Taxicab Depressions

ACT I

One Saturday nite several months ago, I got a call to pick up “Sally” at Merlin’s, a somewhat upscale restaurant out on the beach. I pull into the parking lot and there are two girls sitting on a bench that look completely shithammered from 20 yards.  The manager of the restaurant is standing in front of the door with his arms crossed, as if to deny them re-entry into the restaurant should they manage to get back to their feet. They are dressed nicely, although they have both taken off their heels…   a tall blonde and a petite brunette. He points at me and seems to tell them to go…   they stagger to my car and pile in.

“Where are we going…?” I asked cheerfully, but they are both yelling about the manager of the restaurant that apparently has given them the heave-ho. The brunette in the back seat stuck her face out the window and snarled some obscenities at the manager, but he was already going back inside. I say, “Girls, girls…   let’s settle down…   where are we going…?” The blonde in the front seat slurs out an address that is just a few miles away, and I take off. But before I can even get out of the parking lot, the screaming starts again…   I can’t take screaming in the tight confines of a car. I won’t make it a mile with these bitches both bellowing at the top of their lungs, even with the windows open. Then the brunette in the back seat starts pounding the back of the seat in front of her with her fists like she is possessed.

I admit, I raised my voice. I put just enough volume and put just enough bass in my voice to cut thru the din, and said, “Girls…!   No screaming, and no hitting! Settle down!  I can’t drive with you two yelling like this…” I’m still being polite, though…

And then, the brunette in the back seat has to spoil the whole “passenger / safe, courteous, and professional driver” dynamic we just established 30 seconds ago by smacking me in the back of the head and saying, “Just drive, asshole!”

I was only driving maybe 10 MPH in the parking lot, but I stomped on the brake so hard that the tires screeched and both these bitches were thrown forward. And, I admit, I snapped.

“GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY CAR, YOU OBNOXIOUS WHORES!”

They seemed stunned by my outburst…   they just looked at me… silent, wide-eyed, and slack-jawed. They didn’t move.

I softened my facial expression and said, “Oh, I’m sorry…   did I say “whores”…?   I didn’t mean to say that…”

“GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY CAR, YOU OBNOXIOUS CUNTS!   OUT!   OUT!   OUT!”

They piled out and I sped away, whilst they hurled obscenities at me and made rude gestures in my rear view mirror. I called my dispatcher and said that these bitches were intoxicated, obnoxious, and violent, and that I put them out of my car and I would not carry Sally and her friend. He said to get out of there and to not worry about it.

ACT II

I drove to a nearby bar and parked, and not 7 or 8 minutes later, I got a call to go pick up “Suzie” at Merlins. Shit. I don’t wanna go back there, but I head over anyway. I’m hoping it is someone different, but no…   the same two bitches…   they must have called dispatch from the other one’s phone. But this time, there is a cop there…   Officer Paul, a really great guy known for his patient, cool, and even-handed treatment of the drunken nitwits he has to deal with out on the beach. The manager of the restaurant sticks his head in the passenger window and gives me twenty bucks to remove these hosebags from the property.

I get out of the car and walk up to Officer Paul…   the brunette that smacked me is sitting on the asphalt, and the blonde is drunkenly trying to charm Officer Paul, cooing at him and kinda running her finger along his arm, but the expression on his face says he is unmoved by her wiles. He said, “Your choice is easy; you can go with him, or you can go with me. But the manager has asked that you leave the property immediately.”

I said, “Hey there, Officer Paul…   I had these two LADIES in my car not ten minutes ago, but they wouldn’t stop screaming, and this one here on the ground smacked me in the back of the head. I’m happy to take them home, so long as they don’t scream and don’t hit me. But if they DO hit me again, I am pulling over and calling you to come get them, because I want them arrested for assault, drunk and disorderly, and being a menace to polite society.”

Officer Paul says, “Do you ladies understand that, or should we just go ahead and get in MY car?”

The blonde “promithezzz tuh be ahh guuuuud gurl” and the brunette mumbles something unintelligible. The blonde gets back in the front seat, and Officer Paul and I help the brunette get into the back seat. As I’m walking toward the driver’s door, I say to Officer Paul under my breath, “Ya know what driving a taxi has taught me? It has taught me that I could never have your job. If I were issued a badge and a taser, I’d be lighting up three people a nite.”

Officer Paul laughs and wishes me goodnite…   another 2 hours of paperwork and unnecessary taxpayer expense deftly avoided by a skilled peace officer and community servant.

So, we head to the blonde’s address on Porpoise Drive. The driveway wraps around the back of the restaurant, so we go around the back, take a right onto the street, and drive right past Officer Paul, who is still standing where we left him…   and the blonde in the front seat decides that it would be a good idea to put her entire torso out the window and scream obscenities at the cop.

“FUCK YOU ASSHOLE!   FUCK YOU, PIG!   YOU CAN KISS MY ASS, ASSHOLE…!   FUCK YOU!”

I really thought she was at serious risk of falling out of the car…   she was wasted and leaning out of the car up to her waist, flipping off the cop that was decent enough to cut her a break, and doing it with both hands.

I said, “What are you doing? Get back in the car!” I drive them to her place, which is only like a ten dollar fare, but I am thrilled to have them out of my car. All this time, all this bullshit, all this screaming, all this tension…    for ten bucks.

As soon as I stop the car, the brunette in the back seat screams, “WOOO HOOOOO! LET’S GET THIS PAAAHTY STAHHHTED!” and bolts for the front door. The blonde in the front seat starts rummaging around in her purse to pay me.

Yes, I know the restaurant manager gave me a twenty…   but these bitches owe me. The fare is paid, now it is time for a tip for my mental anguish.

The blonde gives me twelve or thirteen bucks and says, “Do you have a card…?”

“A card?”

“Yes, a business card, so we can call you the next time we need a taxi.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”, I say. “What possible motivation could I have to ever come pick you two up again? I rescued you from getting arrested, now get out of my car.”

“Well, fuck…   I was just trying to be nice…”

“But you are not nice. You are an obnoxious fucking drunk bitch that just had the police called on her to have her removed from one of the nicest restaurants on the beach, and not a particularly great tipper. Now get out of my car! I have to get back to work!”

“Asshole…” she mutters under her breath…   she opens the door, puts one leg out, and promptly falls on her ass in the street. I can’t see her because she is on the road, and for all I knew, her leg or arm was under the car. But now the brunette has returned with two Bud longnecks; apparently it has been a solid 16 or 18 minutes since they have had any alcohol. She yells, “Dayummm, bitch…  what are you doing in the street? Get up and have a brewski…” and helps the other girl up.

The second I see the blonde is clear of the car, I gun it and let momentum close the passenger door. I go three or four houses down and realize that I am on a cul-de-sac; I have to go back and drive past these bitches to get outta here. As I swing around, my headlights pan across a guy  in shorts and flip flops walking his dog across the street from the girls, just standing there watching this scene. I swing wide to the left and zip past them while they scream obscenities at me, and the blonde chucks her beer at my car. She misses, and the bottle smashes all over the street.

I get down to the corner, and lo and behold, Officer Paul is sitting there with his lights off, watching this spectacle…   he followed us after the blonde screamed at him. I idled up beside him and said, “Two more satisfied customers of Merlin’s, delivered safely home…” Officer Paul looks at the drunk bitches down the street with obvious consternation, and I roll out and back to work.

ACT III

The following weekend, I picked up a guy at Croc’s Sports Bar and he gives me an address on Porpoise Drive. I said, “Porpoise Drive…   I was just there last weekend.”

He says, “Hey man, are you the taxi driver that dropped off those wasted bitches last weekend?”

“That would be me”, I replied. “Wait a minute…   are you the guy across the street walking the dog”

“Yeah, man…that was me! Dude, those bitches got arrested after you left…   there were a bunch of cops there, a lot of yelling, and then a big scuffle…   I think one of them hit a cop…”

Color me soooo surprised…

ACT IV

Several months later, another driver called me up and said, “Hey, tell me that story again about the drunk chicks at Merlin’s…”   I told him the story, and he said, “Man, you aren’t gonna believe this…” He went on to tell me that he picked up a girl he has known for years, long before he started driving a cab, and that she’s a really nice girl, a friend of his sister’s, I think he said. Months ago, she used to call him directly to take her out or take her home, but she had not called him in a very long time.

So Jim asks her where she has been, and she said she gave up drinking for a while…   she said that a few months back, she drank a shitload of martinis one night at Merlin’s, blacked out, and came to in the county jail with a blinding hangover, with no recollection of what happened or how she got there.

Jim told her that he thought he knew the taxi driver that took her home, and that she had smacked him in the head.  She told Jim that she was soooo embarrassed, and to please apologize profusely to me for her unseemly behavior.

Apology accepted. Just don’t think I’m ever going to carry you or your belligerent friend again.

I get a call to go to Wallaby’s sports bar to pick somebody up about an hour after a dramatic football game ended in an overtime clutch kick, and staggering out the door comes Jabba the Drunk, quite possibly the largest human being I have ever seen. He is wearing a 5X Indianapolis Colts tee shirt that does not cover his immense girth, as I can see a giant roll of pasty white fat and a belly button that looks to be eight or fourteen inches deep bulging out below the hem of his shirt. He is visibly weaving, maybe from alcohol, or maybe from the burden of carrying around a spare three or four hundred pounds, maybe both…   it is hard to tell. His shirt, sweatpants, mouth, hair, fingers, and several of his chins are covered in bleu cheese and wing sauce, and he is carrying five (count ’em, FIVE) of those large 12 inch by 12 inch styrofoam “to-go” boxes.

With great difficulty, he gets his gigantic bulk into the back seat of my car, and the whole taxi tilts a solid 25 or 30 degrees to the right. The suspension is notably straining under this load…   like I just put an upright piano in the back seat. He gives me an address that is a good twenty dollar ride, but I wonder if the car is up to it. So we head down the road, and I swear, it feels like I am dragging a trailer.

So Jabba is back there, making rumbling, groaning, and gurgling sounds, and I am afraid he is going to puke. He’s half-passed out and mumbling shit I can’t understand, and I yell at him, “Hey, Jabba…   you OK back there?”

And he replies, “Ahhhm ookay, man…    ahhhhm doin’ good…   but the Colts, not so much…”

“You aren’t going to puke, are ya…?”

“Nawwww, man…   ahhhhm good…   :::   gurgle  :::     ahhhhm oookay… ”

I’m afraid he’s about to explode, and all I can picture in my head is the “Bring me a bucket” guy in Monty Python’s The Meaning Of Life. Judging by his size, if Vesuvius back there erupts, there will be six or eight gallons of chicken wing, bleu cheese, and Budweiser puke in my back seat…    if I’m lucky…

He seems to pass out for a bit, and I lean on the gas a little…   if Jabba explodes, I want him outta my car before it happens. I get him to his address and he comes to…   a little bit groggy, but he pays me and then extricates himself from my taxi. He then bends over at the waist and reaches back into the car to get his styrofoam “to-go” boxes. He stands up straight, puts the boxes on the roof of my taxi, and his sweatpants fall down around his ankles.  Unfortunately for me, Jabba had gone commando this day, and there, nestled in his thatch of curly pubes, in all its’ flaccid glory, was Little Jabba.

There are some things I don’t think I should have to see in my job, and somewhere near the top of that list is some drunken obese football fan’s dick. But there it is.

Jabba must have felt a cool draft down below…   felt that something was amiss….   and realized that his pants were on the ground. He bent forward to pick up his sweats, and WHAPPP!, he smacked his head on the roof of my taxi. I mean HARD. It was LOUD.  I was certain he left a dent in my roof. He keels over backwards and lands flat on his back in his driveway, motionless, pants around his ankles.

I yell at the guy, “Dude…?   Hey!    Dude!    Are you OK?” He doesn’t respond, so I grab my flashlight and get out of the car. It takes a moment, but he comes back to consciousness. He is flailing around on the concrete like a turtle on his back, sweatpants still around his ankles.

I want outta here…   getting a wasted, semi-nude fat man off the ground and back on his feet is not in my job description. Then I remember his food. I grab his five boxes of chow off the roof of the car and carry it up to his front door and place it on a wrought iron chair next to the door. I tell the guy, “Hey, Jabba…    your food is up by the door…   go get THE FOOD…”

The mention of THE FOOD seemed to help him get his shit together…   he rolls over and struggled to his feet. Then my phone starts ringing…   probably Jim, another driver with my company. I tell Jabba, “I gotta go…   my phone is ringing…   work is calling me…   you gonna make it?”

“Ahhhhm good…   ahhhhm oookay…” he says, and again bends down to pick up his pants and falls forward on his face in the grass.

“C’mon, Jabba…   go get THE FOOD…” I say, and get back in my car. The last thing I saw was Jabba on all fours, his giant nekkid ass in the air, sweatpants still around his ankles, and crawling toward THE FOOD.