Taxi 24

A compilation of four day shifts.

A few weeks ago I went to the Kroger super store in east Memphis.  It was amazing.  The largest supermarket I’ve ever seen.  The produce section alone must be around 1,200 square feet.  It was an adventure and a festival for the eyes.  I discovered their kosher section where I found challah bread and rolls.  I hadn’t had challah bread since my mother used to serve it every Friday night with dinner many years ago.  I got a bag of the rolls which were wonderful.  I could eat them like candy.

I later learned that this challah is made locally by a small bakery, also in east Memphis.  One day after dropping off a passenger in this area, I went to this bakery.  It’s a little hole in the wall hidden on a side street in a large shopping center.  From the looks of the front of the place, I wondered if I needed a password to get in.  You know, something like, “ The Dough Boy sent me.”  When I entered, I was met by a diminutive young woman who looked to be all of fifteen.  The place was humming.  Stacks of bread four to seven feet tall lined the walls.  “Can I help you?,” she barked.  “I’d like to get a loaf of the cinnamon bread and a bag of challah rolls,” I said.  “We don’t have any!,” she said with convincing authority, “We won’t have anymore. Tomorrow’s Rosh Hashanah,” said the bulldog.  Was she just having a bad day, or was she always like this, I wondered.  “Never?,” I asked.  “Next week. You can call Thursday or Friday and see if any is left,” she threw me a line.  I looked to my left and saw a stack of beautiful, large round cinnamon challah and picked up a bag.  “I’ll have this, “ I said. “ YOU CAN’T HAVE THAT. IT’S RESERVED. EVERYTHING IN HERE IS RESERVED,” she shot back. “Can I order some,?” I asked.  “Call Thursday or Friday, I said,” was the response.  Feeling rather frustrated with this transaction, I said, “Lady, I’m just trying to give you some business.”  I stepped back, fearing she was going to leap over the counter and knead my face into a loaf of Eddie.  What is it with short people? Do they ALL think they're Napoleon?  She gave a heavy sigh and led me to her desk where she took my order.  “Next Thursday or Friday,” her final notice.  When I got back in the cab, it hit me – I had just encountered the bread Nazi.

I arrived at an apartment building in midtown near Overton Park.  A guy in his early twenties, looking half asleep got in.  He need to go to Olive Branch, MS.  “Can you take me for sixty dollars?,” he asked, “The other drivers charged me that.”  I told him I could then asked how often he goes down there.  “Once a week,” he answered.  “Let  me guess,” I said, “you’re on probation and your license was suspended.”  He confirmed.  “What did you do?,” I asked.  “Nothing.  I was a passenger in the car with my friend who was arrested for DUI,” was his reply.  “That seems unfair,” I offered.  “Yeah.” he agreed, “I’ve had to go to driving classes and a class about drinking and driving.”  I asked if he takes the cab home too.  “My parents live there, and they give me a ride,” he said.  Along the way we stopped at a convenience store so he could get the cash from an ATM.  It’s always nice to know the passenger can pay.

Cab rates are set by the City Council, and they included a provision allowing us to increase the fuel surcharge from one dollar to two per passenger when gas prices rise above three dollars.  So now we charge two bucks.  This doesn’t always sit well with some passengers.  The other day I went to pick up a woman and her daughter at Kroger.  They loaded the groceries in the trunk and got in.  I set the meter: two bucks minimum fare and four bucks for gas.  “What’s the damn four dollars for?,” the mother shouted.  I explained the increase.  “He only charged us three yesterday,” she screamed.  I radioed the dispatcher and asked her to tell my passengers how much the fuel charge is. “Two dollars per person,” the dispatcher said. The mother became irate and began shouting at the dispatcher about being charged only three the day before.  The dispatcher was no longer on the radio.  “Look,” I said, “if you’re not going to pay, you’ll have to get out.”  At this point, the daughter chimed in, “Let’s just get another cab.”  Her mother replied, “No. I have a headache.  Let’s go home.”  (NOTE: After reading this, both the owner of Yellow Cab and the director of operations notified me that the fuel surcharge is per trip, not per person.  I had been charging per person as instructed by the driver who trained me over a year ago.  If I see this woman again, I’ll apologize and give her a refund.)

I took a young guy to the courthouse downtown.  He said he and his friend were on Beale Street, and when the friend got rowdy, the cops showed up, so my passenger “merely tapped” a cop on the shoulder to find out what the trouble was. He was charged with assaulting a police officer.

Three obese women got in the cab and asked if Sam’s Club in Raleigh was more than twelve miles.  I told them it was, so they decided to go to the grocery a block down the street.  Guess they have a twelve-mile limit.



On another airport run, my passenger was a tax consultant from Columbus, OH.  He advises people who have tax liabilities with the IRS.  He was boring.

Dude in his early twenties gets in.  Wants to go to Whatever, a head shop on Highland.  He asks me to while he goes in.  Phase two of the trip is to his bank in midtown.  Again I wait for him.  When he gets in, he asks if we take debit cards.  I said we do.  “My card is in my apartment,” he said. Sensing a possible rip off I said, “This is your bank, right?  Go back in and get cash.”  He did, and we lived happily ever after.

I picked up a thirty-something couple at a house near Rhodes College who needed to get to the airport. They are from Boca Raton, Fl, and were here for a friend’s wedding.  She was the bride’s made of honor, and mentioned how much work and responsibility came with the job.  I suggested they see the movie “Bridesmaids.”  It’s hilarious.  The couple said the wedding was held on the grounds of the National Ornamental Iron Museum on the river bluff.  It had a Memphis theme with a DJ who played Memphis music, and champion Barbecue chef who brought his giant BBQ pit and provided the food.

I took two sets of passengers to the airport who were in town for Gonerfest.  One group from New York, and the other from San Francisco.  The guy from San Francisco said Memphians seem to enjoy music more than those in other cities.  Gee, really!?

Every Monday around 11:30 AM I pick up an elderly gentleman at Trezvant Manor Retirement Community and take him to a house in east Memphis.  This time I said, “You must have a girlfriend you visit every Monday.”  “I’m eighty eight years old. Too old for a girlfriend,” he said.  “You’re never too old,” I replied, “I bet there’s a lot of women where you live who’d love to be your girlfriend.”  They’re all too mean,” he shot back.

One of my passengers was a woman in her thirties who insisted on giving me directions.  Wouldn’t have been so bad if she didn’t sound like Minnie Mouse on helium.

Speaking of giving me directions, I picked up a guy at his dentist’s office on Park and took him to an apartment complex on Hacks Cross Road.  Long trip.  He looked to be in his seventies, and he spoke with a very thick middle-eastern accent.  He too insisted on telling me which way to drive even though I explained my GPS system.  I couldn’t understand a word he said, not only because of the accent, but he had left his teeth at the dentist’s.

The computer instructed me to pick up a passenger in midtown and take him to the Westin Hotel downtown.  Computer listed his name as Juan Carlos, and I wondered if this was the evil Juan Carlos, Zorro’s arch nemesis.  He turned out to be some young dude going to work.

Picked up a young woman at Rhodes College, and took her to the airport.  She’s a Rhodes alumni and was here for homecoming.  She was returning to Washington, DC where she’s getting a masters degree in molecular biology at the Uniformed Services University. She said her father is in the military specializing in cyber terrorism.

I was driving a handicap van and had my first wheelchair passenger.  She was a tiny woman, and since she was located in the very back, behind the back seat, I could barley see her in the mirror.  At one point along the way, I heard her say “Oh.”  Thinking she was in trouble, I asked, “Mam, are you alright?”  No answer.  “Mam, are you OK?’  Still no answer.  I slowed down, thinking she had passed out or maybe worse.  In a louder voice I said, “Can you hear me?”  “I’m on the phone,” she replied.  Whew!

© 2011,  Eddie Tucker.  All rights reserved.

(Disclaimer:  The views expressed on this post are mine, and do not necessarily reflect the views of Yellow Cab, Checker Cab, or Premier Transportation Services.)

Taxi 23

Two Shifts

I don’t drive on Saturdays because I don’t think anyone takes a cab on that day, but this was Dead Elvis week, and I was sure there’d be a lot of business.  I drove the noon to midnight shift.

As soon as I got the cab, I headed to the taxi stand across from Graceland.  There were enough cabs lined up to invade a small country.  I waited long enough to see two Elvis clones and several chubbie woman in their latest Walmart attire.  No one wanted a cab, so I went around the corner to the Heartbreak Hotel and waited.  “Come on!  Don’t any of you yokels want to go downtown?,” I muttered to myself.  No dice.  I headed to good ol’ reliable midtown, parked and waited for a trip. And waited, and waited and waited. Nothing.  Nada.  Zilch.  It was the most boring day yet.  Eventually I got a few trips, but only two were blog-worthy.

The first was a young black guy I picked up at the hostel on South Cooper.  He was from Manchester, England and spoke with a beautiful accent.  This was his third trip to Memphis.  “I love Memphis,” he said, “but I hate the public transportation system.  Back home, buses run every ten minutes, and we have trains and trams.  I’ve spent about a hundred dollars so far on cabs.”  I took him to the Dead Elvis concert at the Orpheum downtown, and wished him a good time.

As I was pulling away, I heard someone shout, “Yellow!”  It was a thirty-something guy with Elvis hair and side burns.  He wanted me to take him to his motel but he forgot where it was.  “It’s a Days Inn somewhere near Lamar,” he said.  I tried to look it up on my iPhone, but he said, “Just take me to Graceland.  I came downtown with a buddy, but he got so stinkin’ drunk he was embarrassin’ to be with.  He tried doing a somersault on Beale Street, and cut his hand then wiped the blood on the back on my shirt.  I felt like knocking the shit outta him.  I wanted to go back to the room to change my shirt, but the hell with it.”  I let him out across from Graceland where there was a crowd gathered under a large tent listening to a band.  When he got out, I looked at his shirt, and told him I didn’t see any blood.

It was now around nine p,m., and I decided to call it quits.


I received training on how to use the handicap wheelchair vans.  I thought you just roll the chair in and set its brakes.  Wrong.  The vans are like rolling bondage chambers.  There are seven straps to secure the passenger:  two connected to the floor in front of the chair with hooks you attach to the chair, two in back for the same purpose, and three straps which comprise the seatbelt.  It’s like doing calisthenics every time you hook up somebody.  The good thing is we can make more money driving a van, but I hate calisthenics.

On my next day shift, there were no vans available so I got a Grand Marquis.

Friday was a good day.  Grossed over two hundred.

I had two airport trips.  The first was a woman headed to New York for some R&R.  She was a software developer on vacation.  We chatted about New York, and how she loves the Gyros from the street vendors, and somehow started talking about the TV show All In The Family.  I’ve become addicted to the reruns.  I didn’t watch it much when it originally aired.  The acting by Carol O’Conner and Jean Stapleton was and still is outstanding.  Just some of their expressions alone has me reeling.  It’s this and the wonderful dialog that has me wanting more.  Meat head.  Dingbat.  Stifle.

My other airport trip was a young man I picked up at the old Greenstone apartments on Poplar near the med center.  He works in IT at Hilton Corp., and was headed to Houston.

There was a notice in the office this morning alerting us to counterfeit hundred-dollar bills.  The notice said, “You can identify the bills by the picture of Abraham Lincoln instead of Benjamin Franklin.”  I can just hear the counterfeiters now:  “Whose picture is on the hundred?, asks one.  “I think it’s Washington,” says another.  Then the third guy pipes in, “No you idiot.  Washington’s on the thirty.”

Gave a ride to a trucker who drives back and forth on the same day to places no more than 320 miles from Memphis.

Three big fat women and a little boy got in, and they couldn’t decide where to go. “How much is to go to Walmart in Raleigh?, one asked.  “Is it more than twelve dollars?”  “Much more,” I said.  They conferred and decided to go to Montesi’s Grocery about four blocks away.

Picked up a young black couple at Old Navy in Poplar Plaza.  I had been listening to sports talk on AM, but decided to switch to music for their sake.  When I went to switch from AM to FM, I inadvertently hit the CD button.  Apparently, a previous driver had left a hip hop CD in, and when the music came on, the couple went nuts.  “Alright,” shouted the guy, “We got us a bad cab!”  They sang and jiggled all the way home, and I’m sure they thought I was a pretty hip old dude.

© 2011,  Eddie Tucker.  All rights reserved.

(Disclaimer:  The views expressed on this post are mine, and do not necessarily reflect the views of Yellow Cab, Checker Cab, or Premier Transportation Services.)

Taxi 22

Day Shift

It was hot and muggy.  The air was so thick it was like sticking your face into a bowl of mashed potatoes, but the air conditioner in number eighteen was doing its job.  Eighteen is a Grand Marqui with leather seats and a little over 142,000 miles on the odometer.

The city council approved an increase in the fuel surcharge cab drivers can charge from one dollar per passenger to two dollars.  Since we have to buy our own gas, it helps.  On top of that, the company bought a Prius.  Wonder if I’ll ever get to drive it.

It was six-thirty a.m., and I had just left the cab yard when I was flagged down by two scruffy-looking guys at Beale and Third.  They had just gotten off work at Alfred’s and were heading home.  Turned out to be nice guys.

My next trip was taking two twenty-something women from the hostel in Cooper Young to the bus station.  They were from Canada, but their English was impeccable.  They were traveling with their back packs throughout the U.S.  From here, they were headed to New Orleans.  Maybe they were just sleepy, but they weren’t very talkative.

When these two got out, a nicely-dressed, middle-age woman with a suitcase asked if I could take her to the Knight Arnold-Perkins area about twelve miles away.  When we got into that area, she had me take her to an atm, which turned out to be broken.  So then I took her to her house.  The fare was thirty-one dollars, but she only had twelve.  She impressed me as being honest, so I gave her my name and address and told her to send me a check or I would have to fie a complaint with the police.  She assured me she could be trusted, and sure enough, a money order arrived two days later.

Picked up a woman at the city school’s learning center on Central at Hollywood to go to the airport.  She was an education consultant from Atlanta here to conduct training sessions for new principals.  I told her my daughter is working toward her masters in education at Portland University.  The consultant assured me that P.U. has one of the best education programs in the country.

Headed back to midtown and got a trip taking an old veteran to the VA Hospital.  He said he still suffers from wounds he received in an explosion when he was stationed in Lebanon in 1958 and that the VA doesn’t do much for him.

Went to Perkins restaurant on Poplar.  When I pulled up, a young woman came up and said my passenger would be here in a minute, he went to buy cigs.  I started the meter.  The destination was an address on Whiteway, but my Tom Tom couldn’t find it.  When the passenger got in, I told him to give me directions.  He wasn’t sure which way to go at first, but figured it out.  I thought, “This is gonna be a long trip.”  Indeed, it seemed like an eternity, not just because of the distance, but the guy wouldn’t shut up.  “You know that girl who met the cab?, he asked.  “What about her?, I replied.  “She’s been my best friend for about four years, ya know, just platonic, but with an occasional hook up.  She wouldn’t give me a ride home because I told her I found somebody I really like,” he went on, and on.  “Normally when I find somebody, she tells my why the girl’s bad for me, but she didn’t this time.”  He repeated this with variations for the entire trip.  I just said, “I hear ya,” or, “She’ll get over it.”  “This is a switch, he said, “I’m a bartender usually listening to other people’s problems, now I’m tellin’ them to you.”  “Hey, no problem.  I get it too,” I said.  Boy, I was glad when that trip ended.

Picked up a young black guy and took him to work at the National Civil Rights Museum downtown.  He was pretty quiet until I told him I designed the museum’s logo. I told him I used to be creative director with an ad agency here, and we handled the grand opening of the museum. Regarding the logo, he asked, “What was your thought process?”  “I wanted a humanistic design.  Nothing too abstract,” I said.  The logo depicts the stylized figure of a man who has broken his chains and is pushing against the wall of a box that contains him.  It represents the struggle for civil rights.  I named a few more logos I knew he’d be familiar with.  He told me that he designed a logo for a company nine years ago, and was surprised it was still in use.  “A good logo is timeless,” I said.

Went over to south Memphis and picked up a large, good-natured, jolly black man.  “I got a vest just like yours.  I it wear when I go fishing,” he said.  When I’m in the cab, I wear a khaki vest that has about ten pockets.  Makes it easy to get at my stuff, especially my taser. “I love crappie,” he said. “Man, I like it too.  Nice and sweet,  I also like bluegill, but I’m not too crazy about bass,”  I replied.  He laughed, “Yea, I don’t much care for bass either.”  He said he has family living at Reelfoot Lake in Tipton county, and he does a lot of angling there.

After dropping him off, I went to get my next fare at a sleazy motel on Elvis Presley Boulevard in the hood.  A mean-looking black guy wearing a hoodie got in.  I was immediately suspicious because the heat index this day was 106, and a hoodie is a good way to conceal a gun.  The destination on the computer was the “Union area,” which meant either midtown or downtown.  Instead, he had me turn left on Walker.  “Man, we ain’t even gone a mile and the fare is already six dollars.  It’s supposed to be one-eighty a mile,” he said.  “where did you hear that?, I asked.  “It’s state law,” he protested.  “Actually,” I said, “cab rates are determined by the city council, and it averages about two-sixty a mile, plus the per passenger fuel surcharge just went up to two bucks.”  I kept my eye on him in the rearview mirror, and noticed he kept string at me.  “Where you from?,” I asked, hoping to defuse the situation.  “California,” he replied.  “Where bouts,” I asked.  “Bay area near Oakland, “ he said.  He was quiet the rest of the way, and I dropped him off at a small grocery store.


Back in midtown, I got a trip piking up a woman at Kroger.  After I helped her load the groceries in the trunk, we headed off toward her home on Rainbow Drive.  When she noticed I was coughing, she said, “Cod liver fish oil.”  “Mam?, I asked.  “It’ll knock that cough right out.  I smoke and it works for me.  Got my brother started on it and it worked right away.  He was amazed,” she said.  “There seems to be a natural remedy for just about everything,” I said.  A lot of African Americans in the south grew up in the country, and used natural remedies handed down from one generation to the next.  “We been using cod oil since I can remember.  Now if you don’t like the oil, it comes in pills too.  Where did Jesus live?,” she asked me.  “Uh,” I said.  “He lived near the sea and in the olive groves.  That’s where he got his nourishment.  It all comes from Mother Nature,” she said.  I didn’t know whether to say “Amen” or not.  When we got to her house, I helped her carry the groceries in.  As I was leaving, she said, “I expect to get a good report next time i see you.”  “Yes, mam!”


Next was three swarthy-looking young men with a thick accent.  They were from Spain, and were here on vacation touring the U.S.  From here they were going to Nashville and then New Orleans.

My last trip was taking an elderly man form his apartment building on North Third to his credit union on South Third where he cashed his Social Security check.  Then it was a stop at the liquor store and back to his apartment.  I like his priorities.

© 2011,  Eddie Tucker.  All rights reserved.

(Disclaimer:  The views expressed on this post are mine, and do not necessarily reflect the views of Yellow Cab, Checker Cab, or Premier Transportation Services.)

Taxi 21

Day Shift

I got to the cab yard just as the night shift was rolling in.  They were all lined up at the pump.  I had my pick.  Number nine was ready to roll so I followed the driver into the office.  “Is number nine running OK?,” I asked him.  I’ve encountered this guy before.  Not the friendly type, in fact, he always looks like he’s either a psychopath or constipated, or a constipated psychopath.  “It runs,” he replied, “What do you want a car to do anyway?”  I just smiled at him, wishing I could offer him a box of ex lax.

Number nine not only ran well, but the air worked, which in ninety-eight degree heat is quite welcome.

My first fare was a regular.  An elderly woman who is an attorney.  She always takes a cab from her condo to the office near the courthouse.  She’s a very pleasant lady.  Always dressed to the nines and full of talk.  She normally dresses conservatively, as one would expect from an attorney, but today she had on a flowered summer dress with bold bright colors, all topped off with a big floppy straw hat.  “You look mighty snazzy today,” I said.  She thanked me, and said she normally wears black, but decided to go all out for one day.  “Hats are coming back in style,” she said.  “Back in the thirties my husband and I went to the Breakers in Palm Beach.  It was summertime, and I had on a dress much like the one I’m wearing now.  Well, when we walked in, everyone was wearing black.  We had to ask if we had just walked into a funereal.”  We both got a chuckle out of that.  “I like that nice shirt you’re wearing,” she told me.  “You look like you wear clothes well,” she said.  “Yeah, I like nice clothes," I replied, "but I’m so fat now that I don’t bother with buying very much.”   “Men look more important with a portly look.  I hate those little skinny ones,” she said.  Usually the word “portly” is followed by “gentleman.”  I’ll buy that.  I’m a portly gentleman.  You never hear, “He’s a portly schmuck.”

Got a fare on Bellevue, just north of Poplar.  An old, run-down apartment building.  As I waited for the passenger, a woman from the next building approached and asked if I could take her to the Family Dollar store.  “I’m waiting on a passenger,” I explained.  My passenger showed up.  A nice, elderly black man wearing a suit and tie, a straw hat, and carrying an umbrella.  I told the woman, “Mam, if he says it’s OK, I can give you a ride.”  He approved, and off we all went, first to drop him off at the VA hospital, then to the Family Dollar store.  Along the way, the two of them chatted and became friends.

The computer signaled a trip.  I hit the accept button, and saw the passenger was at Smith & Nephew, the medical implant company on Brooks Road, and needed to get to the airport.  He was from Cleveland, but instead of my usual rant about that city not deserving the Rock N Roll Hall of Fame, I brought up Lebron James’ poor showing in the NBA playoffs.  My passenger expressed his contempt for James, and the manner in which the NBA star deserted his fans.  I agreed wholeheartedly.   The passenger didn’t talk much because he was eating lunch which smelled great and created a craving within me for a corned beef sandwich, which I grabbed later.  I love a good deli style corned beef sandwich.  The best one I ever had was at Canter’s Deli on Fairfax Avenue in L.A. It was piled high and served on a Kaiser roll.  MMMMMMM!

Once I went into Boagie’s Deli in Overton Square.  There are three Boagies in Memphis, and I had always been pleased with the other two.  But the corned beef sandwich I was served at this one was a joke: one slice of meat and enough mustard to cover an obese midget.  I gave it back and said, “I’ll come back when you learn how to make one of these.”  Memphis really hasn’t had an authentic Jewish-style deli since Rosen’s closed in the late sixties.  I should be driving a cab in New York.  My father drove one in Philadelphia, and he too loved corned beef, so it must be the genes.

While in midtown, I got a trip taking a twenty-something guy to the Majestic restaurant downtown where he works.  He was real friendly and spoke with a fine Irish brogue.  He and two of his friends are traveling and working their way around th U.S.  “We were in Los Angeles before coming here.  Didn’t much care for it out there.  Very phony.  Not at all like Memphis with the Blues and such,” he said.  “I bet that accent goes over well with the girls,” I said.  He smiled and said, “It does help.”  From that point on I suggested a few place he might like to go to, and we talked about Guiness Beer.  He said the world’s largest Guiness plant is in Nigeria.

This was international day in the cab.  Later I picked up a woman from India, and took her to Le Bonheur Children’s Hospital where she is a doctor.  The only thing she said was. “Speed it up, but don’t get a ticket.”  Now if I could only get a passenger who will say, “Follow that car, and make it snappy.”

I took a young man form his home to the University of Memphis.  He was originally from Russia, and is majoring in international business.  He had served in the U.S. army, but didn’t have to go to Iraq or Afghanistan.

Occasionally I give a ride to a doctor from Methodist Hospital to the Baptist Med Center.  Today was the first time he talked to me.  Turns out he’s from Nigeria.  I told him about my Irish passenger’s telling me about the Guiness plant in Nigeria.  “Yes,” the doctor said, “We love guiness.”  One usually doesn’t think “Nigeria and Guiness.”

That afternoon I went to a hood in north Memphis, and picked up a rather rough-looking guy and took him all the way across town to a hood in south Memphis.  He had me park, and said this was a round trip.  He handed me a twenty to ensure I’d wait.  I watched him in my rearview mirror as he walked down the street past a few houses, then went to the door of one house.  The door opened, he reached in, got something, then returned to the cab.  A drug buy.  Not my first.


I got a signal to pick up at the VA Hospital.  It was the dapper-looking elderly man I had dropped off there that morning.  He needed to go to Kroger in midtown.  He heard jazz playing on the radio, and asked, “Do you like jazz?”  I told him I love it.  “Well then, you can’t do no wrong, man, “ he told me.  “That’s what I do,” he went on.  I asked him what instrument he played.  “Trombone.  Used to own a jazz club, The Gemini on Lamar years back,” he said.  We talked about some of the local jazz musicians from past days in Memphis.  As he got out, he handed me his card and a cassette of one of his albums.  I listened to it when I got home expecting an instrumental featuring him on the trombone, but he turned out to be a crooner with a nice mellow sound.  You can find him on iTunes.  Just look for Lee Miles Stone.  I’ll have to take him out for coffee sometime.

Taxi 20

Two Day Shifts

A cab, in some ways, is like Facebook.  People log in but I never confirm them as friends, especially if they’re drunk.  And when there’s conversation, it’s like posting and commenting.


The other day, a friend posted this message on facework, “I'm trying to eat more healthfully -- but Almond milk is most definitely not the answer.  Holy crap!”  So my comment was, “Try walnut crappie juice.”  A little later, his friend commented, “Walnut crappie juice? I knew you could fry crappie up and serve them with hush puppies, but I had no idea you could juice them.” “In a blender,” I said, and there’s also a crappie martini and a bass sorbite,” I said.  “No thanks,” she replied. “Yeah, lady, I also have a very nice bridge for sale.”


My lucky day.  I got to drive one of the SUVs, number 27.  Easier for me to get in and out of, and I could act ually bend my legs when seated. I didn’t even know they had SUVs, because they’ve all been out when I checked in.  It’s all in the timing.  If you get to the cab yard too early, there aren’t many cabs from which to choose because the night shift hasn’t come in yet.  So the best time to get there is close to 6:30 a.m. when the night shift ends.  So I log on and head out.  


As soon as I roll out onto the street, the computer signals a pick up at the motel next to the Ornamental Iron Museum where a thirty-something guy gets in.  He says the trip is charged to Southern Towing, one of the companies that pushes barges up and down the river.  I checked the computer, but see no indication of a voucher so I radio the dispatcher, and tell him the deal.  The morning dispatcher has a heavy ebonic accent, and I can never understand what he’s saying, so I have to keep asking him to repeat himself which only pisses him off.  However, my passenger understands him so I hand him the mike, and he tells dispatch his name, and explains who at Southern authorizes the charge.  Once it’s approved, we head out.  I have to take him to Avis car rental near the airport.  He has to drive to Cincinnati to meet his boat.  He’s a nice guy.  He asks me about driving a cab, and I ask him about working the river. Big fare.


I head back toward midtown, and as I get into zone 110, the medical center, the computer dings three times assigning me a trip.  I picked up this guy at UT and drove him all the way out to Mullins Station Road next to Shelby Farms.  Another big fare.  He didn’t say a word the whole time.


I headed back to midtown, zone 111 this time, to get an espresso at Starbucks, and I’m dinged to pick up a woman at an apartment building for seniors on North Parkway.  The destination indicated a street in a black neighborhood in north-central Memphis, so I was expecting a black woman.  Out came a diminutive white lady who looked to be in her upper eighties.  She was making her way to the cab in short, baby steps so I got out and offered to help her.  “I’m fine,” she said as she declined my arm.  I held the door for her, and then we were off.  I couldn’t figure out why she was going to the hood, and in spite of my efforts to ask her, all she talked about was her dogs, and I don’t mean feet.  As I turned down the street where she was to be dropped off, I notice three guys just standing on the sidewalk in front one of the houses.  I’ve seen this before.  It usually indicates dealers, so I watched them in my rearview mirror and sure enough, a car pulls up to them, and one guy bends down and hands a package to the person in the car who then drives off.


As we head down the street, she points out a small, white concrete building.  “That’s my son’s lumber business.  Turn in there,” she says,  I pull into a gravel lot, and stop behind the building.  To my right is a large dilapidated structure the color of a thunderstorm sky.  It must have at one time housed lumber, but now stood empty.  It was a gloomy place.  Her son came out and helped her out of the cab.  She paid the fare, but no tip.


Later, I go to an address in east Memphis in an upscale neighborhood.  It was a trip to the airport.  A young man in his thirties comes out carrying a large, cylindrical case and a suitcase.  I get out and lift the hatch in the rear.  “Going golfing?,” I asked.  “Shotguns,” he said.  “We’re going to hunt dove and quail in Argentina.”  A minute later, an older man joins us, and he sits up front since their guns and luggage took up so much space.  “Argentina, huh,? Must be nice,” I offered.  “Yeah, we go down about once a year.  It’s winter down there now.  A good way to escape the heat for a while,” he said.  “When you guys aren’t hunting in Argentina, what do you do?,” I had to know.  He hesitated, as if ashamed of what he does.  “We’re attorneys,” he admitted.  “At least your not a politician tweating pictures of your Weiner,” was my reply.  He laughed.  “What’s Argentina like?,” I asked.  “It’s great, especially the meat.  Their cattle are all grass-fed, and the meat tastes much better than grain-fed ones.”  You ever have any problem traveling with shotguns?,” I asked.  “Not really.  We have a good friend down there, a woman attorney who always represents us with the customs officials, and she gives them hell if they try to interfere,” he said,”  At the airport, I wished them a good trip, and got a nice tip.


Back in midtown I went to the VA Hospital where the passenger walked up to the cab and asked if he’d been in my cab before.  I told him no, so he got in.  “You’re beard made me think you were another driver who argued with me about forty cents,” he said.  I asked him if the driver had a full white beard, and he said yes.  “That’s Santa Claus,” I said, and that is what everyone calls him.


Later I went to a house near Rhodes college and picked up a young couple going to the airport.  “Where yall flying to?,” I asked.  “We’re going to Buffalo so he can meet my parents,” she said.  “I went with him to California to meet his.”  Both of them teach at the University of Memphis.  They were all giggles, and in love.  “Ever been to Buffalo?”, he asked.  “No. New York City is as far north as I’ve gone,” I answered.  They talked about how much they love NYC.  I told them about my first trip there in 1974 with my first wife.  A friend recommended we stay at the Edison Hotel in Times Square.  We didn’t know it at the time, but Times Square in those days was the armpit of the country.  When we checked in, the bellhop, who looked like "Ratso" Rizzo in Midnight Cowboy, took us to our room.  On the elevator, he asked, ”Where youse guys from?”  “Memphis,” I answered.  “Ah,” he said, “Not like dis shit here.”  I went on with my story, telling my passengers that when we entered our room, we couldn’t help but notice a lump on the bed under the bedspread.  We pulled the spread back and saw that it was an upside-down, clean salad bowl.  “Well, at least it’s clean,” I said.  Around 2:00 a.m. we were awakened by a bunch of teenagers who were partying on our floor.  I went out and asked them to be quiet.  About an hour later, my wife did the same, and about another hour later, I called the desk to complain.  Soon after my call, there was a knock on the door.  I opened the door to reveal a mafioso-looking house detective dressed in a bright blue sport coat, black shirt and white tie, and with enough grease in his hair to fry a good-size chicken, who, in a thick Brooklyn accent and gravelly voice asked what was the problem.  I explained and he said to go back to bed because he’d take care of it.  It was quiet from then on.  I imagined the headline: “Forty teenagers found floating in the East River.”


We had driven to Washington where we spent a few days, then caught the train to New York.  When it came time to leave, we were seated on one of the benches in Penn Station.  It was very early in the morning, so there weren’t many people.  After a while, a black lady came over and sat next to us.  She had some sort of white powder all over her face, but otherwise seemed normal.  She asked where we were going and where we were from, then suddenly started demanding that we pay her.  “You can’t leave without paying me what you owe,” she screamed, over and over.  About thirty feet away were two cops deep in conversation.  They were completely oblivious to our situation.  We got up and went out to where the trains were.  Thankfully, she didn’t follow.  Such is New York.


That afternoon, after dropping off an elderly man at his apartment building, I noticed on the computer that I was no longer booked on.  I tried, without success, to book on several times, then I phoned the office and was told the computer system was down, and to use the radio.  So I picked up the mike, switched the radio from data to voice, and said, “This is 308 (my cab number), I’m in zone 133.”  I immediately got a trip.  I could hear the dispatcher barking orders to the other drivers, “car 24 are you there? Car 24, where are you?  Has anybody seen car 24?”  Using the radio was fun for a change.  I felt like Broderick Crawford on the TV show, Highway Patrol:  “Get in the car, punk!”

© 2011,  Eddie Tucker.  All rights reserved.

(Disclaimer:  The views expressed on this post are mine, and do not necessarily reflect the views of Yellow Cab, Checker Cab, or Premier Transportation Services.)

Taxi 19

Friday, May 27, 2011.  Day Shift


Driving trips in and out of the various hoods here in Memphis reminds me of an incident in which I was involved in 1961 when I was fourteen.

Two of my buddies and I were headed to a party at the old Jewish Community Center behind the dairy on Madison in midtown.  After one of our parents dropped us off, we decided we needed to get some beer.  None of us looked old enough nor did we have a fake I.D. We had to find someone who, for a few bucks, would contribute to the delinquency of three minors.

We started walking toward a black neighborhood nearby where we were sure to find some guys hanging out on a Saturday night.  When we got about two blocks, we were surrounded by ten or fifteen black guys.  One held a butcher knife and yelled, “Let’s kill ‘em!”  We were too scared to run.  It was as if our feet had melted into the pavement, and we couldn’t budge.  Here we were, three dumb white kids wearing coats and ties in the middle of a gang of angry black men.  Where was Tarzan when you need him?

As we were contemplating our eventual demise, an older man stepped forward.  He appeared to be the leader.  He was my height, perfect for staring into my eyes.  “Didn’t I meet you last week?,” he asked me.  It took me a minute to realize it was Bowlegs Miller.  His band, Bowlegs Miller and The Triangles, played at a dance I attended.  Since I was interested in jazz, I went back stage during the band’s break and talked to him about playing the sax. “YES!.” I responded to his question.  We spent the next three hours sitting on the curb, sharing beer with Bowlegs and the gang.  The guy with the knife was disappointed at not being allowed to slice us up and went home.

The moral of this story:  Get a fake I.D. or get to know your sax players.

Speaking of knives, I picked up a guy in midtown headed to Memphis Country Club.  He was carrying what I first thought was a tool kit.  “Doing some handy work today?,” I asked.  “This is a case of knives,” he answered.  OK, I get it, he’s a knife thrower.  “I’m a cook,” he said, stepping on that theory.  “When I started working at the club, all the other cooks were recent graduates from culinary schools, and each had his own knife.  I decided to get my own so I could keep up.”

I’m sure you all have seen a movie in which someone gets in a cab and says, “Just drive.”  Well, it happened to me.  Normally the cab’s computer displays both the pick-up location and the destination, but not this time.  It was a twenty-something woman I picked up on Morrison Street in midtown.  “Where you going?,” I asked.  “Just drive down Union,” she said.  I asked her, “West or east?”  “Turn right, and drive slow,” she said.  I was curious, but didn’t press the issue.  “I’m lookin’ for a guy without a shirt,” she said.

I don’t know about you, but I hate guys without shirts.  White guys, that is.  Black guys can get away with it because they don’t have pastey-white skin.  They can also get away with shaved heads, whereas white guys with shaved heads just look ill.

What’s the deal with guys without shirts?  Did they simply forget to put one on, or are they trying to break the habit?  Maybe they gave the shirts off their backs to other guys without a shirts.  They could be aliens on a limited budget.  Maybe there’s really only 500 shirts in the world, and we take turns.  And, by the way, what’s the deal with the shoe in the middle of the street?

My passenger wasn’t carrying an extra shirt that I could see, so that wasn’t the reason she was looking for him.  If there was going to be trouble, I wanted to know.  “Did this guy do something to you?,” I asked her.  “He owes me some money,” she replied.  Yep, sounded like trouble to me.

After several blocks she said, “Drive past Printer’s Alley, he might be there.”  Nope, not there.  “Take me to Neil’s,” she said.  Neil’s is a midtown club.  “You don’t know where I can get a job, do ya?,” shed asked me.  “What can you do,” I asked.  “Nothing.  Never had a job.”

She and her husband came here from Louisiana.  He was arrested for distribution, and had been in jail for over a month on a $45,000 bail.  She said the shirtless guy owed her $2,000.  I wonder for what.

Had some good long-distance trips this day.  One was a guy I picked up in the medical center and took him out near Shelby Farms.  He wasn’t interested in conversation, but his money spoke to me.

Went to Willet Street, also in midtown, and picked up a lively thirty-something woman.

When I pulled up, I signaled the computer to call the customer and let her know I was there.  She stuck her head out the door and said she needed five minutes.  “I’ll have to start the meter,” I told her.  “I’m cool with that,” she said.

I was listening to the jazz station, and we she got in she said, “Aw right, good music!”  “Sorry I took so long.  I was up late finishing some business.”  What sort of business are you in?,” I asked.  “I’m a psychologist, she said.  She was very energetic with a good attitude.  I told her about the time in the 70s when I was in therapy following my divorce, private and group.  She asked if it helped.  “Yeah, I slept with two women in the group.” I said.  “Well, that certainly helps,” she replied.

She said her office is off Germantown Parkway, a very long way from midtown.  I asked her, “More neurotics out there?”  “Wi th money, “ she answered.

It was an airport trip, and she was headed to D.C. to meet some friends for a three-day bike trip along the Cheasapeake and Ohio Canal.  I liked her, and her tip.

I usually hang out in the midtown area, otherwise known to us as zone 111.  This zone accounts for most of our business, and midtowners tip better than anyone.

The computer rang out the three dings indicating I have a trip.  It was to an apartment building next to a railroad track on south McLean.  Young twenty-something guy got in for the trip to Bar Dog Tavern downtown where he tends bar.  I asked if the trains bother him.  “I’m from south Boston so I’m used to the noise,” he said.

Got another midtown trip from Madison and Rozelle to Outback Steakhouse on Union.  It was a three-dollar trip, but the young woman gave me a ten.  I like it!

Picked up a woman in the medical center, and took her to the library at the University of Memphis.  She wanted to research their graduate program in higher education.  Another long trip.

Went to a tattoo parlor a Summer and National where a big, young dude got in.  He was dressed in all black with black fingerless gloves and a little black pouch on either side of his belt.  He looked pissed, but when I started talking with him, he had a surprisingly meek voice.  He was learning to be a tattoo artist from his father who owned the shop.  I was taking him to Blues City Cafe on Beale Street.  “Do you work there?,” I asked.  “I’m a bus boy,” he said.  I countered with, “You look like you could bus heads.”   He laughed, and didn’t kill me.

From there I went to the zoo, and picked up a couple from Middleton, New Jersey.  I told them my father was raised in Atlantic City, but I hadn’t been there since 1972 when I attended his funereal.  We talked about the board walk, and how much Atlantic City has changed since 72.  Took the to the Peabody.

Picked up another visiting couple at Stax.  They were from Florida, and had come here as tourists.  They were blown away by the exhibit at Stax.  The guy said he’s a musician, and soul is his kind of music.  I took them to the Westin Hotel downtown, and along the way recommended several restaurants.

© 2011,  Eddie Tucker.  All rights reserved.

(Disclaimer:  The views expressed on this post are mine, and do not necessarily reflect the views of Yellow Cab, Checker Cab, or Premier Transportation Services.)

Taxi 18

A compilation from two day shifts

I finally decided to surrender to baldness.  It happened one day in the cab when I looked in the mirror and saw the few remaining hairs on top of my head standing straight up about three inches.  “Sheesh!,” I thought, “I’m beginning to look like Professor Irwin Corey.”  So that night I shaved the top of my head.

Professor Irwin Corey

I was actually cursed to be bald many years ago.  When I was a teenager, I had a head of nice, thick hair.  One day at the barbershop, the barber, out of the blue said, “You’ll never go bald with that hair.”  It was the dreaded “reverse-never-going-to-happen curse.”  Someone says it’s never going to happen, and of course, it happens.  I only wish it had worked when, years later, a woman I know read my horoscope, and told me I would never be rich.  Apparently the “reverse-never-going-to-happen curse” occasionally shoots blanks.

Driving 302, a Grand Marqui with nice leather seats and only 172,000 miles. The Marquis have a very smooth ride, unlike the Impalas which have lousy shocks.

I picked up a guy at a law firm on Adams to take him to the airport.  “Where you flying to?.” I asked. “Charlotte,” he answered.  He said he’d been in Memphis for just a couple of days with a buddy.  “I’ll never come back here,” he said.  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I said, “What happened?”  “I spent the night in jail.  Had too much to drink on Beale Street, then went to the Westin to get my bags.  I wasn’t staying there, but just left the bags there for awhile, and they gave me a hard time about it.  Things got outta hand, so they called the cops, who showed up in about two seconds.  I tried to outrun the cops, but they got me and charged me with public drunkeness, disorderly conduct, and resisting arrest.  Fortunately, my attorney got the charges dropped, and is going to try to get my record expunged.  I could be in bigger trouble if he’s unsuccessful.”  “How so?,” I asked.  “Im an airline pilot, and could lose my job.  And, I fly international which means every time I land, authorities check my passport, and I don’t need an arrest record showing up.,” he explained.  I tried to ease his concerns by telling him the court will most likely expunge his record since they dropped the charges, and if this is his first offense.  “It’s no fun spending the night in jail.  Happened to me once many years ago, so you’re in good company,” I offered.  Got to the airport, and wished him good luck.  Running from the cops?  What a dumb ass.

When he got out, another fellow asked if I was free.  “Yeah, where you going?, I said.  “Beale Street.  Meeting some friends later,” he replied.  “Where you from,” I asked.  “Cleveland.”  “Humph!, “ I muttered, “With all due respect, Cleveland doesn’t deserve the Rock N’ Roll Hall of Fame.  I dare anybody to put together an hour’s worth of Cleveland Rock N’ Roll.  It was born here.”  He took it in good spirit and admitted I was right.  “We tried to get the museum here, but the wheelers and dealers couldn’t come up with enough dough,” I explained, “So I can’t really blame Cleveland.  He asked where he could get some good barbecue on Beale Street.  “The best place downtown is the world famous Rendezvous.  It’s just two blocks north of Beale,” I offered, “I can take you there if you want to eat now.”  On the way I pointed out Sun Studio, “That’s where the revolution began,” I bragged.

Went to Holiday Inn Express in midtown and picked up a family of four.  They were from Switzerland, and wanted to go to Graceland.  The father had a kind of Elvis-style hair and shades.  He and I chatted about Elvis and Switzerland.  He said they live on a mountain overlooking a beautiful valley.  Turns out he was here to record a record at Sun Studio with Jerry Lee Lewis’s band.  A Swiss rock n’ roller.  What dya know!  He told me his name, but when I tried to recall it later in the day, all I heard was Shiny Doorknob.

Went to Motel 6 on Pauline in the medical center where I picked up a drag queen named Candy.  Tight shirt, tight jeans, platform shoes, blue eye shadow and orange wig.  Since it was a guy, I figured he could put his bag in the trunk himself, like most men do, but in his/her most feminine voice, he/she said. “My leg hurts, can you get my bag?”  I thought, “My back hurts and my toe is cramped,” but I relented, “Yes mam.”  The bag weighed a ton, and I wondered how he/she got it down from the second floor.  “These people here are mean.  I need to go to another motel,” he/she said.  We headed to the Lamplighter at Lamar and Bellevue, not exactly The Plaza.  I got the bag out of the trunk and said, “Be careful,” to which the reply was, “Don’t worry about me honey.”

While in midtown, I was signaled to go to a medical research building on Cleveland at Monroe where a young man in scrubbs got in, headed to the airport.  I always like to know where people flying out are going.  “San Antonio,” he said.  “Did ya really think yall could beat the Grizzlies?, I asked with pride in my voice.  “Yeah, I know,” he replied, “The Grizzlies really gave the Spurs a hard time.”  Now that I had weakened his defenses, I thought I would go in for the kill, “Ya know, you’re one ugly bastard.”  Just kidding.  He was a nice guy.

Got to the airport, and he handed me his credit card.  I swiped it on the computer but the swipe wasn’t working so I got an impression of it on the receipt.  I’d have to enter the information in the computer manually, so instead of keeping him waiting, I returned the card, and bid him a good trip.   Then I entered the info only to learn the card was declined.  Twenty nine bucks just evaporated.  I still have the receipt and occasionally run the card info, but it continues to be declined.  Next time, nobody leaves the cab without proper authorization.

As I was leaving the airport, I was signaled to go to the airport hotel and pick up a guy named Jonathan.  It was the weekend for the Beale Street Music Fest, and there were about fifty young people standing in front of the hotel, presumably waiting for rides.  I entered the “call customer” code to let him know I was there.  While I was waiting, two guys and a young woman asked if I could take them downtown.  “I’m booked,” I said, “but if he doesn’t show up soon, I’ll take you.”  Again I signaled the customer that I was waiting.  After the third signal and no response, I called the trio over and said to one of the guys, “If your name is Jonathan, hop in.”  He didn’t get it so I said, “Your name is Jonathan, and the meter’s running.”  They got in and off we went.  I could tell they were stoned because they laughed at everything.  I let them out at Beale Street and got a good tip.  “Sorry, Jonathan, but business is business.  Hope you’re not still waiting.”

Went back to midtown where most of the cab business is.  Picked up a couple at a music store on Poplar headed to Beale Street.  I heard the woman ask the guy if he got his strings.  This was the weekend for the annual Blues Awards.  I asked him if he was in a band performing at the awards.  He said he was solo, blues mandolin.  He also said Downbeat Magazine gave him a four-star rating.  “The highlight of my career” he said.  He looked to be around fifty, so he must have been at it awhile.  He was nominated for Best Instrumentalist Blues Award.  I told them I used designed the Blues Awards posters for twenty-two years.  Small world.  When I dropped them off, I wished him luck. His name is Rich DelGrosso, and his web site is mandolinblues.com.

Stay tuned.......

© 2011,  Eddie Tucker.  All rights reserved.

(Disclaimer:  The views expressed on this post are mine, and do not necessarily reflect the views of Yellow Cab, Checker Cab, or Premier Transportation Services.)