Taxi 18

A compilation from two day shifts

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

Professor Irwin Corey

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stay tuned.......

© 2011,  Eddie Tucker.  All rights reserved.

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

Taxi 17

Monday, April 18, 2011  Day Shift


After the last time when one passenger ripped me off and was arrested, and another accused me of stealing her non-existent fifty dollar bill, I was a little reluctant to get back on the “horse.”  In fact, I took a week off from driving.

It’s rare when someone rips me off, but it happens, and I hate confrontations.  It’s not what I signed up for.  But back behind the wheel I went.

I arrived at the cab yard around five forty-five a.m.  Slim pickens.  Most of the cabs on the lot were slated for repairs leaving two handicap vans, which I’m not yet certified for, and three checker cabs.  I picked number 382, and went inside to tell the supervisor, and to get the daily taxi card.

I got in 382, adjusted the seat and the mirrors, set the radio stations to my favorites, and turned on the two-way radio.  There was a tap on my window.  It was the shop foreman, “382 is scheduled for transmission repair,” he said.  Cabs due for repairs are supposed to be parked facing the wall.  382 wasn’t.

I head back to the office and noticed that 44 has just pulled in from the night shift.  I picked 44, got in, adjusted the seat and mirrors, set the radio stations, got my Tom Tom out and plugged it in, turned on the two-way and the computer, and logged on.  “I.D. Out Of Service,” appeared on the screen.  “What the...” I muttered.  Tried logging on again, and same thing.

So I head back to the office and tell the supervisor.  She checks her computer: license valid, no tickets; permit up to date; physical not due until 2013.  She’s new, and she couldn’t figure it out.  “Maybe I made a mistake,” I said, “I’ll try again.”  Same thing.  At this point I’m pissed and frustrated.  Another chapter in the “It’s Always Something” book of life’s little irritations.

I pack up my Tom Tom, go inside, hand her the taxi card, and say, “I’m going home.”  This day wasn’t getting off to a good start.  “Wait,” she says, "I’ll call So n’ So,” the veteran supervisor.  So n’ So tells her what to look for on the computer.  Turns out I owe forty-two bucks on my bond.  SHEEESH!  Couldn’t they have emailed me or called before I drove all the way down here?  Why no, that would be a courtesy.  Aren’t we in the courtesy business? “Mam, let me get that bag for you.“  “Can I help with your groceries?”  “That’s alright, just forget the sixty cents,” (you cheap bastard).

She says I can pay at the end of my shift.  So I get back in 44, which turned out to be a new car, less than 10,000 miles.  Most cabs average 200,000.  Drove one that had 300,000.  “Sweet, a new Grand Marquis,” I thought.

For a Monday, there wasn’t much business anywhere in town, but I did get a few trips.

I picked up a woman at Walgreens in the Medical Center.  She had a cane and was limping as she got in.  “How are you doin”, I asked.  “Oh, not so good,” she said, “I’ve got some kinda neurological disorder, and I’m allergic to the medications.”  “Sorry you’re not felling well,” I offered.  I took her to the Walgreens in midtown where the pharmacist had an over-the-counter drug she could use.  I then took her to work.  Nice size fare.

Next I went to Leath Street in north Memphis, and picked up a young woman.  The young ones are who try to rip you off, so I was a little suspicious, but didn’t insist on a deposit.  Took her to a Cricket store on Cleveland in midtown, and said I needed to hold onto her cell phone while I waited.  When she got back in, we went to a nearby ATM machine.  Good thing I didn’t ask for a deposit.  Took her back home.  Another good fare.

Computer signaled to go to an apartment building on North Belevedere in midtown where a young couple got in.  He was wearing Elvis-style sun glasses, so we chatted about the King.  He said they love his movies.  Obviously a couple of erudite scholars of film.

I took them to a nondescript building on Madison.  “What is this place?”, I asked.  “Methadone clinic,” she replied.  Later that morning I saw them walking down Union about two miles from the clinic.  Must have run out of cab fare.  I thought about giving them a free ride, but on second thought, I decided the walk would be god for them, gets that Methadone into their systems faster.

Gave a ride to the kitchen manager at Itta Bena restaurant above BB King’s on Beale.  Itta Bena is a small town in central Mississippi, and the BB King’s birthplace.  The name is derived from a Choctow phrase meaning “camp together” or “home in the woods,” and Three Stooges for “yum, yum, eat em up.”  Itta Beena is the only haute cuisine restaurant on Beale, and constantly gets rave reviews.  My passenger said they had ninety booked for this night.  Quite a haul for a Monday.

One more to tell you about.  Around three-thirty I was sent to a house on North Bellevue, and told to go to the rear.  The front of the house was boarded up and displayed a no trespassing sign.  As I pulled into the drive I noticed a group of guys next door just milling around.

In back, a woman stuck her head out the door and told me to come in.  I asked why.  She said I had to come in to sign the voucher.  There was no indication on my computer that this was a voucher trip.  Even more suspicious now, I told her to bring the voucher to the cab, but she refused, so I asked her, “What is this place?”  She wouldn’t tell me.  This was beginning to look like a horror movie with me as the victim, so I said, “Sorry, lady,” and drove off.  A few minutes later I got a message that said switch to voice (the two-way radio).  It was the dispatcher asking why I didn’t go in and sign the voucher.  I explained my concerns, but he insisted I go back.  I said, “Get someone else.”  He told me if I didn’t go back he would cut me off for an hour.  “Go ahead,” I said, “I’m signing off anyway.”  It turned out to be a shelter for abused women.

More next time......

© 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 16

Thursday, March 31, 2011  Day Shift

Thursday was busy.  Made good money, but most of my passengers weren’t very talkative, so the blogworthiness award, “The Bloggy,” goes to only three riders.

The first was a young man I picked up on Maury between Tutwiler and Jackson.  He was a third grade teacher, and I gave him a ride to a new school on Sam Copper Boulevard.  Why it’s called a boulevard is beyond me.

As we rode, we talked about the state of public education.  He told me he has seen only a handful of his student’s parents, and half the class still needs glasses even months after the parents were notified.  And, he said one eight-year-old girl has been in twelve schools in the last five years.  “These kids didn’t ask to be born,” he said, “they deserve better.”

The second Bloggy goes to another young man, or in his case, “dude.”  From midtown to Blues City Cafe where he is a cook.  I asked him what his specialty was, expecting the name of a really unique dish.  His answer was, “Grilling.”  I suppose that’s a legitimate specialty along with steaming, boiling and flipping.

After dropping him off, I parked on Peabody Place between Third and Second to count the day’s loot.  A young guy with a small suitcase wandered up and asked if I was waiting for someone.  When I said no, he asked me to take him to the airport.

“Where you from?,” I asked.  “Texas, but I live in Tampa,” he replied.  I told him about the time I went to Tampa to art direct a photo shoot.  We selected Tampa because there was an animal trainer there, and the ad featured a businessman with a lion.  The lion was a piece of cake.  When we wanted him to growl and show his teeth, the trainer would simply tease him with a broom.  After we shot the lion, the trainer wanted to get a shot of his baboon which he had in his trailer.  The trainer sat the baboon in a small director’s chair and the photographer starting taking pictures.  Suddenly the baboon got up and charged directly toward my crotch.  I jumped out of the way in order to save my twig and berries, and the baboon ran out of the studio and down the alley with all of us chasing him.  Fortunately, the trainer found him sitting on a fence post.

Anyway, my passenger was an airplane mechanic in the Air Force.  His plane had a layover in Memphis on his way to Texas, but his second flight was cancelled, and he had an eight-hour wait for the next plane.  He decided to explore our downtown.  “Someone at the airport told me to go to Beale Street, and I asked him what Beale Street was.”  He said he soon found out, and I offered what I could to further his education.

As we rode down Riverside Drive toward the freeway, he said, “What river is that?”  I replied with, “Ever hear of the Amazon?”  “Yeah,” he answered.  “Well, that’s not it,” I said, “That’s the Mighty Mississippi.  You know, Mark Twain, Tom Sawyer, Huckleberry Finn.  It was discovered by Hernando DeSoto when his car broke down on the way to Little Rock.”  OK, so he’s in the Air Force.  I’m just glad he’s not in charge of maps.  Let’s see, isn’t Libya just outside of Chicago?

After letting him out at the airport, I stopped at a convenience store back in midtown.  As a guy walked past, he pointed to the cab and said, “That’s not yellow, it’s orange.”  I replied, “It’s Swamp Holly Yellow, the most visible color in the spectrum.”  “I stand corrected,” he said.  Damn right.  Ain’t nobody gonna diss my cab.


Wednesday, April 6, 2011.  Worst cab day ever.

A few days ago I was talking with another driver who’s been driving much longer than I.  He had spent the past three days training a new driver whom he said was extremely nervous the entire time.  He told the trainee that if he seemed nervous to passengers, he was going to get ripped off.  It turned out to be a prophetic conversation.

My first trip of the day started around 6:15 a.m.  I picked up a young woman at Methodist Hospital in midtown and took her to Slumber Lane in Frayser.

She was quiet the whole way.  When we arrived at her house I told her the fare was $19.80.  She said it was a voucher trip.  I explained to her that a voucher trip is when the hospital pays, and the instructions on the cab’s computer indicate a voucher.  Plus, I don’t leave the hospital until I have the voucher in hand.  She still insisted it was a voucher, so I radioed the dispatcher who said it was a cash trip and the passenger called from her cell phone.  I then told her that if she wasn’t going to pay, I’d have to take her to the nearest Police precinct. “Go ahead,” she said.  As we were driving, she noted that I passed the street where the precinct was located. “You missed the turn,” she said.  “I decided to take you back to the hospital instead,” I told her. At this point she kept threatening to jump out of the moving cab, so I pulled over and let her out with a few choice words.  Later that day, I went to the Police precinct in midtown, and filed a complaint complete with her name and address.  She faces a charge of theft under $500.00, will be fingerprinted and photographed, and will have to appear in court or be arrested.

This day also proved to be slow.  I had a few more passengers, then around 1:30 I went to the Cricket store on Poplar across from East High school where a young pregnant woman was waiting.  I took her to an apartment building on Southern near the university.  I told her the fare was $5.80.  She asked if I could change a fifty.  I said yes, but then she said she would go inside and get change.  I knew right away she intended to rip me off, so I said again I’d make change.  She claimed she’d been ripped off by a cab driver once, and wasn’t going to give me the fifty.  I said, “How am I gonna rip you off while you’re sitting here in the cab with me?,  Just show me the fifty.”  “I ain’t gotta show you nuthin’,” she bitched.  I told her I’d have to call the police.  “Go ahead.  I’ll just tell them how you acted,” the bitch bitched again.   So I called the police, and waited for them to settle this bullshit.

As we waited, two of her girlfriends showed up.  “He done called the police cause I wouldn’t give him my fifty.  He’s trying to rip me off,” more bitching.  One of her friends paid me, and I called the police and cancelled.  When she got out of the cab, I lit a cigarette.  She bitched to her friends, “He’s smokin’ in the cab with a pregnant lady.”  She said this standing next to one friend who was smoking.  I never smoke with a passenger on board.  “And he’s got dog in there with a pregnant lady,” she ranted, and yes, Gracie, sweet lovable, laid back Gracie, was with me.  I just said, “Fuck it,” and drove off.  “Whats next?,” I thought, “A priest with a 38?

I got back to midtown and was dinged to pick up on Adams and take the customer to St. Jude. Along the way, a message appeared on the computer: “Mr. Tucker, call the Operations Director.”  SHEEESH!!!!  I called and learned that the bitching, ranting bitch-bitch called Yellow Cab and told them I stole fifty dollars from her.  That’s the INVISIBLE, NON-EXISTENT fifty.  I explained what happened and that I had been ripped off earlier.  I told him I’d had enough and was coming in as soon as I stopped by the house.  I wanted to take Gracie home first.

After leaving St. Jude, another message appeared on the computer: “Mr. Tucker, come straight to the office.  Don’t go home first.”  This didn’t sound good.  On the way, I kept fearing each police car that I saw, thinking I was going to be arrested.

When Gracie and I went into the office, all the women fell in love with my sweet dog, and why shouldn’t they?

We went back to the O.D.’s office and sat down.  I removed my sunglasses, and looked him straight in the eye and again explained everything in minute detail.  His response was, “First of all, I didn’t think you would do anything like this, and secondly, she called here three times, talked to three different people, and gave each a different story.  I’ll take care of it.  On another note, don’t take your dog with you.”  “I thought it was OK since we give rides to passengers with dogs,” I replied.  He said, That’s true, but this is your dog and if she bit anyone, you could be sued. I know you’re an independent contractor, but I want to look out for everyone’s welfare.”  He’s really a good guy, and I like him.  I thanked him, and left.

It’s my nature to trust people, even though I know better.  From now on, I’m going to insist on a deposit when I suspect a rip off.  No deposit, no ride. I’m also changing my name to Vinnie “The Executioner” Sarsaparilla.

© 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 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.)