Thursday

Thursday had a little of everything. With the exception of customer interaction, it's a good example of a day in the life of a cabbie.

Paying the lease

One of my cab partners usually pays the weekly cab lease, but this week he's off, so it fell to me. Thursday afternoon I arrived at HQ for the first time in weeks. I normally avoid the place like the plague. The owner likes to come into the yard and inspect the cars, searching for anything wrong. It's better to stay away than be treated to an irrational outburst. I keep my car clean, inside and out, and I don't need anybody inspecting it.

I hate paying the lease partly because I have to show myself at HQ, and partly because I have to deal with Al, the guy who accepts the cash. Al is a great guy -- he's funny, well educated, has traveled the world, and I enjoy speaking with him. The problem is that he's about 300 years of age. It takes him FOREVER to count the damned money and even longer to hand write a nearly illegible receipt (the owner is a Luddite, so it's on paper). He takes the stack of bills in his left hand, then peels off the top one with his right, s-l-o-w-l-y brings it up to his nose so he can read the number, then s-l-o-w-l-y lowers it to his desk. Repeat a couple hundred times.

When I first started driving, I saw the lease payment as a good opportunity to unload my ones and fives. After watching Al count them at an average of three seconds per bill, I quickly changed to 50s and 100s just to speed up the process. Now I buy all of my groceries with 1s and 5s.

This Thursday I had collected money from my two cab partners before going to HQ, put it together with my own, and dumped it on Al's desk. I noticed my partners choose large bills, too. They're not stupid. But there were also several vouchers in the mix, which slows down Al even more. ER fares typically come with a hospital voucher, which we turn in with, and place against, the lease. We had no less than seven vouchers this time, which is probably a record. I saw Al look at the huge stack of money and paper and I knew I could kiss my afternoon goodbye. Okay, it's not quite that bad, but it's excruciating to watch a man spend a half hour counting a stack of money that I can count in 30 seconds.

Surprise inspections

While at HQ I saw Fred the mechanic, who is usually hidden away at the secret mechanic location, doing small spot repairs to several cars. He was doing headlights and mirrors and I saw a headliner ready to go into one car. Another had a wheel off. All of this is done out of doors, under San Diego's perfect, sunny sky. Fred was moving a hundred miles an hour, and looked flustered. He said the city called a couple of hours earlier and announced they would be conducting inspections the next day, including some "snap" inspections on the street. That's a first. For as long as anybody can remember, inspections occur the first week of January. I suspect a city council member got a ride with one of our dirtier drivers (maybe Catheter Cab). That would have led to a snap inspection. Fred had to prepare a lot of cars with almost no notice. Feeling bad for him, I changed a few brake light bulbs and tried to install the headliner, and failed. It's harder than it looks.

Fred asked me if my car needed anything. Since I'd been through inspections a couple of times before, he didn't need to inspect my car himself, he could just ask.

1. Parking brake
2. Horn
3. Velcro on the dash, which holds the permit and a lost-and-found notice for customers, fell off
4. Missing lug nut -- it's amazing how often lug nuts fall off of taxis

He jumped in my car and stepped on the parking brake. It's the old style foot pedal, not a pull handle in the middle like almost all other cars. I saw him grab the wheel tightly and strain, apparently with all his strength, against the pedal. Once he was satisfied, he started the car and put it in Drive, then Reverse. It didn't move. He deemed it okay. Note: it's not okay, but it'll pass inspection.

Then he grabbed a ratchet and a 1/2-inch socket and slid under the front of the car. In a moment he came out with my horn in his hand. He turned it over and a cup of water poured out. "Bad location," he said. "When it rains, water from the road gets splashed inside." I gestured to a row of crashed cabs being stored, for cannibalization, at HQ. "All the horns are gone," he said. "And I don't have time to go to Ford."

One of the crashed cars. A large truck backed into this one, breaking the
windshield and sending shattered glass onto one of our Brazilian drivers.

I suggested that I could go to my house and pull the horn from the Falcon, which I bought a few weeks ago. "Great idea," he said. I explained that he could only have it on the condition that I get it back right after the inspection. I don't want to go hornless with my civilian car. Before I could leave, he remembered he had a horn sitting in his work vehicle.

He quickly installed the horn, velcro on the dash (on the airbag cover on the passenger side), and a new lug nut.

By the time all of this was done, Al had counted the lease money. He said we were $40 over. I had to make a bunch of calls to find out why that might be. One of my cab partners, as it turns out, had rear-ended some civilian a few months ago with a loaner car (I would have known about it if it had happened with our taxi), and was paying the cab company owner $40 per week to pay off a $900 repair bill (the owner had paid off the civilian).

The last thing required to get my car through inspections was easy: remove a small, handwritten note taped to the dash. It says "Don't use overdrive. Drive gently." shortly after we got the car, maybe a month ago, we discovered the transmission was going out. Rather than getting the tranny repaired or replaced, we got that note. Since I don't want the city to know the car has a bad transmission, I decided the note had to go.

Gambling debt

When I was getting ready to leave, I noticed Fred was gone. Then I heard some yelling. Serious, angry yelling. Fred was out past the gate, on the street, getting yelled at by some guy I had never seen before. The tongue lashing was so severe I thought Fred was going to get killed. Fred is short and skinny, and would probably lose a fight. I started walking towards them, thinking of offering backup. I'm not much of a fighter, but Fred and I together could take him, if it came down to that.

Before I got there, Fred turned from the guy and walked past me. I caught up to him and asked what the hell that was about.

Fred: I owe him $200 and he wants it.

Me: Does it have anything to do with your trips to the casinos? (I know him well enough to ask.)

Fred: Yeah. And he knows I get paid today. He can't wait two hours for his fucking money.

With reservations I pulled my wad out and gave him $200 in 20s. "I'll pay you back tomorrow," Fred told me. I'm sure he's good for it. I also think it's kind of funny that I paid somebody's gambling debt. I should have offered the guy on the street $150 to buy the debt. Anyway, there would be no violence at HQ that day.

Drunk bicycler

A few hours later, I'm in our zone sitting at a cab stand. I'm parked, along with two other cabbies. We were standing on the sidewalk beside my car, talking. As a sort of tangent, Carey asked me if I'd driven the guy in the old condo buildings yet. I had. He's in his 90s and only recently moved into our zone. He uses cabs for the four-block journey to a restaurant for dinner, on occasion. I've already been listening to the radio to learn the pattern, if there is one, so I can avoid the cab stand by his condo around the time he leaves or comes back.

Carey: Marzetti's not even cold yet and we've got another.

Me: Yeah, but at least this guy isn't an asshole.

Carey: And he tips.

While we were talking, we all turned to see what was making an odd noise in the street. A guy was riding a bike with a fully laden shopping cart in tow -- pulled with his hand. The cart's wheels were making an awful racket on the pavement.

As he went by my car, we heard a scraping noise. I ran around to the driver's side and saw the mirror was broken off and hanging by the wires (it's electronically adjustible and heated). "Hey!" I yelled. The guy looked over his shoulder but didn't stop. I jumped in my car, cursing, and gave chase. He pulled into a hotel entrance about 100 yards in front of where he hit me, and I followed him in. I came up behind him and honked. He finally stopped. I got out pointed to the mirror and said he would be paying for it.

I saw right away he was drunk, and the cart was full of cases of Budweiser. He immediately apologized and said he thought the mirror had simply folded. That's reasonable, as it did look folded, rather than broken. "Well," I said, "it's broken, and if you don't pay I'm calling the cops." He begged me not to, and also said he was broke after buying all the beer. He held up a case of Bud. "I can give you this," he said. "I hate Bud," I said.

I called the company owner and explained the situation.

Me: I have a question for you.

Him: Does it involve Fred and $200? (How the hell did he find out about that?)

Me: No, actually, I've had an ... incident ... and I don't really know what to do.

I explained the situation, expecting him to get angry because the car wouldn't pass tomorrow's inspection, and Fred was surely gone for the night. He asked several questions, aimed at determining our liability. When I told him I wasn't driving the car, or even in it, and that the guy wasn't injured, he said: "Tell the guy he's getting a gift. I have enough problems right now; I don't need another one. I'll have Fred install a new mirror in the morning before the inspections. Don't worry about it." I asked if he was interested in a case of Budweiser, and he hung up. Maybe he doesn't like Bud, either.

Update: Friday morning. I worked straight through until 7 a.m., when Fred would be back at HQ, and brought him the cab so he could replace the mirror. Fred came up to me and asked if he could pay $100 of the money he owes me now, and $100 next week. Sure, I said. He turned his back to the windows of the office and pulled out five 20s and handed them to me. "If the owner asks," he said, "tell him I gave you $200." Then he drove me home in my cab, dropped me off, and brought the car back to HQ. When I woke up for my Friday night shift, the car was in my driveway.

There is no longer any doubt in my mind that this is the strangest (and most entertaining) job I've ever had.

Replacing the battery

Last Friday my cab partner, Vitao, was 40 minutes late for the second time in a row. He apologized and offered to turn the car over at 3pm instead of 4pm next Friday. I agreed, with no hard feelings. Vitao is a good guy. While we were talking, he mentioned the shop had changed our alternator the day before. The battery was discharging during his shift. It seemed fine after that.

New alternator installed by Fred.
Looks like new plug wires too.

Saturday afternoon I picked up the car and the battery idiot light was glowing, and the voltmeter was reading low, and it was dropping slowly as I idled. It was 5:30 p.m., so the mechanic would be gone until Monday morning. Knowing I have a knew alternator, I decided to drive to Auto Zone and buy a new battery.

Typically I check things out with my own meter, but it disappeared from the trunk compartment months ago. I suspect Fred, our thieving mechanic. Also, I wanted to fix it myself since bringing a car to Fred is quite an ordeal. The last time I needed a battery, Fred gave us an old one that he had cleaned to make it look new. My cab partners and I embarked on a three month odyssey of having the car fail to start when we got belled -- cost us a bunch of money and time. We had to get jump starts several times a day before I got Fred to admit the battery wasn't new. Doing things myself avoids all this pain.

New battery installed by me

Ninety dollars and an hour later, I started the car, with the new battery, in the Autozone parking lot to find the problem was still there. Belatedly I checked the grounds and cleaned and tightened the clamps, especially where the copper wires are crimped. No luck.

Bad picture of the battery light and voltmeter

I got on the radio and explained the situation. This was actually quite tricky because the dispatcher was repeatedly calling a single car number. Apparently this driver vanished, and now he was long overdue for the night shift driver. It took more than five minutes to get through.

The dispatcher, Louie, said the cab company owner was in the office, heard me mention the problem, and they told me to drive to the office. I was given a loaner car which looked a bit grim but drove quite well. The last guy to drive it was The Fat Bastard, who bent the seat into a permanent reclining position. All I needed was a sideways baseball cap to complete a gangsta image.

The following idiot lights were glowing on the dash of the loaner:

Air Susp
Check Engine
Air Bag
Anti-Lock

Judging from the amount of space on the dash, that was every light except maybe an oil light. At least I had that going for me. At night, with all those lights on the dash, it was like driving a christmas tree. But holy smokes! the car had a lot more power than my 92, and the transmission is much better. I'm actually considering giving Fred $200 to sneak into the shop on Sunday and swap the engine and transmission with my cab. Nobody would be the wiser, and I'd be a lot happier. Of course, Fred owes me $100 from last October, so that would be worked into the deal. I'll let you know if I make the proposal.

Incidentally, all of our cars with air suspension leak (as far as I know). Instead of removing the garbage air equipment and simply putting in standard Crown Victoria coil springs, the policy is to fill the system beyond capacity, and then let it slowly leak out over two weeks. Repeat. When I picked up the loaner it was jacked up really high in the back, kind of like a 60s muscle car. It is an absurdity that only exists in the wonderful world of taxis. I'm riding around in a car that's jacked up in the back, with nearly every warning light flashing on the dash. I just buckle the seat belt and sigh. If I was a religious type, I'd have crossed myself.

This car is jacked up (hard to see in this shot)

This gives you an idea of the ridiculously
jacked-up stance of the car

Several hours later, while sitting on a cab stand, I found out what happened to the missing driver. He had locked his keys in the taxi down in Imperial Beach, and then walked a very long ways to the Palm Ave trolley station, then came back up into town on the trolley. He didn't have his cellphone with him, and for reasons unknown he didn't stop to use a payphone. His replacement (the evening driver), who told me about this incident, had to wait three hours to get the car. After the driver showed up at HQ and explained himself, the car had to be retrieved from IB. Par for the course.

Eventful afternoon

I paid the entire lease today, $600, because I forgot that it was Tom's last day. What can I say? Andrew and Tom are solid guys, but we're not friends. Other than a weekly exchange of cash for the lease, I don't pay any attention to them.

Since I forgot to get Vitao's money (our new Brazilian cab partner), it fell to me to cover it. No problem there. I can get the money later. I've known Vitao for two years -- he's already a driver. Andrew snatched him away from his current partner. Not to go on a tangent, but I was sure we would never find anyone who wanted to drive Tom's hours, which were Monday through Thursday, 4 a.m. to 2 p.m. But Andrew managed it. I owe him for that.

While I was at HQ the owner went out to inspect the Falcon, and he pointed out a scrape on the right rear quarter panel. He took Polaroids of the damage. I had never seen it before. He said a South Bay hotel called this morning and reported that car 95 had scraped a sign. Tom was driving this morning. He didn't stop, and he didn't report the damage to me or the owner. That means any of the three drivers could get the bill if the hotel hadn't reported him. What a bastard.

I whipped out the cell and was about to call him to rip him a new one, but the owner said to wait a day or two. He wants to give him a chance to call and admit what he did. So we're waiting.

When I was ready to leave HQ, my car wouldn't start. Since the owner was there, I explained that the mystery electrical problem plaguing the car for six months still hasn't been fixed. Something is draining the battery. He called Fred, our mechanic, and he came over straightaway (the shop is at a different location than HQ).

He put a new battery in the car and said it would be fine. Now that's odd, considering this was the third new battery he's installed, all in search of the elusive problem.

He admitted the last two times he pulled junk batteries out of retired cars. He told me they were new at the time. He even laughed about it. My cab partners and I have been getting jump starts at least four times a week for six months, in less than convenient places, all because he was too cheap to replace a battery. There isn't much I can do to force people to behave well, so I told him I didn't appreciate it, and shrugged it off.

While at HQ I filled out another work request for the thumping coming from the front left, which didn't go away after the brake job earlier this week. I tried to copy the form, in case I get in an accident and the company tries to say they were never notified, but the copier wasn't working.

I also asked the owner about the latest problem with the Navy. They claimed I wasn't on The List. The owner rolled his eyes. "Yes, you are. I've been over this time and time again with these people." He said he'd make some calls and fix it. Meanwhile, the U.S.S. Ronald Reagan is one mile off the coast, waiting to bring more than 5,000 sailors into port tomorrow at 10 a.m. and I still don't have a base permit.

I tell ya, some times this job feels like a cartoon. Competence is a very scarce commodity in the taxi business.

Back outside, I showed Fred a rear tire that looked low, and he had me follow him to the shop. The shop looks just like the place in the old TV show, "Taxi". I thought about getting some photos, but Fred would ask a bunch of questions that I don't feel like answering. I'll swing by some other time; perhaps Fred won't be around.


This was close to the shop

While Fred fixed a leak in the tire, I asked how the brake job went the other day (I already knew, but I wanted to hear what he said). "I rebuilt the caliper and it didn't turn out too well." So he got a remanufactured one from a parts store, but forgot to install a copper washer, so it leaked. That's why Tom had to return the car twice for more work (the brakes had gone out while driving again, for a total of three times).

Fred thought all of this was funny. I think it's miraculous nobody has been killed.

I asked him about tire pressure (I asked long ago and promptly forgot) and he said the rears have to be at 35psi by law so the meter is accurate. The fronts, he said, "should be at 45". When I inquired as to why so much higher, he said that tires last longer at higher pressure, but the car doesn't ride quite as well. "And we don't care about comfort -- we want them to last."

You know what that means. I stopped at the first gas station and deflated the fronts to 35. My cab partners and I pay $600 per week -- that's about $2600 per month -- for the car. For that kind of money, it will be as comfortable as possible.

As I was leaving the shop I remembered there's a Chipotle close by, and took advantage by getting a mammoth vegetarian burrito -- black beans, rice, cheese, guacamole. I wolfed it down in record time and was on the streets in time for a nice dinner rush.

Fred is back

To our great dismay, Fred, the mechanic, is back. We heard he had been arrested for possession of marijuana, and had been fired. We were so happy we talked about throwing a party. Yesterday I heard the cab company owner speaking with a driver on the radio, and mentioned that "Fred is at the shop now, so drive over there."

I earned a few laughs at the cab stand with, "Look at the bright side. He'll continue stealing our fuel and improperly fixing our cabs, but now I have a chance to get my $100 back from him."

We're speculating now that the cab company owner bailed him out and brought him back to work -- he's extremely kind hearted, so it's very plausible. I believe it was Zach who said: "He bailed Fred out of jail? It must be hard to find a shitty mechanic." That's dry.

Back seats and flat tires

I was going to leave this as a comment at a post over at NYC Taxi Photo, but decided to put it here. Forman's post about a flat tire was excellent.

I've pulled a few odd items from my backseat, too. Like an ornate, silver spoon. Somebody actually had that in their back pocket, or what? I've also found a lot of cameras, cell phones, flash drives, a used condom (yep), a crescent wrench, lots of Marlboros (I'm a smoker and like getting free smokes), wallets, and plenty of loose money. I've found my share of Euro notes, as well.

You don't have to change flat tires?! I'm jealous. We get to do that for ourselves. I even put my own floor jack in the trunk because I hate the cheezy scissor jack that came with the car. I also have a speed wrench, and the spare is full-size (I think all Crown Vics have full-size spares). With the floor jack I can change a tire in just a few minutes.

How I wish I could call somebody for flat tires! If I had a dollar for every tire I've changed on the freeway with customers in the back and cars whizzing by at 65mph, inches from me, I'd be retired by now.

Service car

We have a similar service car, except it's a 1989 Crown Vic station wagon. It has been ripped apart inside for hauling stuff, similar to what you have. Our mechanic, Fred, drives it for field ops. The one time I followed him to our repair shop, I had to stand on the gas to keep up. Fred had the the old wagon sliding and roasting the tires. A real madman.

I have sort of become the informal road man for our company. I like helping the other drivers, and I'm no stranger to cars, so it's a natural fit. I keep jumper cables and a small assortment of tools in the car. I also have a jumper box, wire, electrical tape (you'd be amazed at what you can fix with wire and tape!) and a digital multi-meter for diagnosing electrical problems. I can't fix much on the road, but Fred appreciates knowing about the problem before he goes into the field.

My camera has become a useful tool. Whenever one of our drivers gets in a crash, which is about once a month, I go to the scene and take photos. The other driver and the police are always a little apprehensive until I explain who I am and why I'm taking photos. I don't actually tell the full truth, though. How would it sound at the scene of an accident: "I'm here to photograph the scene so you can't screw us in court with your damned lies." In two years, having seen numerous accident scenes, I have only seen one where it was our guy's fault. It's almost always the fault of the civilian, and they usually lie about what happened.

The few repairs I've managed in the field include wiring an alternator to the side of the engine after the mount broke, and getting the belt back on. It worked long enough to get the guy to the shop. I once fixed a fried brake light switch under the brake pedal. And, once in a while a driver will report a trunk latch breaking just as he's loading luggage. I can usually fix that or provide a bungee cord.

The job is very easy, to be sure, but things always seem to break at the least opportune moments (not like Forman's flat tire at 6:30 in the morning). More often than not our problems occur on the freeway during rush hour, or 200 feet above the bay on the Coronado Bridge. I'm sure problems happen in bad places and times in NYC, too.

Mechanic fired

Our mechanic, Fred, has been fired. The rumors have circulated for a week that he was arrested for marijuana possession and that the owner fired him over it. He must have had a lot, because it's not a big crime to have just a little in California.

I confirmed today from an office worker that this is true. Now I know why the cars usually come back half fixed, or the same problem crops up two hours after Fred claimed it was fixed. Also, he can't steal our gas anymore, nor can he sell the owner's car parts to anybody who wants them, and pocket the cash.

The sad thing: the bum still owes me $100 from many months back. See this post.

Trapped in the car

This afternoon I had a real winner, just as the car malfunctioned. The inner covering for the driver door has been broken and falling off for months. Fred has known about it for at least four months and it's still not fixed. Today it caused me to get trapped inside the Falcon.

I was picking up an older lady at a grocery store, and when I tried to get out, the covering slid down and caught on the bottom door sill. I couldn't open the driver door. With the center console and laptop on my right, I couldn't get over to the passenger side to get out that way, either. I was completely stuck.

That, by itself, did not herald the end of the world. It was the old lady I was picking up who made things unbearable.

She was standing beside a shopping cart that had one little bag in it. And she wouldn't move. She just stood there watching me struggle with the door.

I finally got it to open and went to get her groceries and hold the door for her.

Every time I get into one of these situations I think about all the cabs I've taken, and all the cabbies who won't get out of their cars, won't speak to customers, and don't even shower. I think about how some of them smoke in their cars, have all the windows up, and have the window switch turned off.

Why don't I operate like them? No idea. It's not in my genes, I guess.

"I really don't know what you were waiting for," she said. She knew exactly what I was "waiting" for. What a bitch. It took everything I had, all my strength of will, to keep from yelling at her. I kid you not, the "C" word was ready to go.

The bag had a single can of cat food in it -- nothing she couldn't carry.

We went a whopping seven blocks to her house. This time the door was worse. I finally karate kicked it and broke the door liner off completely. I put the broken pieces in the trunk.

Then I opened her door -- she wouldn't do that for herself.

The fare was $4.20 and she gave me four singles and four dimes. That's a $.20 tip. I threw the dimes on the sidewalk.

Her: "You don't want the money?"

Me: "I don't want dimes."

Her: "Why not?"

Me: "Because they have no value."

I left her standing in the driveway with the tell-tale bewildered look in her eyes. I wonder if she'll take to heart what she learned -- The Great Depression has been over for a long, long time, and that some inflation has occurred since then.

Interesting chain of events

Maybe this is not interesting. I sometimes don't know what might be interesting -- I've seen so many odd things after driving for three and a half years, it's all just another day to me!

Last Thursday, July 3, I noticed there was a metallic clunking coming from the front left suspension. This is the 4th time I've had this problem since I got this cab last September. The last time it was serviced, I had a little chat with the owner, and it didn't go very well. "I think your partners are driving the car too hard." I don't agree with him. I believe the mechanics are doing their usual lousy work. Also, the hood has never fit well, which tells me the car has been crashed in the front some time in the past. It's possible there are bent pieces, possibly the frame itself, and that's causing undue stress on anything that's mounted to it (i.e. suspension pieces). But no, it must be the drivers!

When I finished working I dropped by the office to fill out a work request. This had to be a stealth operation, conducted in the dead of night, to avoid the owner. I really didn't care for another lecture about driving the car gently when my partners and I always drive the car gently.

After describing the clunking sound in detail on the work request, I included this note:

MECHANICS: Please do not remove anything from the cab. The last time the car was in for service, a full bottle of glass cleaner and a new roll of paper towels disappeared. Thank you!

Also while at HQ, I got to see what the new graveyard shift dispatcher looks like. To my great surprise, he doesn't look retarded. He wasn't even drooling. They don't make people more stupid than him, so I wasn't expecting a normal looking person. This guy cannot manage the lineup and mispronounces absolutely everything, in a very comical way. We've been mocking him mercilessly on the radio, and I don't think he's bright enough to realize it. The drivers often discuss the mystery about where on earth these people come from. Where does the owner dredge them up? There must be a headhunter in San Diego who specializes in extremely low IQs.

I took off the next day, which was Friday, Independence Day. Even though I usually make around $400, I decided it's not worth the effort. The owner dispatches on the 4th because it's really busy, and he makes everything stressful and problematic. Also, the streets are so crowded with cars and peds that it takes forever to get anywhere. And people are angry they had to wait so long for a cab. I decided I'm no attorney -- I won't do anything for money, so I took off the 4th.

Saturday night I worked, and it was fairly slow, but I had several nice rides, like Pacific Beach and Chula Vista. The clunking was still there. I work nights, and so the daytime driver of my car handles bringing the car in for service. I often have no idea if work was done, or when. You'd think I would know the car was in for service because something that used to be broken is now fixed. With our mechanic, Fred, you can never really tell. Things he has "fixed" usually break two hours later, and it often takes three or four tries for him to actually fix a problem correctly. Instead of relying on a "fixed" car, I know we've had service done because all the stereo presets have been changed, and I'm usually missing something from the car -- like the pliers I keep in the door pocket for fixing the trunk latch (fails at least three times a day).

When I first checked in with dispatch at the beginning of my shift, she announced that the next ride I got that went anywhere near HQ, I needed to stop by and pick up an envelope. This is radio code for: "You've been selected for a random drug test." Three hours later I still hadn't had a ride out in that direction, so I called her. "It doesn't look like I'm going to get a ride out there. Does that paperwork need to be picked up tonight?" I was hoping not. The rules say we have to get the test done within two hours of picking up the paperwork, so if I can miss the pickup, I can skip the test. Delay it, anyway.

I despise drug tests. I don't do drugs, ever. I don't even drink, except for maybe three beers in the course of a year. As a good Libertarian, I don't believe that my habits on my owner, personal time are any business of my employer. On top of that, it can take two hours to get the test done, and that's time I could be on the streets making money.

"I don't know," she said, "I guess so." So I was off the hook for the night.

On Sunday the 6th I was off again, as Sunday is my usual day off. Monday I worked, and it was slow. Tuesday I tried to work, but the car wasn't in front of my house. I called the office and spoke with the 2nd shift dispatcher. She said she didn't know where my car was or if there was a spare available. The owner was long gone. She did mention that my partner had also called to inquire about the car, which was a clue that it was being serviced. So I was forced to take the night off. Not a big problem. It doesn't really take much to get me to take some R&R time.

Tonight, Wednesday, the car was there. When I climbed in I found a plastic bag containing a new roll of paper towels and a new bottle of Windex glass cleaner. My complaining about the mechanics being thieves paid off. There was a sticky note on the bag saying I may want to keep them in my house. Interesting. The mechanics are robbing us blind, and the solution is to keep things away from them, not fire their thieving asses and hire honest people.

On the dash, blocking out the speedo, was a handwritten note saying: Alignment at XYZ address, 7:45-8 a.m. Thurs or Fri. I left it there after I was finished working tonight. My cab partner will have to take care of that. There is no clunking in the suspension, but the car wanders all over the road; hence the alignment.

Ahhhhhh, and to conclude the festivities, I ran down to the health place for that urine sample. After a half hour of waiting, I was called to the back room where I was asked to piss in a cup, but not until they looked under my hat to make sure I had no contraband piss. These drug screens are humiliating.

Lo and behold, I could only manage a few drops! I was told I had three hours to come up with some more, and I am not allowed to leave the building. I downed a 20-oz bottle of Coke I bought from their vending machine. Normally I can take a 19-oz piss 10 minutes after drinking a 20-oz Coke, but this time -- nada. So I chugged two, 20-oz bottles of water.

By now I needed a smoke, but they wouldn't let me. "You can't leave the building."

It was two hours before I could manage enough to fill up the little cup. What a waste of time. It was a two and a half hour piss. I must have been really dehydrated.

Now that the cab is fixed and I've gone through the drug screen, life can get back to "normal".

Mr. Clean renamed 'Catheter Cab'

We've been calling our dirtiest driver Mr. Clean. Tonight a driver called him 'Catheter Cab'. I'll get to the why of that in a moment.

This guy is so filthy, he used to live in his cab for his entire work week (four days). He leased a van, solo, so he was saving some money. Hotels have called the cab company to complain about the smell emanating from van.

After the last complaint we were all ordered to report to HQ so an office worker could come out with a clipboard and put a nose in an open window. If you passed the sniff test, they put a check mark on the paper. I passed, of course, but it was humiliating to be lumped in with the half-tame animals that comprise half of our numbers.

Fred, chief mechanic, was working on his van once and found chicken wings under the seats.

A while back Mr. Clean was officially reprimanded, so he got two toilet deodorizers -- the industrial strength ones -- and put them in his cab. That was worse than his body odor. I'm sure he swiped them from a hotel bathroom.

Finally he was ordered to clean up or he was fired. He goes home every night now, and he has a new cab partner. The new partner told me he found a milk carton sitting between the seats one day when he was picking up the van. He made the mistake of smelling it -- urine.

That earned him the new name: Catheter Cab.

'Are we losing parts'

I picked up a young lady, perhaps 22, and was driving her to SDSU when I noticed the steering in 92 felt a little funny. This has been my regular car since last September, so I'm attuned to its idiosyncrasies. Something had changed in the steering -- the wheel was off-center by 15 degrees or so, and it seemed like the alignment had just been misadjusted. I had to move the wheel about six inches back and forth just to keep it centered in my lane on the freeway (163 northbound out of downtown).

Just as I came around the left hand turn before the straightaway leading to I8 in Mission Valley, the car nose-dived toward the front left, and there was an awful grinding noise. The car instantly pulled to the left, and I had to man-handle the wheel to keep it straight. I let off the gas, checked my mirrors and blindspot on the right, signaled, and managed to get onto the shoulder and stop. The right front suspension had broken. It wasn't until the car was on a flat bed tow truck with the wheel removed that I saw the inboard side of the A-arm had sheered off, along with the tie rod.

As soon as the piece(s) broke, the passenger in the back said calmly: "Are we losing parts?" As I was doing everything I could with the wheel to avoid hitting other cars, I said as calmly as I could: "Yes, it appears so." She was a real trooper. I thanked her for that. When I had the car stopped I called our dispatcher, who sent another cab to pick up the customer, and a tow truck for me. I waived the $16 showing on the meter so far, but said the cabbie who would bring her the rest of the way would run his meter. She tried to pay, but I wouldn't take the money.

I was given a loner car for the night, and by the end of the following day 92 was ready again. Surely that's a record for Fred, our mechanic.

Car in the shop

Car 95, the Falcon, is down yet again. This time it's the tail lights and meter light. Conventional wisdom suggests a blown fuse, but I checked them with the electronic fuse tester I keep in the glove box, and they're all fine. Also, when the problem came about, my radio presets were erased.

I made an interesting discovery while checking the fuses. When I compared the fuse diagram with the actual fuse block, I found that every fuse in the block has the incorrect amp rating. Fred the mechanic is a real hack! Some were close, having a 15 where an 18 should be, but some were way off, like having a 15 where a 30 should be, and the other way round.

The first thing I wanted to do was check the owner's manual to see which fuse is responsible for the tail lights, but the manual was missing. I called Vitao, who had, for some mysterious reason, brought it into his house. That's one strike against Vitao. He was unable to give me a good description of which fuse I was looking for. That's two strikes.

The cab company owner instructed Vitao to bring the car to the meter shop at 8 a.m. Monday. The thinking was that the meter guy could trace the problem and fix the whole thing. The car had to be there at 8 or the shop would be too busy to get the work done. Naturally, Vitao brought in the car at 10:30. Strike three! The owner called him and yelled at the top of his lungs. If I wasn't planning to take Monday off, I would have been stuck with a car lacking tail lights. Also, customers ask about the meter being dark, which is a small hassle, but an avoidable one.

I confirmed that the car is in the shop today, and it should be ready before I go to work at 3.

Fuel for half price

I had the ball joints replaced on the taxi two days ago. When I picked it up I gave the assistant mechanic, who had worked on the car, a $10 tip. He pointed to the gas gauge, which showed just under full. He said he only drove 10 miles on the inspection ride after the work. It made me think of other drivers who have picked up their cars with half a tank missing, then they have to fight with the owner of the cab company over who is going to pay. Sure enough, the assistant mechanic said that Fred usually siphons off gas and then calls his friends to drop by the garage to buy it at half price. I knew he was selling batteries and car parts, but our gasoline?

Sunday

It has been an interesting day. At 2:00 p.m. I went out to the street in front of my house and my cab was not there, as it should have been. I called Andrew, the morning driver, and he didn't answer his phone. So I called HQ, and they said the Millennium Falcon lost its brakes this morning, and there are no more cars available.


The Falcon

Apparently three cars broke down this morning, with mine being the last. Since there are only three cars in reserve, we are out of luck.

I decided to take today and tomorrow off, instead of Mon and Tues.

The unsettling part of all this is that I notified HQ in writing more than three weeks ago that there is a problem with the car. I also called the owner and spoke with him in person to discuss the problem. Plus, Tom, our third driver, discussed the problem with Fred, the mechanic.

We made three attempts to get the car fixed; in person, on the phone, and in writing. And the problem didn't get fixed, leaving Andrew to suffer a brake failure while driving.

Since my civilian vehicle is down, as well, I had to call a cab to go downtown for coffee and to buy some books and things. I called Silver Cab, and waited 45 minutes before calling them back to ask where my cab might be. They said the dispatcher forgot to send for a car. It was a full hour before I got my cab.

When the driver arrived, he tried to complain to me that I should have instructed the dispatcher on how to get to my house, because it's difficult to find. His car smelled strongly of body odor, and it was filthy inside and out.

Never again will I use Silver Cab.

I had a nice lunch and then some coffee at a downtown Starbucks on 5th and F. There are five Starbucks in the Gaslamp Quarter; it's a plague of biblical proportions. After that I bought the "AP Manual of Style" at Borders book store on 6th and F. I will try to clean up my writing. I already have "The Economist Style Manual".


Starbucks, looking west

I tried to find "Bombardiers", a fiction book I read many years ago. Borders didn't have it, unfortunately. They did have about 7,000 small children running around, yelling and running into people like it was Disneyland. I don't dislike children, I just dislike being near them.

"Bombardiers" was written by Po Bronson, who turned his experience as a stock broker into a novel -- and it's fantastic, by the way. It's almost as funny as "A Confederacy of Dunces".

I've been considering turning my taxi experience into a novel (don't laugh; sillier things have been done), but I can't think of good ideas for structuring the thing. Perhaps I can get some ideas from Bronson.

I flagged an independent yellow cab on 5th Ave for the return trip home. It was called Curtis Cab, and it was a pristine Mercury Marquis with leather seats and all the options -- cruise control, electronic dash, electronic compass built into the rear view mirror, electric seats, etc. It makes the Millennium Falcon look like a relic from the Bronze Age.

The driver -- I forget his name -- said the owner bought it in 2000, with 35,000 miles, for $3,000. That's a steal. Since then they have had two flat tires with it. That's it. It now has 145,000 miles.

I had him stop at 7-11 so I could buy a 2-liter bottle of Coca Cola, a sixer of Sam Adams Summer Ale, two packs of Marlboros, and a bag of ice. With two days off in a row and some spectacular things waiting for me on DVR, I'll need all that stuff to make it through.

On the DVR: Formula 1 race from Bahrain, the American LeMans from Long Beach, NASCAR from Texas, the GP2 race from Bahrain, and the ChampCar series from Long Beach.

The Millennium Falcon

UPDATE 9-9-2007: The Falcon is retired, and I'm now driving a 1995 Ford Crown Victoria LX. It was never a police car. I purchased the Falcon and am now driving it as a personal car.


She may not look like much, but she's got it where it counts, kid.

I drive a 1994 Ford Crown Victoria, Police Interceptor edition, with a 1999 Mustang GT engine under the hood. I call it the Millennium Falcon because, like Han Solo's space ship, "She may not look like much, but she's got it where it counts, kid." There are no smuggling compartments, but smuggling does play a role in driving a cab.

Cab companies use the Crown Vic for some of the same reasons police do -- they're big, comfortable, and have plenty of power. And they're durable and easy to work on.

It's an old style American car in every sense -- it has a frame, as opposed to unitized construction, it's rear drive -- the way cars should be, and it's very large with an automatic transmission, shift on the column.

After the original Crown Vic engine blew up last year, our mechanic installed the Mustang engine. Competition for used engines is fierce, considering police and cabs are always looking for them, so sometimes it's easier to pay a little more for a Mustang than wait for a Crown Vic engine to show up on the market. He said it bolts right in, considering the GT and Crown Vic use mostly the same drive train. The only change he had to make were the exhaust manifolds -- the GT manifolds are larger and give the car a little bit more oomph.

The mechanic, Fred, did such a nice job with the new motor, I gave him $40 and a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black as a tip.

The power difference between the new and old engine was absurd. I hadn't realized how downtrodden the old powerplant was. I had been taking it out of overdrive when driving up hills. The new engine doesn't need any help.

Shortly after I got the replacement engine, the transmission let go. The company had an outside shop rebuild it for $900.

In addition to the engine and transmission, I've had many other fixes in the almost two years I've had it: fuel tank, battery, ignition switch, key assembly, starter, etc. Considering the car has been driven almost around the clock for more than 12 years, I have no complaints.

The Falcon is a Police Interceptor edition, having been purchased many years ago from a police auction. The package includes anti-roll bars, heavy duty brakes, an engine oil cooler and transmission oil cooler, positraction differential, shift-kit for the trans, dual exhaust, plus a few other goodies to make it haul ass. The days of the old Checkered Cabs are long gone. I'm usually the fastest thing around.

The '99 GT engine is 4.6-liters, just like the Crown Vic, and has 260 horsepower and 302 pounds/feet of torque. The original engine had 230hp with 260 torque. The specs for a 1999 GT are 0-60 in 5.4 seconds and 1/4 mile in 14.1 seconds. The GT weighs 3243 lbs., while the Crown Vic is 3780. So, the cab would be a little slower than the GT.

The drawbacks? Eighteen miles per gallon on a good day. That's very bad, considering I have to pay for my own gasoline. So I usually drive it gently for the best mileage. In fact, the only challenge to driving a taxi, in my mind, is finding the fastest route, moving through traffic quickly, all the while burning as little fuel as possible.

The Falcon is what cabbies (in San Diego, at any rate) call a 10% car, meaning the fuel bill is 10% of the meter take. Presently (March 2007) gasoline is back above $3/gallon, so it's probably a 12-14% car right now.

I'm conducting an interesting social experiment with Tom and Andrew, the guys who split the morning shift in my car. I never told them the speedometer reads 7mph fast. Generally, they're driving slower than they realize, probably under the speed limit. After two months of driving with them, Andrew said, "Ted, this car is better than 10%. It's great!" Now why would I spoil it for him? Let's let him think he's got the world by the balls. Fewer speeding tickets, too. I should get a medal.

I keep all the required safety gear in the trunk -- fire extinguisher, hazard triangles, first aid kit, and a full size spare tire. I also have along a modest set of tools, spare fluids, and a flashlight.

I swapped the idiotic scissor jack for a good floor jack. You would not believe how many flat tires I get. When you drive for many hours, day in and day out, tires get chewed up. You drive over curbs occasionally, and nails, and small children all manner of debris. I can change a tire almost as fast as a Formula 1 team.

The Falcon is more than a car. It's my office.

Caddyshack cab

Do you remember the Judge Smails character from Caddyshack? "Well, we're waiting."

I waited months to get the thumping sound fixed, and it was allegedly done this week. New shocks are what the doctor Fred ordered. It is worlds better, but the problem persists. I can now go 60 instead of 55 on the freeway, but at the speed limit (65), it still shakes. And the awful grinding noise is still present while turning in a parking lot or hotel circle.

It will probably take another four months and six communications to the office -- two in writing -- to get it fixed again.

Under consideration is doing repairs myself, with my own tools, at my own house. Even if I only billed for parts, it might be worth it for the time I save. Plus, lives wouldn't be at risk.

I'll keep you posted...

Day off

I woke to desert heat today. The forecast called for 83 degrees (28 c) and sunny. My 2nd floor apartment tends to collect heat from the entire building -- the indoor thermometer says 88.7 (31.5 c). Several fans are pushing air around because I'm too cheap to run the AC.

My cab partners and I received good news about the Falcon today. It seems HQ is finally ready to fix the front suspension problem, after two months of written requests and phone calls. Of late I can't get above 55 on the freeway, which is painful in the 65 zones. It just shakes too much. Fortunately the speedo is off by 7, so customers think we're almost driving the limit. Also, at slow speeds in parking lots there is an awful grinding noise when turning tightly. One hotel has complained already. We're getting a loaner car for tomorrow, but since I'm taking the day off, I probably won't have to drive it.

I asked the owner to have Fred give the car a tune-up in addition to the suspension work. We've got a stumble at idle and it has been SUCKING gas. At $3.50 per gallon, the Falcon has dropped from a 10% car to a 20% car (fuel bill = 20% of meter take). That's an extra $10-20 per day in fuel, which really ads up.

Town Clown tonight

I'm getting all short rides today. Mostly tourists, two by two, going 10 blocks or less. Some days are like this...

Before I came out I stopped by the 32nd St. Navy base to renew my base permit, but I was 10 minutes too late. That will be my last bit of administrative mumbo jumbo for a while. Well, until Fred the mechanic calls. I still need the mysterious thumping sound fixed. I put in a work request on the last lease day, which was six days ago. It sounds like cords broke in the front left wheel. But it's more pronounced under braking, so it could be a warped rotor.

After the navy base I stopped at Body Beautiful, a full-service car wash on Pacific Highway and Grape. Taxis pay $8 for a thorough scrubbing, inside and out.


I also picked up the last thing I need to transfer files from the DVR to the laptop at home (and returned the webcam). This will expand my entertainment in the car.