk out of the restaurant and walk past my car. I glance at them to see if they'll make eye contact, approach me, or gesture that they need a cab. None of the above.

After what seemed like a minute, I glanced behind me, to the other side of my car, and there they are. The lead guy puts his arms in the air in a disrespectful gesture of "well, are we going to wait all night?" I asked in the tone an adult uses with a child, "Do you need a taxi?" "Well, yeah," the guy said. I said nothing more, and just got in and waited for them to enter.

Turns out they're all very drunk and about as rude as anyone I've driven. I asked if they were in town for the air races (Red Bull is sponsoring Extra 300 races over San Diego Bay this weekend.*). The guy in front, the rudest of them all, said they were in town for a neurosurgery conference. They're all brain surgeons, specializing in the removal of tumors.

Based on their behavior in soliciting the ride, I'd say these brain surgeons are the dumbest people I've ever encountered. Anyone who thinks a cabbie has a telepathic ability to determine if somebody wants a ride is an unconditional idiot.

---

*I had a couple of reasons for asking if they were associated with the races. First, I've driven a couple of groups who said they were with the upcoming event, and they were rude bastards. Maybe it goes along with that sport? Secondly, I saw on the freeway an Audi SUV with red decals all over it -- all proclaiming the air races. The guy tailgated me unbelievably close, and I was in the slow lane driving the speed limit. When traffic to the left opened up, he floored it and just kept accelerating -- way, way above the speed limit. Real pricks, these Red Bull Air Race types. I was going to buy a ticket to Saturday's main event, but now I'm planning to watch for free from Coronado Island, because jackasses aren't getting any of my money. If I'm close enough to get good photos, I'll post them here.

People don't listen

Here's an oft-repeated theme in my cab. Somebody gets in and gives me an address or the name of a business I don't recognize. When I ask where it is, they invariably say the name of the neighborhood or suburb. I can always get within a mile of the place based on that info, so I tell them: "I'll take XYZ freeway, then XYZ St, and then you can give me directions to the exact location, okay?" They always say okay.

And that's where the problems begin. I have made it clear that, while I may not know the exact cross streets, I can get very close before I need assistance. Somehow they heard me say: "I have no knowledge of San Diego. I just got off the boat. I'm an idiot. I don't know what freeways are or where they might be located. We're in Kansas, right?"

They often begin their directions immediately, even though they already know, had they been listening, that that is not necessary. "Go up here until you see the I-5 freeway, then turn when it says 'southbound I-5'." Wow, you mean there's a freeway up there, and it goes south? Say it ain't so! Because I don't happen to know where 16241 Emu Crap Lane is, I must not know the freeway system, either.

Do I yell at them? No. Do I re-explain that I only need help after we make a certain exit? Sometimes. Do I play dumb and oooh and aaaah at every turn they tell me to make? Yes, more often than not. What else am I going to do with idiots who don't (or can't) listen?

Another strange phenomenon: when people tell me which route to take, whether I know the place or not, it's always the long way. Most people don't offer their opinion on the route, but 100% of the time when they've got a plan, it costs them money. I'm greatly amused by this. When I first started driving cab I would politely point out that I know of a way that's faster and cheaper, but people actually get put off by that. They want to be right, even when they're quite wrong. Now I don't correct people about the route.

More hillbilly tourists

Yesterday I picked up at an expensive hotel. Family: Grampa, who sat up front with me, and a rotund mom, two out-of-control brats, and a dad who looked like he wanted to commit seppuku. I can't blame him. Here's how jaded good a cab driver gets with this job: I knew, just by looking at this group and how they walked towards the car, precisely what kind of people they were. I knew they were cheap, the complaining type, and weren't staying at that hotel. They probably just wanted to look at the lobby or something (people actually do that). These were the Motel 6 variety.

On the ride to Broadway Pier in downtown, the brats were yelling about who knows what. That was predicted ahead of time. "Who wants to get slapped?" asked mom. No volunteers. The yelling continued unabated. Dad was in the back seat with them, looking out his window, undoubtedly thinking about condoms and vasectomies.

Standard procedure radio call:

Me: 95

Dispatcher: 10-9 (repeat, please)

Me: 95

Dispatcher: There's too much noise. I can't hear you. 10-9.

Me: (Held the mic down for five seconds, without saying anything, to let the dispatcher know what the problem was.)

Grampa said something inaudible from his seat beside me.

Me: What?

Grampa: A million dollars?

(I felt like if I didn't try to be polite, the mom in the back seat would start in on me.)

Me: What was that?

Grampa: The houses. A million dollars?

Me: Some of them, yes. It is San Diego, after all. Four hundred thousand still buys something decent, though.

Grampa: Four or five?

Me: Four or five what?

The guy would not let up. He was attempting to have a conversation with me, but was failing. I was trying to be polite and help him along, and was also failing. Finally I ignored him altogether, figuring that if I ignore the guy, maybe he'll shut up. Nope. When I didn't respond to his nonsensical statements, he started patting me on my arm. I changed tactics.

Grampa: Over here?

Me: Yes.

Grampa: Not?

Me: No.

Grampa: Long way, not in the...

Me: Yes.

That seemed to work. He got answers to whatever his questions were, and I didn't need to do much. I'm going to remember that for the drunks later on.

What San Diego needs is its own Guantanamo Bay, just for summer tourists (some tourists are great; don't get me wrong). No water boarding or indefinite detention. On Labor Day they can be deported back to their state or city of origin.

I pulled to the curb at Broadway Pier. The meter said $22 and change. The woman gave me a $20, and I patiently waited for more. None was forthcoming.

Mom: Can I have a discount?

Me: No (nicely).

Mom: Please.

Me: No (neutral).

Mom: I'm supporting five people with nobody to help me.

Me: So am I.

Mom: You are? You have a big family?

Me: No, but my car burns twice as much fuel as the average car, so that's like one dependent. I drink a lot, so that's like having another...

She gave me three singles and the whole troop noisily exited the car.

Me (on radio): 95

Dispatcher: 95

Me: I brought the Beverly Hillbillies to Broadway Pier.

Dispatcher: Don't say things like that on the radio.

Me: (no answer)

Dispatcher: Do you copy? 95?

Me: (no answer)

I went back to my zone and desperately tried to find a business man in a suit, with a briefcase, a Blackberry, and an expense account.