Taxicab Depressions

Might as well start with a classic…   I swear, if I live to be 120, I’ll never forget this…

It was about 10 PM on a rainy night, and I got a call to pick up a guy at a rather posh condominium out on the beach. This old guy comes tottering out of the condo, and he must have been ninety years old…   one of those frail, feeble old guys that takes little four-inch steps. It is dark and I’m guessing he doesn’t see well, it is pounding rain, and I feel so bad for this guy…   he’s getting soaked trying to shuffle out to the car, but he just can’t move. He’s stooped over, he’s clutching his trenchcoat at the neck, he’s on a cane…  So I get out to try to help him get into the car. We’re both soaked, but I finally get him loaded up.

I get back in the car and ask where he is going…   he says he wants me to take him up to the liquor store and then back to his condo…   no problem…

So we are off to the liquor store, chit-chatting on the way…   he may have been really frail physically, but he was sharp as a razor mentally. He was a real estate investor/developer back in the 90’s that had something to do with the building of several condos and beach resorts. And as it turns out, we are both fans of jazz in general and Charlie Parker in particular…   old school…   We had a great little talk about jazz music on the drive…

So we get to the liquor store, and the old guy says, “Young man, these guys in here know me…   I actually phoned in my order in advance, and they have my things ready to go. I would really appreciate it if you could take my credit card in and swipe it for me, and bring my packages out.”

Well, hell…   I’m a Boy Scout, and this old man can barely stand. Plus, I’ll probably save a lot of time, given how slow he moves. Of course I’ll help the guy out. So I flip the interior light on and turn back to get his card, and this old guy is sitting back there holding up his credit card…   his trenchcoat has fallen open, and under his coat, he is wearing soaking-wet fuzzy house slippers, an adult diaper, and a revolver in a shoulder holster.

Let that image marinate in your head for a moment…

I’m just thinking to myself, “Jesus, Dad…   you didn’t bother to put on PANTS for this little errand…?”  What was the thought process there? I’m ninety years old, I’ve got a gun, I’m going out, and I’m not putting on any trousers. What are they gonna do to me?

I can’t wait till I’m ninety years old and just don’t give a fuck anymore…

Before you ask, the gun didn’t bother me at all…   this is Florida, the Gunshine State. Florida has more concealed weapons carriers per capita than any other state, I believe. I assume pretty much everybody that gets in my car has a gun. His looked like a .38 S&W Chief’s Special snubbie, in a very old and classic leather shoulder holster…   old school…   very Elliot Ness.

Anyway, I went in and got his packages:  2 bottles of vodka, 3 bottles of OJ. Screwdrivers…   old school…

I told this story to a passenger a week or two later, and he asked me a question that I was apparently too stunned to think of at the time…   he said, “So where did he get the credit card from…?”

I sincerely hope it came out of his coat pocket.