Taxi 11

Remember back in the 80s when cell phones were big and bulky and had a six inch antenna?  They looked like a gravy boat on a stick.  Today, cell phones can do everything short of waxing your pubic hair.  They’re called “smart phones.”  I have a dumb phone.  Just the basics.  I hardly even use it.  Hell, I don’t even answer the phone at home.  I carry a cell phone because I ride a Harley and my wife thought it would be a good idea in case of an emergency.  So I carry it with me everywhere in case of an emergency, like ordering take out.

What I don’t get is all these people who walk around, constantly glued to their phones, having long-winded conversations no matter where they are.  We used to say “looked like the phone was attached to his head.”  Well, I’ll be damned.  Now they literally are attached to their heads thanks to Bluetooth.  So it’s common to see people everywhere who appear to be talking to themselves, and you know what we used to say about them.

I was in a restaurant the other day for lunch.  Not many people there, but there was one woman sitting a couple of tables away from mine all alone, eating lunch with her friend who was on the other end of the phone.  I guess the friend was also all alone in a restaurant somewhere.  I could hear every word, even with her mouth full.

Have you ever wanted to grab someone’s cell phone in mid-converstion and say to the other person, “Scotty, get a lock on the Romulan.”

My mother used to talk on the phone for hours at a time.  It was her way of socializing.  Whenever I walked into the room, she would start speaking in Yiddish so I couldn’t understand what she was saying.   Like I really cared.  I’ll never forget that historic night in July, 1969, when man first stepped foot on the moon.  I, like millions of others worldwide, was glued to the TV in anticipation of the most significant event in recorded history.  My mother, of course was on the phone in the other room.  As the capsule began its descent to the surface, I ran into the other room and said excitedly, “They’re about to land on the moon!”  Mother began speaking Yiddish, and to this day I’ll swear she said, “My son’s crazy.  He thinks we’re landing on the moon.”  I’m sure I heard the word “mashugana” which is Yiddish for crazy.

The other day I picked up a guy at a popular Midtown.  Turned out to be the owner.  He came out of the building talking on his cell and got in the cab talking on his cell, not even acknowledging my presence.  I alway greet passengers with a friendly, “Hey. How are you today?”  But this guy simply ignored me, and I could tell by his conversation he was an arrogant little prick, so I thought I’d have a little fun.  On the way to his home, I repeatedly swayed the cab from left to right and watched in the rearview mirror as he rocked back and forth, left to right, right to left.  Upon arrival, he handed me the money, got out and walked to his door, the whole time on the phone.

The rocking back and forth reminds me of the best talk show story I ever heard as told buy comic Jay Thomas.  It’s such a great story, Letterman has Thomas tell it every year a Christmastime.

When Thomas was a young long-haired hippie in the early 70s, he worked as a DJ on a local radio station.  One day he and his engineer had to do a remote broadcast from the grand opening of a new car dealership.  The star attraction was none other than Clayton Moore, The Lone Ranger, in full costume complete with mask and six shooters.   When the festivities ended, someone apparently failed to provide The Lone Ranger with transportation, so he asked Thomas if he’d give him a ride to the hotel.  So the three of them pile into Thomas’s old, beat up VW with The Lone Ranger in the backseat.  Thomas and the engineer, who were completely stoned, couldn’t believe their good fortune of being in the company  of The Lone Ranger.  When they stopped at a red light, someone in a Cadillac rear ended them.  As Thomas got out to investigate, the Caddy drove off.  Well Thomas wasn’t going to let this guy get away with it so he gave chase at high speeds, weaving in and out of traffic, and looked in the rear view mirror to see The Lone Ranger rocking back an forth left to right, right to left.  When he caught up with the culprit at a stop light, Thomas got out and banged on the guy’s window causing him to get out of the car.  “You ran into my car,” shouted Thomas, “and I’m going to call the cops!”  “Oh yeah,” the guy said, “who’s going to believe a dirty hippie?”  At this point The Lone Ranger walks up and said, “I will, citizen.”

I picked up a woman at her house east Memphis to take her to work.  As she shut the cab’s door, the radio started playing the William Tell Overture.  I turned to the passenger and said, “And away we go.  Hi Ho Yellow.”  Thankfully she got the joke.  I should record that music and play it everytime someone gets in the cab.

Things were kind of slow in Midtown, so I checked the computer and saw a trip available in the Summer-Germantwon Road area, 14 miles away.  There was no cab in the area so I raced out there and won the fare.  It was a woman who sounded like she was from Jamaica.  She talked to herself, so I let out with my best De Niro:  "You talkin' to me? Are you talkin' to me?"

© 2010,  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 10 New Year's Eve 2010

I knew New Year’s Eve would be busy, but I had no idea.  I worked from 4 pm to 4:30 am.  For the first couple of hours, things were slow.  I picked up an elderly man at Kroger midtown and took him to the Gilmore Apartments.  He said he was 92.  As he was getting in the cab, he said, “I spent three Christmases in the Pacific in World War II, me and my two brothers and we all came home.”  “I’ll be you’ve got some great stories to tell,” I replied, hoping to hear one.  All he did was complain about the woman who was behind him in the check out line.  “I thought she was going to push that cart right up my ass.”  I said, “So tell me what it was like in the Pacific.  “People these days just have no manners.  I have to go spend the night with my sister in South Memphis.  Best just stay indoors all night lest ya get shot.  They shoot ya for no reasons these days.”  I’m sure he had plenty of reasons to shoot in the Pacific campaign but I’ll never hear about it.

Around 6:00 I headed to the Liberty Bowl.  After about thirty minutes, the fans started pouring out and i got tagged by a couple for a ride to the airport.  They were from Georgia, and had flown in that morning to see Georgia get beat by Central Florida.  The didn’t even have any luggage.  I was listening to game on the radio.  It was pretty boring: 3 to 3 at half time, and 6 to 3 at the end of the third quarter.  In the fourth, UCF made the only touchdown to win the game.  “We had a chance to go ahead early in the game,” said the husband.  We were inches from the goal line and it was fourth down, but instead of going for it, coach  Richt called for a field goal.”  “That’s insane,” I answered, “a bowl game is no time to be conservative.”  My passengers agreed.

After I dropped them off at the airport, it started to rain and rained continuously all night long.  Geeees!!!  I hate driving at night in the damn rain, but I think it contributed to a busy shift.  About this time, the computer lit up with trips in every zone, and messages from the dispatcher: “Cabs needed at the Westin.”   “Cabs needed at the Marriott.”   “Cabs needed at the Sleep Inn.”   “Cabs needed at the Peabody.”    “Cabs needed at the Crowne Plaza.”  And so on.  It was so busy that at one time there was 22 trips available in the coveted midtown zone, and that was at 4:15 am.

Whenever I tried to make it back to midtown, I got sidetracked by a trip elsewhere.  Eventually I began rejecting trips until I could get to midtown.  Midtowners tip better than anyone else.  When you’re notified of a trip, you have the option to accept or reject.   Sometimes when you reject a trip you get the message that rejects aren’t allowed.  If you don’t accept, you get booked off which means you aren’t available for any trips for about ten minutes when you can book back on.  Why do they have a reject button if they don’t want you to reject a trip? Am I right, people???

Downtown was alive.  People were everywhere, and they were either all dressed up or all dressed down.  One young woman was wearing a shiny gold mini shirt just long enough to cover her ass.  I wondered if  she was planning to sit down?  I can hear it now: "No thanks, I'll just stand. No really, I like standing.  I stand maybe ten times a day. And you know what they say 'Standing leads to walking.'"  You could feel the excitement and I was vicariously taking part.  The sidewalks were jammed and traffic moved at a snail’s pace.  I could hear people’s conversations as I creeped down Second Street:  “Yeah, man. She said fifty dollars for a blow job.”  “Where’s Jessica?  Anybody seen Jessica?”   “Do yall want to eat first?”  “I heard they were going to drop a giant guitar.”  “I don’t know. Where do you want to go?”  "Dude!"  “Damn, Jessica, where were you?”

And the cops were everywhere.  You’d think the President and Al Qaeda both were in town.  They had roads blocked even where there were no roads.

I picked up a party of four young woman at a downtown condo.  They were headed to the Westin near Beale Street for dinner.  The Westin would be blocked on Second Street  but I decided to titilate my passengers with an attempt to run the blockade knowing I would be turned away.  “What are we gonna do?” asked one of the women.  As I was approaching the Third Street blockade I said, “I’ll bet you five bucks I can get through.”  “No way,” they replied.  Sure enough, the cop moved his car and let me pass.  “How did you do that?” one of the women asked.  “I just gave him a look,” I said as I returned their five bucks.  The truth is the cops let cabs pass through this location only.

My next fare was three elderly ladies and their younger gay male friend in the Greenlaw district who were headed to the Peabody to go dancing.  The ladies were all giggly like teenagers.  Me thinks they were a bit tipsy too.

The Peabody is always packed on New Year’s Eve.  In addition to the great lobby bar, they had two ballrooms offering live music and dancing.

I tried again to get to midtown.  Along the way I stopped at a convenience store to use the restroom.  As I was standing at the urinal, my phone rang.  It was the daughter of a friend of mine who, along with three of her friends, needed a ride from South Bluffs to the Peabody.  I flushed and zipped up and zipped down to South Bluffs then deposited the gang at the hotel.

As I was about to pull out and head to midtown, a young man flagged me. “Are you available?” he asked.  I told him I was and he and his wife got in.  They were headed home near the University of Memphis.  The young man’s wife was sobbing the whole way home.  I felt like cheering her up but decided to mind my own business.

There’s something about the backseat of a cab that makes some people feel like dropping their guard.  Some just rant and rave, some just rant while others seek advice or just lay out their problems.  And then there’s the occasional sobber.

People sometimes suggest I play Cash Cab.  My response is always the same: “I’ll play Cab and you pay me in Cash.”

I picked up a young couple who were headed to his parents house in Harbortown.  A nice trip.  She was an attorney so I said, “Mind if I ask your advice about something?”  Her ears shot up like a rabbit who just farted. “Go ahead,” she replied.  “Last summer, my dentist, Dr. Timothy Kutas, accidentally drilled a hole in my tongue and it never healed.  Last month, he referred me to an oral surgeon who said he needs to do a biopsy which will cost $865.  I asked Kutas to pay, and he said he’d speak to the surgeon and call me back.  After two weeks, I called Kutas and left a message for him to call me.  A few hours later, his receptionist called to tell me Kutas wouldn’t pay because the surgeon advised him he wasn’t responsible for the current condition.  The condition wouldn’t exist if Kutas hadn’t drilled my tongue.”  She advised me to get a personal injury attorney.  As it turns out, her firm defends a lot of dentists.

Next I was signaled to go to TJ Mulligan’s on North Main where the passengers were a married couple and their male friend who said to me, “I’m drunk. Is  that OK?”  “Just as long as you don’t barf in the cab.”  I had brought some barf bags just in case.

We dropped the drunk off at his downtown apartment then headed to east Memphis to the couple’s condo.  The husband asked me where I was from. “Memphis,” I said.  “Yeah? Me too”, he replied.  He was a little less drunk.  He told me where he went to school, etc. and that his father went to East High.  “I went to East for a year and a half after I was expelled from Snowden School.  What’s you father’s name?” I asked.  “Bob (So and so),” he answered.  “No shit?  I saw your asshole uncle Bill get his ass beat by Billy Plyler on the playground. It was great,” I said. “Yeah, uncle Bill is still an asshole.  I’ll have to ask about that.” he said.    I said, “Ask him if he remembers Billy Plyler.  Your dad was OK.  He was a little goofy and his shirts always looked too big.”  Bill and Bob (So and so) own an upscale men’s clothing store which they inherited.  “We used to steal stuff all the time from that store when they were downtown in the 50s and 60s,” I offered up. “How did you remove the electronic tag?” asked the wife.  “In those days there were no tags, and you didn’t even need a receipt to return merchandise,” I replied.  Bill’s still an asshole, but brother Bob turned out alright.  He’s had several mystery novels published, and also wrote a book about a Roman Coin from the coin’s point of view.

After dropping them off, I was signaled to go to the Homestead Suites nearby on Poplar where I picked up a guy named Darrell.  And he talked like a Darrell with his strong country drawl.  “In town with my crew workin’ on the new Loews store.  I’ve built Loews stores in every state ‘cept Utah,” he said.  I guess Mormons don’t need hardware.  “Even been to Alaska,” he said.  “What’s that like?” I asked.  “It’s beautiful.  Pictures don’t do it justice.  I stayed in a hotel where they would call and wake you when the northern lights appeared, if you wanted,” he answered.  Darrell was real friendly and liked to talk, although I don’t remember what else we talked about.  I liked Darrell.  He’s a good ol’ boy just building a better world.  I’d like to have a beer with him.  I left him at another all suites hotel on Ridgeway Road.  Now I was out in the middle of nowhere, far from all the New Year’s activity.  I checked the computer and saw eleven trips available in midtown and no cabs in the area.

I raced to midtown and booked back on.  Right away I was summoned to Studio on the Square movie theater where I picked up a woman who appeared to be in her sixties.  She was all decked out in a white suit and wide brim hat.  She had started the evening with dinner at her church then went to the movies.  Apparently she couldn’t find anyone to celebrate this night with and decided come hell or high water, she was going to go out and have fun.  She wanted me to drive around downtown and past Beale Street so she could take in the excitement.  She had planned to walk down Beale but the rain prevented that.  On the way to downtown I was listening to a classic blues show on the radio, and she was singing along and laughing at some of the lyrics.  Occasionally she would identify the artists and tell me little tidbits of infirmation about them. “That’s Lighten’ Hopkins,” she said.  “Ol’ Lighten’ never cared about timing or rhyme, he just did it his way.” When we arrived downtown I drove very slowly down Second Street and paused for awhile at Beale.  “Want to go around again?” I asked.  “Naw,” she said, “best get on home.”  Home was about six miles east in Orange Mound.  She was real quiet on ride home.  “Are you still with us?” I asked.  “Yes, just listening to the music,” she replied.  I hoped she wasn’t feeling sad.  She was a nice lady.

I went back to midtown and stopped to get gas.  As I got back in the cab, a guy started walking my way from across the driveway.  Normally this indicates someone wanting a handout, but this guy wanted change for $100.  I said no at first thinking he was passing counterfeit. “Damn,” he said,  and then practically pleading, “I just want to get home.”  So I held up the bill to the light until I saw the telltale stripe, and gave him change.  Then he said, “I’ll give you twenty dollars to take me to Vance and Third.”  “Hop in,” I replied.  His name was Marty.  He looked to be in his forties, and he worked for the legendary Raiford of Raiford’ Hollywood club and the newer Raiford’s disco on Second Street.  Raiford had taken him in when he was ten years old.  “How many cars does Raiford own?” I asked because whenever you drove by the hollywood, there would be several of his cars on display, each one white with gold trim.  “Let’s see,” he said. “There’s two Escalades, two Excaliburs, a limo, a Jaguar, a boat and a motorcycle.”  The nightclub business has been good to Raiford.  Marty was a good guy.  “Sorry I gave you a hard time, “I offered.  “That’s alright.  It’s because they give you a hard time,” he said. A minute later he said, “I’m gonna get me a cheap hooker then go home.”  He directed me down this dark street and had me stop in front of what looked like an apartment building.  There were a few guys just standing around.  As Marty got out, I said, “be careful my friend.”  “No worry,” he said.  Then I got the shit outta Dodge.

Since I was downtown, I headed to Beale Street.  It was after 3:00 and all the clubs were closed.  As I got to Beale, two young guys walked up and said they needed to go to Lakeland.  “No shit!” I said.  Lakeland is about 23 miles from downtown.  Cha Ching!!!  I didn’t interact with these guys because I was tired. I just listened as one bored the other with talk of his girlfriend.

After dropping them off, I decided to call it a night, and headed back to the office, but I got tagged to go to a nearby house and pick up a woman.  It turned out to be a no-show.  The fourth one that night.  Two were probably because I got tired of waiting.  On a busy night, five minutes is long enough to wait.  They know I’m there because I have the computer call them.  The computer lets me know if the call succeeded, was a busy signal or answering machine.  So I left and headed in despite the fact there were 22 trips available in midtown.  It was 4:15 am.

© 2010,  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 9

Thursday day shift 6a-6p

The day started out good–two airport trips.  The first was a freshman from Rhodes College going to meet her family in Montana.  I asked how she liked college.  “I like it and I like Rhodes.  I even like Memphis,” she said.

The second was a young woman who was here to be interviewed for admission to the College of Optometry.  She was returning to a freezing West Virginia.

The rest of the early morning was a variety of run-of-the-mill short hops, then things slowed down until mid afternoon.  When things slow down, a lot of drivers will hang out at the hotels.  I know one guy who waited at The Peabody for two and a half hours before getting a trip.  I can’t stand to sit at one location for more than twenty minutes.  Instead, I drive around the city from zone to zone until the computer rings those familiar “TRIP” chimes.  It’s kind of like being a pin ball rolling around until you hit the jackpot.  On this day, I even trolled through south Memphis.  The people who use cabs most often are those who can least afford it.  It’s because they either don’t have a car, or their car is broken down.  But it’s like George Carlin said, “Everybody has to be someplace,” and it’s my job to get them there.  Isn’t that right , Chuck? Chuck says, “That’s right.”

Which reminds me of one time when I was visiting my friend J.T. in New Orleans.  J.T. lived in a one room apartment in the Quarter overlooking a courtyard on Chartres Street about a block from Jackson Square. J.T. and his friend Parker, both artists who sold their paintings on the fence around the square, and I were walking down the street headed for a bar on an overcast but balmy January day.  Along the way, Parker was telling us about the woman he was with the night before.  Parker was in his sixties and had long grey hair and full beard, and was a caution if you get my drift.  Anyway, he was describing his sexual encounter with vivid detail when I noticed a priest walking toward us headed in the opposite direction.  I thought Parker would certainly cool it when the priest got close, but instead he increased the volume of his description  and looked at the priest and said, “Isn’t that right, father,” to which the priest replied, “that’s right, my son.”  Only in Nawlins!

Another one of J.T.’s friends was Jack the cop.  He was like a stoned Dirty Harry.  One time Jack got stoned while on duty and forgot where he parked the squad car.  The next week, the Department had him patrolling on horseback a block-long median strip on St. Charles.

On another occasion, the police were responding to a rape incident.  Seems that a guy was raping his granddaughter.  Jack got there first and went up to the third floor and arrested the guy then brought him out on the balcony to let the other cops know.  When the sergeant told Jack to “get that guy down here immediately,” Jack threw him over the balcony.

Speaking of the Big Easy, a couple of months ago I had a craving for oysters.  I hadn’t had any since that venerable midtown institution Anderton’s closed.  For those of you who have never been there, Anderton’s was a special place.  The main dining room was decorated to look like it was under the sea, while the oyster bar was a bar constructed to look like a square rigger complete with sails and rigging, and the walls were adorned with murals of a giant 19th century sea battles.  It was a place where the waitresses called you “Hon,” and the steaks came to the table still sizzling.

So, I had the craving for oysters and I went to the place where I was sure to get the best, Pearl’s Oyster House.  Well their oysters were the size of a quarter.  I looked at the bartender and told him these were a joke, and I went to Oak Grove in Laurelwood where I enjoyed a dozen nice-sized oysters.  A month later I gave Pearl’s another chance but it was the same old story.  I spoke to the manager and told him about the Oak Grove and suggested he change his supplier.  He blamed it on the oil spill.  Look, if you’re going to call your place an Oyster House, you damn well better have some great oysters.

But this is about driving a cab in the Bluff City.  As I said, it was a slow, uneventfull day–a good time to reminisce.

© 2010,  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 8

Worked Wednesday and Thursday day shifts, and Friday night.

 I try to abide be the golden rule of never discussing politics or religion.  But when a passenger breaches the topic, well, I don’t want to seem unsociable.

I took this cool guy from home to work at the FedEx hub, and after some small talk about his job, he said, “Ya know, Republicans just don’t care about average Americans, they only care about the rich.”  “ I hear ya, my friend,” I responded, eager to launch into my tirade.  “They believe if businesses are not regulated, then businesses will make so much money, it will trickle down to the rest of us.  But, they’re blind to fact that this theory never worked and only leads to greed which then leads to a disasterous economy.”  “They said they’re going to undo everything Obama has done,” he said, obviously referring to that narrow minded simpleton Senator Mitch McConnell.  “They can talk the talk, but can they walk the walk?” I asked.  I pointed out that after the big Republican victory in the mid-term election of 1994, Bill Clinton accomplished more than before.  “Over the next two years when voters see what the Republicans are really about, Obama will be re-elected and more Democrats will return to Congress.  But, I’m as frustrated as you and there’s not much I can do about it except cast my vote.”  We continued in this vein until we got to FedEx where we shook  hands and bid each other to keep the faith.

Ask yourself this: Over time, what have the Republicans done to improve our lives?
Other than Eisenhower’s interstate highway system, I can’t think of a single thing.

Now ask the same about the Democrats, and here’s a few:
1. Social Security
2. Federally insured bank accounts
3. Veterans Benefits
4. Voting Rights
5  Civil Rights
6. Medicare and Medicaid
7. Healthcare reform
8. Financial reform


Picked  up a young woman in Midtown headed for the airport.  She was returning to Australia after visiting her boyfriend here.  Talk about your long-distance romance, I thought. “Why don’t you move up here?” I asked.  “I’m a physician, and I’m about to start training for surgery,” she replied. “If I moved here, I would lose that opportunity.”

I love talking to foreigners.  I got a guy at Oak Court Mall and took him to the Hilton.  He was from Germany, but wasn’t very talkative.  I kept expecting him to say, “You vill take me to de hotel.”

Around dusk, I picked up a passenger at Target going to his hotel.  When he got in the cab he said, “Howdy mate.”  “Australia,” I replied.  “South Africa,” he quipped.  He was cool.  He lives in Toronto where he said the temperature was in the forties, and that he doesn’t like cold weather. “What’s the weather like in your country? I asked.  “365 days of golf, “ was his answer.  He’s a partner in a marketing firm and was here to meet with Hilton Wolrdwide. He had worked in several of the big ad agencies both in the U.S. and Europe.  I told him my background.  We commiserated over similar experiences along the way.  I would have liked to share a beer with him. Got a nice tip.

Took a young guy on a round trip from his apartment to a couple of stops and back.  He has cerebral palsy, and walks with his legs bent low, almost in a siting position.  It was obviously very difficult for him.  His name is Antonio and he’s twenty nine.  A nice guy with a healthy attitude and good sense of humor.  Said he prefers not to use a wheel chair.  He said people often stare at him, so I told him to tell them that he’s getting ready to take a big shit. He laughed.

I got a signal to go to the Residence Inn downtown where I picked up a family of four who were headed to a wedding reception at the Pink Palace.  The father sat up front.  They were from Florence. Alabama.  I told him that I spent the night there once when I rode my Harley on the Natchez Trace Parkway up to Nashville.  He proceeded to tell me about everyone he knows who has had a motorcycle accident.  Apparently he knows a bunch of dumb asses.

Around midnight I picked up a guy at the Med.  I could hardly understand a word he said.  It wasn’t just Ebonics, but maybe a combination of that and a speech impediment. I was able to figure out he was asking me to take him to Millbranch and Winchester for ten dollars.  “No problem,” I said.   Along the way he was very talkative.  All I could do was shake my head as if I understood.  At one point, I said, “You sound like you’re from a different country.”  He laughed and said, “the country ok.”

Later I picked up a guy a 35 S. Prescott across from Poplar Plaza.  It was a round trip to a seedy neighborhood north of Summer Ave. where he went into a house for a couple of minutes and returned.  An obvious drug deal. On the way back he talked about the big Thanksgiving dinner he prepared.  When we arrived at his place, he bolted from the cab without paying.  I tried to find him and had the dispatcher call him but of course he didn’t answer. It was a twenty dollar fare.

From there I picked up an inebriated CPA at a bar on Highland near the U of M.  As he got in he asked, “How’s it going?”  “Some mother fucker just ripped me off for twenty bucks!” I exclaimed.  “Man, that’s not right, he said.  “Look, I’ll give you an extra twenty when you drop me off.”  “No man, you don’t have to do that,” I replied.  “But I want to make this right.  Just turn off the meter and I’ll give you forty dollars in advance,” he kindly offered.  He needed to go to his condo downtown which would normally run about fifteen dollars.  I accepted his offer because Mrs. Tucker didn’t raise no dummy.

So, all’s well that ends well.

© 2010,  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 7

Friday night was busy.  Two fares alone accounted for over $100.

I got a call to go to 1800 Pyramid Lane which is in Nonconnah Office Park.  Well, after driving all around the area, I discovered there is no 1800 Pyramid Lane.  The only business where people were leaving for home was Sofamor Danek, but their address is 2600 Sofamor Danek Drive, so I pulled in and picked up two women who wanted to go to the Madison Hotel downtown.  Along the way, one said she had to catch a plane at seven, (it was now 5:15) would she make it, she asked.  I said yes if you rush.  “Will you wait while I pack?” she asked.  Are you kidding? Wait with the meter running while a woman packs her suitcase?  “No problem,” I told her.  So I stood outside the cab to stretch my legs and watched the people in the fitness center across the street while I enjoyed a cigarette.  I’m not in the best shape myself.  I could be mistaken for a nesting doll with legs.  The fare and tip totaled $60.

The other high fair was a guy I picked up in the 3000 block of south 3rd and drove him to Frayser at the opposite end of town.  The fare and tip was $45.  He and his dad work at a clothes hanger factory on Presidents Island.  “What time do you wake up” he asked.  “Why?” I replied.  “I need a cab at 4 am to get to my dad’s house to catch a ride to work.” I told him that as soon as he gets inside to call Yellow Cab and tell them you need a cab at 4 am, then in the morning, call again to confirm it.  He thanked me, and left me alone in the hood.

Actually, I spent most of Friday night in the hoods, mostly South Memphis.

These neighborhoods are depressing.  A little basic landscaping would brighten them up, but I’m sure the residents are busy trying to survive and have little interest or money for such things.

Between the hours of 11:00 p.m. and 2:00 a.m. I usually troll downtown for people ready to go home.  My last fare was the bartender at Grill 83 in the Madison Hotel.  Turned out we had a couple of mutual acquaintances whom we chatted about for awhile.  He then told me there were several attorneys from different parts of the U.S. staying at the hotel.  They had been there for a week trying to settle a big merger, but they wouldn’t reveal the companies.  I figured it must have been FedEx and Dairy Queen.  He said one of the attorneys told him how surprised he was to find so many outstanding restaurants in Memphis.  I keep telling these out-of-towners that we have every Klan rally catered by a 5-Michelin-star French chef.  I mean really, who do they think we are?

Wednesday before Thanksgiving

This day was a total disaster. I thought I’d work a 9 to 9 shift but the taxi supervisor had other ideas.  “You can’t start at 9 unless you want to bring the cab back by 6,” she said with the scowl of my fourth grade spelling teacher.  “What time is the next shift,” I asked. “12 to 12,” was her answer.  So I went back home and waited for noon.

If you’ve ever seen the TV Show “Taxi,” then you get a general idea of what the supervisors can be like.  That’s right, Danny Devito with a Napoleonic complex.

This particular supervisor is a middle-aged black woman, and if you’ve ever upset a black woman, you know what I mean.  It’s like telling a fanatic Muslim you saw Mohammed on a bus drawing cartoons of himself.

There are four supervisors.  Generally speaking, they are all nice folks unless you screw up.

The first cab I got didn’t have a working electrical outlet.  The radio didn’t work in the second cab, and I drove all the way to the University of Memphis in the third cab before I realized the computer’s GPS wasn’t working.  Without the GPS, the dispatcher doesn’t know what zone I’m in so I get no fares.

So, I’m in the fourth cab now, and head out east to the Hilton’s cab stand.  After awhile, I get a notice to pick up a passenger at the Kroger in Poplar Plaza.  Before I get there, the address changed to 721 N. Fourth Street.  So I rush down there and while I’m waiting, the address on the computer changes back to Kroger.  The GPS was screwed up.  I turned in the cab and went home.  Didn’t make a penny.

© 2010,  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 6

Yesterday, Wednesday, I worked the 6–6 shift and was as busy as Sarah Palin signing books at a Nazi rally.

Four airport trips

The first was a young couple I picked up at their riverside condo.  They kept me waiting.  She’s an optometrist who teaches at the School of Optometry.  I didn’t catch what he does but he struck me as being a dude.  Not THE DUDE, mind you, just a hey-dude-where’s-my-car dude. THE DUDE, if you recall, ABIDES.  This one was just tagging along. They were headed to San Francisco to an optometry conference where everyone sees eye to eye no doubt.  We chatted briefly about optometry, like I really know a hell of a lot about it.  Nice tip.

Waiting puts the cab out of commission.  We can’t charge for waiting unless asked to wait by the passenger.  For example, if he or she sticks their hand out holding up five fingers, that means 5 minutes and BOING!, the meter starts

The second airport fare was a nice woman I picked up in midtown.  She teaches yoga to children as young as pre-schoolers.  I asked her if the children were hard to control, and she said only the three-yea-olds.  If you’re interested, here’s her web site:  www.yogafairgrounds.com.

Next I picked up John Hornyak and his wife, also in midtown.  They were headed for L.A. and had some real serious-looking large steel suitcases, the type in which you might expect to find weapons.  His name was very familiar so I asked if he was in the music business and if so did he know Ward Archer.  Yes to both, in fact he recently sold his recording studio to Ward.  Ward was my boss for ten years at Archer Malmo Advertising where I was creative director. We talked about Ward’s success in the recording business and also about what a great guy he is.  I really enjoyed working with Ward.  He did an outstanding job of turning that agency from near collapse when he took over, to one of the largest agencies in the mid south.

Eventually I got around to telling the Hornyaks my name.  “I’ve been hearing about you for years,” said John.  “Well, here I am,” I replied.  I started to say, “It’s me. 250 pounds of twisted steel and sex appeal,” but that would have been borrowing from Sputnik Monroe, a popular wrestler in Memphis during the late 50s and mid 60s.  (As an aside to the taxi stories, the next story is a true experience I had with a professional wrestler when I was a kid.  It has northing to do with driving a cab, but you might enjoy it anyway.)  During the eighties and part of the nineties, I received a lot of exposure in the media for my work with the agency, and my posters.  So it’s nice to meet someone who’s heard of me.  Nice people, the Hornyaks.

The last airport fare was a doctor who appeared to be in his sixties.  Picked him up in a gated community in east Memphis.  His specialty is geriatrics, and he teaches at UT Medical School.  He too was headed to a conference.  We chatted cordially about living in Memphis and where we each went to college, and about his son and yada, yada, yada...

Next was a woman near the University of Memphis campus at a run-down looking duplex.  I took her three blocks to the store and back.  When she first got in, she said, “Rough losing five people in two weeks.”  Well, what can you say except, “I’m sorry.”  “God has a plan for all of us.”  WHOA! I didn’t say that.  That’s just not me.  I should have said, “Henry Winkler won’t be around forever either.”  It was a beautiful day and discussing death wasn’t on the trip card.

I lucked out today and got one of the newer Impalas.  Only had 176,000 miles on it.  Impalas are nice because they have good cup holders and I need my beverages.

I picked up a nurse at her clinic and took her to her house where she picked up either her brother or husband.  They had “words” with each other in the yard before getting in the cab.  When they did get in it was stoney silence so I said, “every body happy?”  More silence.

I took an elderly lady from her apartment building to her doctor’s office, and later picked her up and took her home.  She said she was spending thanksgiving here because she wasnt up to traveling.  I felt sorry for her, and declined her tip.

The only other passenger worth mentioning was a young black kid, late teens or early twenties.  I took him to the community college.  When I asked what he was majoring in he said graphic design. Bingo!  “That’s what I do,” I said and filled him in on my background.  His goal is to do animation for the movies, i.e Pixar.  I told him that’s an excellent field to get in, and also said there is a great demand for web designers.  I mentioned that it was good that he was really so focused, and that his parents must have done a good job raising him.  “My mother stuck to me like white on rice,” he said. “I didn't understand it then, but I’ve told her now how much I appreciate it.” The more we talked about design, the more excited he became.  When I dropped him off, we shook hands, I wished him luck, and gave him my web site address.

It does my heart good to see young blacks who are determined to get a good education when so many of their peers are stuck with lousy parents and little hope.


AND THE WINNER IS

In 1959, I was in the seventh grade at Snowden school.  Every Monday night, my father took me to the wrestling matches downtown at Ellis auditorium. In those days, Elvis and wrestling were the hot topics in Memphis.

For a young kid, wrestling was very exciting.  It was classic good versus bad. I remember witnessing brutal battles among the likes of Sputnik Monroe, The Mighty Yankee, Jackie Fargo, Spider Galento, The Von Brauner brothers, Joe Scarpa, Cowboy Lester Welch, and others.  But everyone’s hero was Billy Wicks.

Billy Wicks was a young, handsome, golden-haired guy from Minnesota who took up wrestling at an early age to overcome the effects of polio. We all loved to watch his ongoing feud with Sputnik Monroe.  It was like watching Batman grappling with The Joker, and I loved every minute.

I also remember seeing Wicks wrestle Gorgeous George, and the time he answered the question, “Who’s tougher? A boxer or a wrestler?,” when he forced former World Heavyweight Champ, Jersey Joe Wolcot into submission.

So it was to my delight when my mother said she worked with a lady who knew Billy Wicks, and how would I like to meet him?

The next Monday night, after the last match, my father took me backstage.  There stood Billy, bigger than life with a big grin on his face.  He offered me his hand and said “Hi Eddie,” put his arm around me an introduced me to some of the wrestlers as “my friend.” I was stunned speechless and about to pee in my pants.

I went home that night with a stack of autographed photos and the anticipation of telling everyone at school about my incredible experience.

A few weeks later, my mother had another surprise: Billy Wicks was coming to dinner at our house.  “Holy shit,” I said under my breath.

Although we usually ate around 6:30, I took up my position on the front steps at 5 p.m. and waited.

Two of the neighborhood kids came by and asked what I was doing. “Waiting for Billy Wicks.  He’s coming to dinner,” I said.  “Yeah, sure,” one of them laughed as they walked off.

Around 6:00, he pulled into our driveway, got out, grinned and said, “Hey Eddie, what’s for dinner?”

It was the greatest night of my life. I sat next to Billy, and we all listened intently as he regaled us with tales of his magnificent prowess.

After dinner, I called the two neighborhood boys and convinced them to come over.  When they arrived they were completely at a loss for words.

Billy entertained us by showing us various wresting holds, using me to demonstrate.

At one point he wrapped his strong arms around my neck and said, “This is the famous sleeper hold.  Eddie, if you feel like you’re going to pass out, just tap my leg.”

I glanced over at my mother who was wringing her hands, then suddenly, everything went black.  As I woke up a few seconds later, Billy said, “You forgot to tap.”

Of course the next day at school, all I could talk about was Billy Wicks coming to dinner, and how he was my best friend.  Nobody believed me, and since we didn’t own a camera, I couldn’t prove it.  On top of that, my home room teacher, Coach Flowers, would accuse Billy of being a faker every time I mentioned his name.

What a bummer!  Here I was with the greatest true story of the seventh grade and nobody believed me.  I felt completely dejected.  What could I do to prove it?

After a couple of days an idea hit me like a freight train: I’ll invite Billy to have lunch at school.

That night I wrote Billy a letter explaining my situation and could he please come to lunch.  I even drew a map of the school so he could find my home room.  I didn’t specify a particular day since I figured he had better things to do.

A few days passed, and I was headed to my home room to get ready to go to lunch when I noticed a crowd standing in front of the door.  I heard someone say, “Eddie, Billy Wicks is in there and he’s looking for you.”  My heart sunk as I entered the room to see Billy towering over a red-faced Coach Flowers.

“Hey Eddie,” Billy said. “I hope I’m not late.”  I was thrilled.  “Screw you, Coach Flowers,” I thought.

Billy and me and Coach Flowers and the entire school went to the cafeteria.  The room was buzzing with excitement as I ate lunch with my best friend.

Afterwards, we all returned to the home room.  Billy sat in a chair next to Coach Flowers’ desk, as one by one, each kid went up to get his autograph while he fielded questions from everyone.

At one point, one of the girls asked about his cauliflower ears. He invited her to come up and touch them as he answered her question. Just as she reached out her hand to touch, he let out a loud grow causing her to scream and the rest of us to laugh uproariously.

When it came time for Billy to leave, he asked Coach Flowers permission to give me a ride around the block in his new Cadillac.  Flowers dared not to say no.

I could tell Billy was proud of his new ride, and especially proud of the gold wrestler hood ornament.

That night, Billy lost his match with Sputnik, but I was the real winner.

© 2010,  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 5

Thursday proved to be a good day.  The weather was great and I had four airport trips.

The first was a business man from northern California, Silicon Valley.  He said this was his first trip to Memphis, and gave me the impression that he thought Memphis was some backwater town.  So, I told him about FedEx, Holiday Inn, Scherring Plough, International Paper, UT Medical School, Sharp Manufacturing, Nike and St Jude.  About Memphis being the home of the blues and birthplace of both rock n’ roll and soul music. I told him about the National Civil Rights Museum, Stax Records, the Smithsonian’s Rock N’ Soul Museum, Gibson Guitars and Morgan Freeman’s night club Ground Zero.  He left impressed.

The next was another business man who talked on his cell the entire trip.

Number three was a young guy from Indiana who works for Smith & Nephew, and who is moving his family to Memphis.  He said he heard Germantown is a good place to live.  I tried to convince him to move to Frasyer.

Later I picked up an older couple at a beautiful house in Chickasaw Gardens.  They were headed to Baltimore for their son’s wedding.  They had a lot of luggage but they managed to get it all in the trunk. The son is thirty and one of four children.  The other three are all women.  The son is a chef, and along with his partner, is opening a restaurant in Chattanooga which will be the bride and groom’s home as well.  From that point on we discussed SEC football, which led us to the University of Memphis football team.  We all agreed that coach Larry Porter, first year or not, should be fired.  My heart goes out to the players who put their hearts and souls into the games only to suffer from high, lopsided losses.  There’s no excuse.  The team has absolutely no defense.  The defensive coordinator should have been replaced after the third loss.  Porter is incompetent.  The three of us also agreed that the school shouldn’t have fired Tommy West who took the team to four bowl games, a better performance than any coach in recent memory.

The only other passengers worth mentioning was a couple from Chile.  I picked them up at Oak Court mall and took them to the Marriott downtown.  They had come to the U.S. just to visit Memphis.  They spoke little English, but did manage to say Graceland and “Beeela” Street.

Friday, I worked the 2pm­–2am shift.

I picked up at the Botanical Gardens.  They were from upstate New York where it was snowing when they left.  They were here as tourists, and marveled at the beautiful weather.  In fact, they couldn’t stop asking questions about our weather.  I felt like Dave Brown.  We also talked about Graceland and while they weren’t big fans, they were nevertheless impressed and moved by the tour. I told them I had been to Graceland twice, and back when Elvis was alive, how it was always comforting to know when he was at home. I gave them some suggestions on other places to go and dropped them off at the Rendezvous.  One wiff of barbecue and I was headed to Corky’s in east Memphis.  Corky’s has a drive in window so I could eat in the cab.

I’m not used to staying up all night.  Hell, I’m usually in bed by nine, so working all night takes it out of me.

Friday night was unusually slow probably because of the Tiger’s basketball game.  I’ll have to tell the university not to play basketball when I’m working.

Had a couple of fares of a young woman in each going to work at two different restaurants.

I also picked up a topless dancer and took her to work at the Gold Club.  Unfortunately she wasn’t dressed for work.  She also wasn’t very friendly.  She had me wait at TJ Max while she did some shopping.  With the meter running, I sat there and imagined she must be buying something to wear on the job.  All I got out of her was that she was from Hot Springs.  She was thin, and looked to be all of twelve years old.

Later I went to one of those by-the-hour motels on South Bellevue where I picked up a very attractive black woman. “Whew!”, she said, “Those people are crazy.  I was invited to a party and sat there thinking these folks need to get a degree and get some jobs.”  She told me she was originally from Pennsylvania, and has two children in the Navy, and two in high school making As and Bs.  She was nice.  I had to take her to dreaded South Memphis where I didn’t linger very long.

I spent some time trolling the streets downtown and was flagged by two guys: one from Wisconin and the other from St. Louis who decided to meet up here for some R & R.  I took them to the hotel, and they asked where in town would I go for an evening out.  I suggested they eat at Sweet Grass in the Cooper Young district and take in some live music at the Young Avenue Deli.  Good tip to them, and them to me.

Got a signal to pick up at Tugs in Harbortown.  Two guys got in.  One middle aged the other around forty, and he was pretty drunk. They wanted to go to another bar, Molly Maguire’s in Victorian Village.  They weren’t very talkative.  Later that night I was sent back to Molly Maguire’s where I picked up the same two guys who wanted to return to the first bar.  The younger one kept passing out, but at one point when he was awake, the other guy asked him how his interview went with Vince Vaughn.  I was able to learn he was trying out for Vaughn’s comedy tour.

At around 12:45 I settled on waiting in line at the Beale Street cab stand.  I could tell how slow the night was because there were at least ten cabs in line.  The deal at a cab stand is the first in line gets the next fare.  I like this cab stand because it gives me a chance for some good people watching.  After about twenty minutes, a phalanx of cops approached the cabs giving each of us an eagle-eyed look.  I immediately felt guilty, but then I was raised by a Jewish mother.  Apparently someone must have sent a cab distress signal, but it was a false alarm.  Reassuring nevertheless.

My last fare was from the cab stand.  A twenty-something guy whom I took to a house in Midtown.

When you return to the cab yard, you get your tank filled and write down the mileage on the odometer on your trip card then take the gas receipt and card to the supervisor along with any credit card receipts.  He adds an amount  for gas to the lease amount then deducts the credit card amounts from that.  I pay the balance, which tonight was $103.10.

I almost forgot to mention that during my shift I had four no-shows (assholes who make other arrangements but who don’t call and cancel the cab).

© 2010,  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.)