Taxicab Depressions

I got a call to a bar on a hot, humid, and muggy summer nite, and there are two girls sitting in the parking lot. This is always a bad sign; any time I pick up someone that is sitting on the asphalt, they are invariably really wasted. They get up and start weaving toward the car, and I can’t help but notice that one of them is a really big girl. I’m 6-1 and 210 pounds and was on the wrestling team in high school… and lemme tell ya, this girl was out of my weight class. She was at least 6-3 or 6-4, and must have weighed 250 or 260 lbs. She was built like a linebacker… a linebacker with big floppy tits. She’s walking up to the car swinging her arms like the creature in that shaky Bigfoot film from the 1970’s. Brown, frizzy hair that looks to have the texture of steel wool. V-neck tank top. Size 14 flip flops. Pronounced jaw. Big fingers.

The big girl gets in the front seat and her friend gets in the rear. They are both really drunk, but the big girl is handling her liquor a little better, no doubt owing to her significant mass. She tells me to take them to Lexington Arms, a large apartment complex on the north side of town. They both live there, and we are dropping off one girl at one building, and the other girl at another building. On the drive, they are both loudly yammering away, talking ghetto slang and gossiping about men named Tyrell and De’ Andre’… I don’t like to draw stereotypes, but the “wasted white gurlz down for da’ hood” thing was a little grating. I couldn’t wait to get them out of my car.

We get the girl in the back seat to her building, and she starts digging up some money, but the big girl in the front says, “I got this, girlfriend… I’ll text you tomorrow…” The girl in the back staggers out and slams the door, and I start idling over to the big girl’s building on the other side of the complex.

As the back door closes, the big girl drops down the vanity mirror in the visor and fluffs up her hair, and then deftly executes The Picard Maneuver. Fans of Star Trek: The Next Generation will recognize this immediately; she grabbed the bottom hem of her shirt and snapped it sharply downward, exposing a lot more floppy tit. She has a crude tattoo on her right boob; might be a bird-of-paradise, might be a pterodactyl… hard to tell. She turns in the seat so she is facing me more directly and says, “Dayummm… you are fuggin’ hawwwt. What are you doing driving a taxi?”

I said, “Well, it’s a tough economy and I have a baby at home, so you do what you have to do to put applesauce on the table.”

She said, “Well, I don’t give a fuck if you have a wife and a dozen kids at home, I’ll fuck you right now…”

I was stunned by that statement and simply couldn’t respond… did she really just say that? This giant drunken beast just propositioned me! This is one seriously skanky and very large land mammal… I’m not big enough to ride this thing…

And in my head, I heard a lyric from a Frank Zappa song I first heard thirty-some years ago…

She looked over at me with a glazed eye and some bovine perspiration on her upper lip area, and said,

Just get me wasted and you’re halfway there,
Cuz if my mind’s tore up, then my body don’t care…

I decided to just pretend I didn’t hear that last comment, sped up the car, and started hunting for her apartment building in earnest. I quickly found her building and said, “Here we are…”

She said, “So do you wanna come in, Daddy? I got some beer, some Crown Royal, a little smoke, some great beats… you can relax while I take a shower and put on something sexy…”

Daddy…? Yikes. And what the fuck could she possibly put on to even get close to “sexy”…?

“Sorry, I don’t think I can… we’re very busy tonight.” I pushed the sequence of buttons on my radio that takes me out of the dispatch system, like I’m taking a restroom break or otherwise unavailable to take the next passenger. The radio says on its’ display STATUS: BUSY. I pointed to the screen and said, “See…? I’m “busy”. They have other calls for me to go get. People are waiting on me… I gotta go…”

She paid her fare and got out. Only a dollar or two for a tip. But before she walks away, she gestures for me to roll down the passenger window. She bends over at the waist and leans into the window, displaying a lot of hanging, floppy cleavage and says, “I’m serious, Daddy… I’m DTF…”

“Daddy” again…. jeeeez, that creeps me out.

“DTF? What is that?”

“Down To Fuck… I don’t play games… I’m fo’ real. You’re not gonna come inside and hit this…?”

Holy shit…!

“I can’t… gotta go…”

She puts on a drunken sly smile… “I’m a freeeeeaaaaak, Daddy… you can do anything you want… I love it in the ass.”

“Another time, maybe… I really gotta go…” and I hauled ass outta the apartment complex, almost vaulting over speedbumps, and didn’t stop to do my paperwork till I was a half mile away.

I regaled my wife with this tawdry and sordid tale the next morning, and she was predictably and appropriately appalled… but, it did lead to a new little “inside joke” in my house. Now my wife will walk past the bathroom while I’m shaving and say, “Dayummm… you’re fuggin’ hawwwt…”

“Now, go to work…”