Taxi 15

Hello readers.  It’s been a while since my last story, and in the meantime, I turned another year older.  “Whoopie!” my ass!  I remember hearing older people say, “Growing older is no piece of cake.”  It’s actually more like a Twinkee someone stepped on.  When you get past sixty, you get hit with the famous “flying pains” which crash indiscriminately into your body.  You could be walking along with a smile on your face and WHAM, suddenly your foot hurts, or your arm, knee, elbow, hair...then thirty minutes later, the pain is gone.  But I’ve discovered a way to halt the aging process:  I’m going to join the Republican party since they’re always trying to turn the clock back.

I haven’t written in a while because I’ve actually had some design projects for a change.  If you haven’t read Taxi 1, the you should know that I’m a graphic designer, and started driving a cab when my business was reduced to one active client.  I can make more in an hour designing than in a day of driving.  But I love driving a cab.

I completed a nice and lucrative poster project.  Only the second time in 40 years I’ve been paid for a poster.  The other time was for a poster I did for the Notodden, Norway annual blues festival (largest in Europe). The others were done pro bono.  I created and produced the annual Blues Awards poster for 22 years, free of charge, and worth over $120,000.  Then the Blues Foundation brings in a new director from Florida who sent me an email saying they didn’t need me anymore.  Phone call would have been nice.  It seems some of the board members thought my last poster was racist, which is total horse shit especialy considering the fact that it was approved by a black interim director.

The blues posters can be seen in clubs throughout the U.S.  Warner Brothers Records has thirteen of them, and several adorn the walls in Gibson Guitar’s conference room.  I’ve even had posters appear in the TV shows “Thirtysomething,” and “Going to California,” and one is in “Cast Away” in Helen Hunt’s character’s office.  Read more about me here:  http://www.docsnews.com/eddie_tucker.html.  You can see some of my posters at http://www.geteddie.com

But that’s not why you got in my cab.

The day began with a woman from Connecticut who was here visiting her father.  Took her to the airport.  She commented on the nice weather even though it was cold.  “Not as cold as where I’m going.  Still snow on the ground,” she said.  “You should come here in the spring when the azaleas and dogwoods are in bloom,” I suggested.  Nice tip.

Later, I picked up a young couple on Johnson Circle near Tillman.  They asked how much the fare would be to their destination.  I always hate to estimate fares.  I could radio the dispatcher and find out, but he’s usually busy and it could take a while to reach him so I guessed.  When we got there, the fare was much higher than my guess, and they wanted me to wait for them and take them back home, so I didn’t charge for waiting.  Hey, I’m a nice guy!  The rate is twenty cents for each one-ninth of a mile, but math was never my strong point, especially fractions.  I’m an artist, not a rocket scientist.

A woman got in my cab and said, “Knmlknas, nonss wjosl and mpoi, cvosie,” well, that’s what it sounded like.  No she wasn’t speaking any Slavic language, she was as American as Thomas Jefferson.  But I could only understand about one out of every six words.  Thankfully I already knew her destination.

That afternoon I picked up another woman whom I could easily understand, but she wouldn’t shut up.  Her sister didn’t pay the utilities, and she wasn’t spending another night there.  She wanted to go to a motel.  She told me about her heart surgery and her diabetes, and how her sister put her in a home to die, but she got out, and blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah......and then tell me again.  ”Yes mam, whatever you say. I hear ya,” I would reply whenever she would shut up long enough to drink some water.  All in all she was a nice person, and it’s my job to listen.

Got a trip from Beverly Mansion on Central at Melrose to the airport.  The rider was a young man in his thirties, a landscaper who cares for the grounds at the mansion.  He said he was originally from upstate New York and came to Memphis with his band to become a rock star.  The other members didn’t like the Bluff City and returned home.  When the landscaper realized he was no Elvis, he took up dirt as a living.  He was returning to Rochester to deal with divorce matters.  “She could suck the chrome off a trailer hitch but was dumb as a goat,” he said, “plus, she was twelve years younger than me.”  “Yeah, I lived with one like that about thirty years ago,” I replied.  I went on to say, “I once took her to the fourth of July fireworks show downtown where she asked me what the fourth of July was all about.”  “I told her it marked the end of the fourth of liquor and the beginning of the fifth.”  “Oh,” she said, “I wondered where ‘fifth of liquor’ came from.”

He said he hires a lot of young black guys for various projects because they’re hard workers.  We talked about black youths and African Americans in general.  We both agreed the young ones are trend setters as evidenced by their music and street lingo which eventually seep into popular American culture.  I pointed out that black people are often not afraid to show their emotions, and many whom I’ve met have a genuine and endearing way of laughing and expressing themselves.  I dropped him off, and wished him a safe flight.  Got a nice tip.

Gave a ride to a young woman and her two little kids.  She wasn’t very talkative, and the kids were also very quiet.  I noticed the little boy’s fascination with my Tom Tom GPS as his listened to the female voice speaking the directions.  At one point the Tom Tom said. “Bear left.”  I turned to the boy and said, “I don’t see a bear.  Do you see a bear?”  His eyes got big and his mother finally broke her stony silence with a laugh.

Over the past few months I have had the same passenger three times to date.  She’s a woman whom appears to be in her forties, and who is working toward her masters in special education.  I’ve taken her from her apartment building to Snowden School, where she’s a student teacher, and to Christian Brothers University.  She’s very pleasant and dedicated to her work.  I told her about my daughter who will start grad school this July in Portland, Oregon.  She too will become a teacher.  Oregon requires teachers to have a masters degree, which I believe all states should do to improve the quality of public education.  This process also weeds out those who are not fully committed.  My passenger, by the way, has to use a wheel chair.  She propels it with her feet like she’s walking while sitting, but she seems to get around pretty well.  I just help her into the cab, and place the wheel chair in the trunk.  Next time I see her, I’ll have to tell her about Yellow Cab’s wheel-chair-assisted vans.  That way she won’t have to get out of her chair.

Later that day I took a young man to his job as bartender at Friday’s downtown.  Interesting guy.  From Newport Beach, CA.  He had worked for Random House in L.A. screening submissions, but the company shut down the west coast office and offered to transfer him to New York.  He turned it down because he said he’d have to work about sixty hours a week.  He came to Memphis because of his girlfriend who also tends bar even though she has a degree in micro biology.  I turned him onto my blog.  Bartenders and servers always tip cab drivers well.

Took a couple from east Memphis to the airport.  They were headed to Nassau.  I told them about the time in 1969 when four friends and I went there, and how we connected with four wealthy girls from Lima, Peru.  They provided a picnic on the beach every day for us, and we returned home, my friend Johnny said, “We’re driving to Lima.”  The Pan American highway and four good tires will get you there.  Johnny was “Mr. Adventure.”  I could always count on a memorable experience just by hanging out with him.  If you want to read the full story of the great Lima, Peru adventure, go to this link:  http://www.geteddie.com/eddie/gringo.html.  It’s a humdinger!

Ding, ding, ding goes the cab’s computer.  Pick up on Peabody.  She was a nice middle-age woman headed to the airport.  “Where are you flying to?,” I asked.  “A conference in Vancouver,” she answered.  “I understand Vancouver is a beautiful city,” I went on, “What line of work are you in?,”  “I teach German literature at the University of Memphis, and this is a literary conference.”  That explained her German accent.  As it turned out, she and her husband were in Tokyo when the earthquake hit.  “We were in a park but the quake lasted so long we had to find something to hold onto,” she explained.  “We were lucky.  We caught the last flight out.  It took us seven hours to reach the airport which normally would have taken about forty-five minutes.”  She also said Tokyo didn’t suffer as much damage as other areas.  Her flight had a layover in Los Angeles, so when I dropped her off I said, “Have a nice trip, and I hope L.A. doesn’t quake while you’re there.”

Last night, Friday, I decided to drive, thinking that since it had been a beautiful spring day, people would want to gey out and head for the many restaurants and clubs downtown.  Well, people were out alright, but they surely weren’t taking cabs to get there.  It was the worst shift I ever had, and I wasn’t alone.  In all the zones displayed on the computer, the available trips column was lined with big fat zeroes.  I didn’t make a dime, only enough to cover leasing the cab.

The first of my few trips was to a condo on Mud Island where I picked up two guys and a woman who wanted to go to Huey’s at Second and Union.   The couple were here from St. Louis visiting the other guy who had just moved from east Tennessee.  I told them about my blog and the Memphis Flyer, and showed them a picture of the Flyer cover on my iPhone.  They were impressed, as well they should be.  Not everyone gets to ride with a celebrity.  They asked how far the Flying Saucer was from Huey’s. “Two blocks, unless you’re drunk,” I answered.  They laughed, so I said, “Maybe four blocks in your case.”  More laughs.  Hey, I should go on the road.  Oh!  I AM on the road.  Making passengers laugh usually leads to a good tip.  But it was so slow this night, I just kept tipping myself.

I spent most of the night trolling downtown, driving slowly next to the sidewalk filled with pedestrians on Second, cruising past the hotels, making my presence known at Beale and Second, or rolling past restaurants and clubs on South Main.  Midtown, which accounts for the most cab business, was completely dead.  Was it a Twitter conspiracy or what?  I demand an explanation.  I should have driven to a Midtown house, knocked on the door and screamed, “You’re supposed to take a cab!”

Around 11:15, I was flagged on Monroe near Second by a thirty-something dude who needed a lift to The Lofts condos on Tennessee street.  Nice guy.  Said he’d been living it up all week and needed to get to his pad where a visitor would be arriving soon.  I don’t think he was talking about Santa.  Obviously a late night tryst.  I remember those.

Later, I picked up a disheveled runt of a woman at The Med emergency room and took her to Methodist Hospital’s emergency room. She had a large, bulging plastic bag and I wondered if she was going from one E.R. to another collecting... (Aw, yuk! I don’t even want to think about it!)


Around 12:30 I get dinged to pick up a woman on North Johnson Circle in the hood.  I pull up to the duplex and signal the computer to call the customer and tell her the cab has arrived.  I wait, and wait, and wait.  Here I am sitting in a cab late on a Friday night in the middle of the hood.  I remember several black passengers tell me that even they don’t go out of the house at night.  “Stay outta the hood,” one old man told me.  I do another customer call out.  A few minutes later the customer comes to the cab and says she needs a few more minutes.  I tell her I’ll have to start the meter, and she says that’s okay.  For some reason I felt particularly uneasy this night, so I get my taser out and activate it.  Sure enough, I notice this young guy with his hands under his shirt approaching on my side.  When I pointed the taser at him, he must of seen the red laser dot on his chest because he turned and went back from where he came.  “Come on lady, get your butt in the cab so I can get the hell outta here,” I say to myself.  She finally shows up, and we head to the Rehab club on South Front.

My last trip of the night was a drunk, t-shirted guy waving a credit card who flagged me down on Peabody Place between Third and Second.  “Hey man, get me outta here.  I got money, just take me to an ATM.”  He gets in on the left side, sitting directly behind me which I don’t like for safety reasons, so I tell him to move over to the right.  “They want to fight, man.  I’m a ladies man, and I pissed them off,” he slurs.  At this point in the night, I’m ready to go home, and I really don’t want any conversation, especially with a drunk.  “Where you headed?,” I ask.  “Bartlett, out Austin Peay,” he said.  “Good,” I thought because it’s about fourteen or fifteen miles.  I took him to an ATM, and off we went.  He didn’t talk much, and I wasn’t interested.  He tipped me ten bucks.  The end.

© 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 14

Taxi 14

Last summer, my former dentist, Timothy Kutas, accidentally drilled a hole in my tongue which wasn't numb at the time.  I didn't hold it against him since it was an accident.  Well I had trouble eating and sleeping and the hole became infected in December.  He sent me to an oral surgeon who said he needed to perform a biopsy and it would cost $865.  I called the dentist and tod him he should pay.  He said "I hear ya," which to most people means "I agree. Then said he'd speak to the surgeon and call me back.  Two weeks went by so I called his office and explained to the receptionist why I was calling.  A few hours later, she called and said, (get this,) "He doesn't know what you're talking about, but he's not paying for the biopsy.” “He knows that he drilled a damn hole in my tongue,” I shot back.  She then said, “Don’t cuss at me!”  “I was cussing at my tongue.  Don’t you know the difference,?” I explained.

I kept trying to reach him at the office, then called several times at his home.  Each time I got the answer machine, no matter what time of day or night.  So, out of frustration, I left this message: "This is the man whose tongue you drilled a hole in.  Don't you think it's a chicken shit thing to do to have your receptionist call me?  Aren't you man enough to talk to me?”

Well, it must have freaked him out because he took out a restraining order on me claiming I stalked his family and threatened him will physical harm.  Neither of which are true.  I’m not some lunatic intent on harming anyone. (He's at least 6'4" and about 270lbs.  I’m 5’11” and if he's afraid of a 64 year old with a pacemaker beceause I called him a chicken shit, what must his grade school years a have been like?)

The order was granted for one week at which time a hearing was conducted to either lift the order or extend it. The deputy sheriff who served the restraining order told me I didn't need an attorney to appeal it.  So of course the dentist shows up with an attorney, and  since I didn't have one, the judge wouldn't allow me to question him.

My defense was, calling someone an chicken shit is an insult, not a threat.  But nothing I could have said would have made any difference.  Plus, even though I requested the judge to insist the dentist and his attorney prove the specific allegations in the order, they never did, and the dentist denied drilling my tongue.  So if he didn’t drill the hole, why did he give me a prescription for an antibiotic and pain medication?  I'm currently restrained until August.  The dentist could, on a whim, have me sent to jail for 30 days.

I’m only reporting this as a warning to others seeking dental care in Memphis.

Now on a lighter note:  A good friend of mine went to Nashville last week to close out her late aunt Katie’s estate.  The only remaining item in her house was a safe, so my friend called a locksmith.  It took him two hours of drilling and sawing to open it.  Inside was a single piece of paper on which was written the combination.  Aunt Katie is somewhere laughing her ass off, as did I.  I swear, I no longer have an ass.  I now sit on my own lap.

I rely on Gracie’s keen sense of direction.  Here she’s saying,

“You weren’t supposed to turn there, you moron.  Now give me a treat.”

Notice how well the meter and computer are mounted on the dash.  

My wife thinks I'm going to get in trouble for revealing Gracie in the cab, 

but heck, we give rides to passengers and their dogs don't we.

Friday was a good day for business.  My total income exceeded any previous day, due, in part, to mostly long trips.

As you can see, I took Gracie with me for a few hours.  All my passengers loved it.

My first trip around 6:30 AM was taking a woman from the Residence Inn downtown to the airport.  It was a cold morning, but she was wearing a t-shirt and no coat.  “Aren’t you cold,?” I asked.  “From Minnesota,” was her reply.  She had been in town for a business meeting.  I stopped at the intersection of Monroe and Riverside.  A car with its turn signal on indicating a right hand turn was approaching slowly on Riverside to my left.  When the car slowed even more, I started to pull out, but the other driver changed her mine and slammed on her brakes just inches from my front left fender.  Typical Memphis driver.  I’ve driven cars in L.A. and Chicago where people know how to drive, but here in River City, thinking while driving has been banned.

Another trip was taking a mother and her three kids to school.  The dispatcher gave me the wrong school, so I had to shut the Tom Tom off and follow their directions. The boy, a fourth-grader, sat up front with me, but was too shy to engage in conversation, but when I asked him if he was married, he laughed.  I waited while the mother went in the school to sign in the kids, then took he to a nearby store, then back home.

Also took to young teens to school.  I knew they were brother and sister because they sat as far apart as they could, and didn’t speak to one another.  They wanted to be let out about 200 yards from school.  I guess they didn’t want their friends to see them arrive in a cab.

Picked up a colorful duo at Motel 6 in the Medical center to go to the bus station.  He immediately got in the cab and slammed the door shut as she struggled with a large suitcase.  “Just leave the fuckin’ thing here,” he yelled to her.  I helped her put it in the trunk.  “Where yall headed?,” I asked.  “The bus station,” he said.  “I mean where on the bus are you headed?”, I tried again.  She, in the richest redneck dialect, replied, “Amarillo, Texas.  None too soon, neither.  Can’t wait to get outta this shit hole.”  “You mean you don’t like Memphis?,” I asked.  “Hell,” she went on, “took our damn car.”  “Who,?” I had to know.  “Fuckin’ police (pronounced po-lice with a long ‘o’) up in Tipton county. DU fuckin’ I.“  Wanted $350 for the for the fuckin’ thing.  I told ‘em to keep the fuckin’ thing,” she bitched.  “Gotta fuckin’ tell everybody, don’t cha?,” he snorted.

I let the wind in the cab die down a little, then said, “What’d yall come here for?” “Work,” she answered.  “We travel around workin’ different places.  Got a trailer in a small town near Amarillo.  Town has a seven eleven and a Wally World.”  I said, “Wally World? like the amusement park in National Lampoon’s movie “Vacation.’  So I asked, “Is it a big place.”  She laughed hard and said, “It’s a fuckin’ WalMart.”  Well, at least she was laughing now.  Yep, the mood lightened, so I asked, “How long yall been married.”  He jumped on this one with, “We ain’t fuckin’ married.”  Eventually we found common ground when she noticed I was wearing a Harley Davidson jacket, and even rubbed the HD logo on the sleeve when they got out.  I said, “Hope yall have a fuckin’ good trip.”  They gave me a great tip, twice the fare.  Man, was that a fuckin’ trip!  I’d like to have a few brews with them.  They must have some good stories.

Now there’s something Sarah Palin could add to her charming down-home-style lingo, “You fuckin’ betcha.”  Man, I would love to have her as a passenger. I would pretend I didn’t know who she was, and ask, “What type of business are you in?” “Politics,” she would reply.  “Realy? Well you know that Sarah Palin must be the dumbest, most idiotic public figure of the twenty-first century,” I’d offer up, “She makes Mitch McConnell look like a genius.”   “I AM Sarah Palin,” she would insist.  “Baloney,” I’d say, “I’d recognize her anywhere.  You look more like Tina Fey.”

Picked up a guy who said he used to be the director of the Memphis Music Commission.  We chatted awhile about Memphis music when he said, “Justin Timberlake is as significant an influence as Elvis.”  “Really? Timberlake is just a talented song and dance man.  Elvis changed American culture and opened the door for black artists to get more airplay on traditionally all-white stations.  He also influenced the direction of British culture and rock n’ roll.  Over 600,000 people from the world over visit Graceland each year.  How many do you think will visit Timberlake’s house when he’s gone?,” was my response.  He got real quiet for the rest of the trip.

And this brings up another sore subject in my mental locker of things which bug me.  The Rock N’ Roll Hall of Fame is in Cleveland only because Celeveland was home to Alan Freed, a radio DJ, who coined the term Rock N’ Roll.  I dare anyone to compile an hour’s worth of Cleveland music.  You could fill several rooms with the great  music that was and still is created in Memphis.  GEEEES!

Trip to a downtown condo where I picked up a young woman head for the U of M.  She said she’s majoring in education.  I told her that’s what my daughter majored in and who just got accepted to grad school.  She lives in Portland, OR where teachers are required to have a masters.  Every state should require this.

Took another young lady from Piggly Wiggly midtown to her home in Frayser.  Long way-good fare.  Not much conversation.

Still another young female headed to cosmetology school.  When she got in, she asked if I had change for a hundred.  “No, but I’ll take you to get change,” i answered.  I entered Banks on the Tom Tom Points of Interest screen.  It listed about five banks with the closest on first.  Went there, but no bank no more.  She was getting worried about how much all this searching was going to cost.  I found another bank a half mile away, and told her I’d turn off the meter untill she got her change.  When I finally got to her location, she told me I was nice and gave me a good tip.

I gave a ride to a nice elderly couple from there midtown apartment to their doctor downtown.  We shared comments about growing old.  She looked to be close to ninety, but was very nice.

Got signaled to go tot he Blue Monkey on Madison where I picked up yet another young woman.  I told her that from 77 to 81 I lived across the street, and the Monkey in those days was the legendary Trader Dicks with live performances by such artists as Travis Womack, Keith Sykes, and Larry Rasberry and the Highsteppers, and the infamous bouncer Campbell Kennsinger.  I spent many hours in there holding onto the bar.  I also told her about what Overton Square was like, and how I could just trot down there anytime and get a drink or some good food.  Silky Sullivan’s first place was in the Square, along with Ruby Reds, The Bombay Bicycle Club, the Grotto restaurant, Lafayette’s Music Room where I saw Kiss perform in 1972 before they made it big.  There was also Solomon Alfred’s club which had some great entertainers such as Delbert McClinton whom I stood next to at the urinal.  And no, I didn’t look.  Further west was a large club called the Ritz where I saw George Thurgood, among others.  South on Cooper past Union was High Cotton where such notables as George Harrison or Eric Clapton would just show up and jam onstage.  Will somebody please revive the square?

One more trip.  I picked up (yes!) a young woman who was from Bulgaria but lives here now with her husband who teaches philosophy at Rhodes college.  She has a masters in political science.  I said, ‘I can imagine what the dinner conversation is like.”  I told her about my blog, and now she’s one of my regular followers. She too writes a blog about marrying a Bulgarian and all the time-honored traditions leading up to the wedding.  Check it out: http://www.howtomarryabulgarian.com

Well folks, the clock on the wall says it’s time for a glass of scotch.  Hope to have another entry next week.  Try to be an easy rider.

© 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 13

Monday was a beautiful day with warm temps, and busy.  It was non-stop, plus traffic all over town was heavier than normal.  I attribute the increased business and traffic to the weather. The whole city must have decided to get the heck out of the house because the week before was bitter cold with snow.

I was so busy I don’t know how many trips I had, and I can’t remember them all.  Perhaps I should take a secretary with me to take notes.  Anybody up for the job?  The pay is nada dollars and zilch cents.

Picked up a guy at the bus station to go to a hotel in east Memphis.  He said he rode the bus from Burlington, NC and it took 19 hours.  “I’ll never do that again,” he said.  He’s a trucker for a company located in Memphis.  The company has an account with Yellow Cab so this was a voucher trip.  Good dough!  For some reason, he and I got into a conversation about professional wrestling.  I told him my story about my childhood hero Billy Wicks and how he came to eat lunch with me at school one day.  The trucker said he had photos of him as a kid with several famous grapplers including the legendary “Nature Boy” Buddy Rodgers.  He then told me about his Nigerian girlfriend whom he plans to marry.  “She’s not like American women,” he said, “she treats me like a king.”  I thought to myself that will probably change once she gets to know our ways.

Picked up a woman who said she just spent $6,000 to rid her attic of rats.  She said the whole neighborhood is infested.  “Do they kill the rats?” I asked.  “No,” she replied, it’s illegal.”  She said the examinator uses a spray which drives the rats out, then they seal the roof.  Her cab trip was only a few blocks, but she paid me more than twice the fare.  Rats, I wish I could remember her name.

Wednesday was a big day for two reasons.

First, ten other drivers and I had to attend a safe driving course.  We met at the cab yard and traveled together in a van to the meeting.  Along the way everyone was griping about having to do this.  Among us there was probably collectively over 4,000 hours of driving experience.  We probably have to do this so the company can maintain a good insurance rating.

The first hour was devoted to marketing presented by the company’s marketing director.  The theme was how we each could make more money.  Did you know that one way is to use breath mints?  Well, it makes since.  You don’t want to talk to passengers with your breath smelling like you just had the latest Subway footlong special of garlic and dung beetles.

The marketing show and tell was really pretty good with some useful info.  Plus we each got a free Elvis pen.  Every time I tried to use it, it only wrote “hunka, hunka burning love.”

The next three hours was on safe and defensive driving.  The majority agreed to skip some breaks so we could get this over with quicker.  At one point, I slipped out and went through an exit into the stairwell to take a smoke, because I’m addicted to nicotine and was going nuts.  Naturally I got locked out.  I swear I checked the door first before exiting to make sure that wouldn’t happen.  But that’s my luck, always getting caught with my hand in the cookie jar like being suspended four times and finally expelled from Snowden Junior High.  Yes fans, I was a juvie: just harmless, stupid stuff like dismantling water fountains and placing the hardware in the locker of kid we didn’t like, or throwing spitballs at the blackboard when the teacher’s back was turned.  Hell, today kids bring guns to school.  What will kids be doing in ten years?

Anyway, our new director of operations was at the meeting and we had some pretty good discussions.  I like this new guy.  He seems sincere and determined to make some needed improvements.

The second reason this was a big day is because this was the day the Memphis Flyer hit the stands with the cover story about this here blog.  The Flyer reprinted excerpts leading to new found respect for me at the cab yard.

Wanna know the name of the Yellow Cab yellow?  Its Swamp Holly Yellow, and research shows it is the most visible color.  So next time you’re down in the swamp, pick you some Swamp Holly.  They’re perty!

Thursday.

My first rider was a business man going from the Hilton to the airport.  He said he’d been waiting a half hour, and asked why there weren’t any cabs at the hotel.  “I’m sorry you had to wait,” I told him,  “there is usually at least one cab there, but this has been a pretty hectic morning.”  He was concerned about missing his flight, but I assured him that Fast Eddie will get him there in plenty of time.  “Where you from?” I asked.  “New York,” he replied.  A few minutes passed and I inquired about what type of business he’s in. “Banking,” was his answer.  “How’s the banking business these days?” I asked.  “It’s good.  Its like the last two years never happened,” he said.  I asked him, “Are banks lending money again?”  He said they are, but it’s a little scary.  “Gotta have faith,” I offered.  I asked him if he was living in NYC on 9/11.  He said yes, but he lives at the opposite end of the island.  He’s originally from Maryland, and in reference to 9/11 he said New Yorkers are pretty resilient.

Some of you may recall my story of the 92 year old WWII vet whom I picked up at Kroger, and how I kept trying to get him to tell me some war stories, but all he wanted to talk about was how rude people are today.  Well I picked him up again today.  I said, “I remember you. You and your brothers were in the Pacific campaigns in WWII.”  “Yeah, that’s me,” he replied.  “I bet you saw a lot of action,” I said, hoping for a story or two.  “Saw a hell of a lot of action,” he said, proudly wearing his WWII veteran’s cap.  Then he went on to say, “People today got no manners.  Don’t say please or thank you.  I just held the elevator door for this guy who didn’t bother to say shit.  And the young ones just as soon shoot ya as look at ya.”  Well so much for my hearing any good war stories.

I let him out at a house in south Memphis which was surrounded by a chain link fence with a dog in the yard.  As I maneuvered the cab to turn to the opposite direction, I noticed he was still standing at the gate, so I pulled up and said I’d wait for him to get inside.  He told me, “Don’t gotta do that.  I got my shit with me and if anybody fucks with me I’ll blow there ass off.”  And he would too.  I mean really, after three years of fighting the ruthless Japs in some of the most contested battles of the war, the streets of Memphis probably seem quite manageable to him.  Can’t wait to pick him up again.  I’ll start with, “I always heard the battles in the Pacific were a cake walk.”

Gave a ride to a family of Muslims from Yemen.  I commented on the protests underway in that country and asked if it was a good thing.  They all nodded yes.  Took them to LeBonheur.

Later I picked up a Latino family here from Tupelo.  They were staying at the Ronald McDonald House near St. Jude where their little nephew was undergoing treatment. It was the mother, who spoke no English and her teenage son and daughter.  The son, age 14, sat up front, and I asked if he played sports. “Basketball”, he answered, “wanted to play football but my mother wouldn’t let me.”  They were headed to the Pink Palace.  The boy and I talked about football mostly.  “Do you like baseball?” he asked.  “I don’t like to watch it.  Boring,” I replied.  “Yeah, me too,” he said.  When I looked at his sister in the rearview mirror, I asked them if they were twins.  “No,” they giggled.  “Good,” I said, “because she’s much better looking than you,” I said to the boy.  They enjoyed that.  During the ride they asked how much the fare would be.  I told them I didn’t know for sure, but probably around fifteen dollars.  When we got there, I knocked a few bucks off the fare.  My best friend’s eight year old grandson died from cancer three years ago.  It kills me to see kids suffering form this.  We’re very lucky to have St. Jude, an amazing resource.

For those of you who aren’t aware of it, St. Jude never charges anyone for treatment, so if you have a few extra bucks, give them to St. Jude.  What goes around comes around.

After cruising around town for awhile, I noticed a trip available in zone 254, Sycamore View and Summer area.  I was at Ridgeway and Poplar at the time, but I put the metal to the pedal and got the trip.  The rider looked like a biker, with long, grey hair, tats, and a beard.  His daughter had his car in Montreal, and his ride never showed up, and his custom Harley was in Daytona.  He needed to make several stops, so we talked for awhile about Harleys, Sturgis, and Daytona.  He said he was in the music business, and owns a recording studio in Japan.  I told him that I had visited a friend of mine that very morning who owns a studio in midtown, and that his studio also mixes sound for movies.  My rider said he was planning to get into the movie mixing too, and asked me to give my friend his card.  So the guy has a home in Florida, an ex wife in Montreal, a studio and girlfriend in Japan, and something going on in New York, yet he has to depend on rides from friends.  MMMMM???  Oh, he‘s also the former tour manager for Van Halen.  Go figure.

My last trip of the day was a guy I picked up at Baptist Hospital on Walnut Grove Road.  He said the woman cab driver he had in the morning stopped for gas and assured him they had credit card capability.  “Did she turn off the meter when she got gas? I asked.  He said no.  “Must not have been a Yellow Cab,” I said.  “It wasn’t, and she didn’t have credit card capability,” he replied.  “Always take Yellow Cab.  We’re more ethical,” I offered.

He needed to go to his hotel, downtown, and I advised him that this was rush hour and the trip would take a little longer.

I didn’t get a good look at him when he entered the cab, but I noticed dark hair and a sport coat.  His voice and mannerisms reminded me of the actor John Heard (the corrupt detective on the Sopranos).  So all the way to downtown, I kept thinking John Heard was in my cab.

He was a real nice guy.  An airline pilot for American for 27 years, flying sometimes to Europe or South America.  I asked him if he had someone in the hospital.  He said no, that he’s working on a business deal because one can never tell when the airline might have financial problems.

“Im going to be a grandfather for the first time,” he said, and excited about it.  “You know the best thing about grandkids is that when your finished playing with them, you can send them home,” I said.
“Are you a grandfather,?” he asked.  “Hope not,” I answered.  Then told him about my daughter and how she’s very selective when it comes to men. “She doesn’t suffer fools easily,” I said.

Things got quiet, and I sensed a brooding in the back seat, so I lightened the mood with a joke:  A group of friends sends an old man friend of theirs a hooker for his eightieth birthday.  When he opened the door, the hooker said, “Want some super sex?”  He replied with, “I’ll take the soup.”

I suggested a few places to eat downtown, and when I dropped him off, he gave me a nice tip.

If you want to learn more about me got here: http://www.docsnews.com/eddie_tucker.html

See ya next time...

© 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 12

Hello readers of the Yellow Sage.

Thursday was a beautiful day.  High around fifty and clear skies, unlike the previous couple of weeks with overcast skies, rain, snow, and cold, cold, cold. Give me warm days, sunny skies, a clean beach, and keep the Pina Coladas coming.

Before being faced with college tuition, we used to take family vacations to the beach every year.  The first year we went to the Boca Raton Beach Club and Resort.  At the time, I was addicted to golf, so I would play eighteen holes each morning then join my wife and daughter at the pool or beach.

I had my best game of golf near the end of our stay.  I had just finished a round and decided to play nine more holes.  The starter had me join a group of three on the tenth tee.  The threesome consisted of two middle-age men and one’s nineteen year old son who turned out to be their precocious golf protege.  The two guys were his personal cheering squad.  I could tell by their clothes, expensive clubs, and Rolexes that these guys were wealthy, and I could tell by their attitude they didn’t want me intruding, but they had no choice.

I parred the first two holes.  The third hole was a par three, and I flubbed my tee shot–it just rolled a few feet.  Well the “guys” laughed their asses off and I don’t like to be laughed at, so I took out my wedge and laid the ball six inches from the hole and shot par.  They got noticeably quiet.

The next hole was a long par five, dogleg right with water and two bunkers in front.  All week long I never got on the green in less than four shots.  I hit a pretty decent tee shot.  For my second shot, I decided to go for broke so I took out my driver.  Usually when I hit a wood in the fairway I slice it, so I aimed far to the left of the fairway, swung, and the ball curved to the right and landed about ten feet from the hole.  They were flabbergasted, and I went to the green to wait for their silly asses.  I shot a birdie.  The kid must have been rattled because he shot an eight.  The other two Rolexes bogied.  I ended up with two over par for the round, and walked off laughing.  It doesn’t pay to laugh at Fast Eddie.

But this has nothing to do with driving a cab.

It was a normal day for business, not too slow or too busy, but I did get a couple of good vouchers.  The hospitals pay for patients who take a cab home.  My first voucher was for forty one bucks.  I picked up a guy at Methodist North and drove him nineteen miles to his home almost near the state line.  He had been a patient for four days and said he was going nuts staring at the same four walls.  “Well, I know you’ll be glad to get home,” I said.  “Yep.  Got a nice four-bedroom house I bought forty years ago,” he replied.  “I work sometimes for a man at his home, and my house is bigger than his.  But I can’t tell him that or he won’t pay me as much.”  When we arrived on his street, he had a little trouble at first finding his home, but he found it and we rolled onto the driveway.  I offered to help him to the door, but he declined so I waited for him to go inside.  Nice guy.

My other voucher was for thirty-one one dollars for picking up a woman at Methodist Midtown and driving her to Raleigh.  She was a sweet lady who looked to be in her eighties.  She rode in the front seat because the back seat makes her car sick.  Along the way she noticed my Tom Tom GPS speaking directions.  I said, “It’s a pretty amazing device.”  She replied with, “You know, the bible predicted that.”   “Oh?” I asked.  “Yes, the bible said people will get smarter,” she said.  “Well, you can’t argue with that,” I told her.  “I just can’t imagine the kind of brain that thinks up these things,” she said.  As we drove toward her home she told me that she and her husband used to own a carpet store, and one evening as her husband was leaving, someone shot him to death.  He was only fifty.  She said the police caught the guy and he was convicted but later released after only four years because of jail overcrowding.  I told her that just wasn’t right.  She said “God takes care of me, though.”  When we arrived, I helped her into the house where she lives alone.  I wished her good luck, and left thinking that I hoped she would be safe.

The next day was back to overcast sky and more cold, but a good day for business.

Among my trips was one to Mud Island where I picked up a man and a young woman.  I took them to the bank to withdraw some cash, then to the bail bondsman where she paid her bail, then dropped her off at the Criminal Justice Center, commonly referred to as “201” because its at 201 Poplar.  She was due in court.  I then took him back to his house  Total of twenty-six bucks and a five buck tip.   Never asked what she was charged with, but judging by her tattoos and pierced nose, it’s a safe bet it wasn’t insider trading..

You have to hustle to make any money driving a cab. I drove around town waiting for the magic “ding, ding, ding, trip available” on the computer.  I checked the computer and saw a trip available in zone 217 which is in Whitehaven, about eight miles form my position, so I raced out there and got the “ding.”  It was a woman and two little kids who needed a ride home from Walmart.  They had walked there without realizing how far it was.  After dropping them off, I got another “ding” to head to Southaven, MS to pick up a prescription at CVS Pharmacy at 55 Goodman Road.  Well, my Tom Tom said there was no 55 Goodman Road, and I went seven miles in the wrong direction.  I then selected Points of Interest on the Tom Tom and entered CVS.  Three appeared on the screen.  The first one was the wrong address.  The second was the charm, and I carried the prescription to a nursing home a few blocks away.

© 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 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.)