“They can only kill me once.”

Friday was a good day.  I hade a fifty dollar trip to West Memphis, and eighty-one dollar trip to Millington, and a couple of runs to the airport.  But the last trip was the most fascinating passenger I’ve ever had.

He was a guy I picked up in midtown to go to the airport.  He looked to be in his late forties or early fifties, well-built, had a military-style haircut and he was dressed in all black.  Even his bags were black.

I noticed his German accent as he got in because he was talking on his phone.  “You tell that mother fucker this German redneck is going to kick his ass the next time I see him,” he said, “I told him this is the last time.  No, I fly to Amsterdam, then Istanbul, then to Kabul and from there I go into the mountains.”  He paused, then said, “No I haven’t been doing any sharpshooting lately.  Yeah, that’s right, and don’t forget to tell the little asshole what I said.”

I couldn’t hold my tongue.  “Man,” I said, “that was the most intriguing conversation I’ve ever eavesdropped on.  What do you do?”  He hesitated then explained, “I’m a former marine, an engineer for NASA, and I work part time for the Department of Defense.”  By the same token I could ask what you do but I see you drive a cab.  I bet you don’t drive full-time.”  “No I don’t,” I replied, “I’m a graphic designer but the recession really hurt my business, so I drive for extra cash.  In fact, I just published a book about my experiences in the cab.”  “That’s wonderful,” he said.

He told me he escaped from East Berlin because “No mother fucker is going to tell me what to do,” and he had learned a lot from both his grandfathers who were high-ranking officers in the Wermacht.

I asked, “Have you been to Afghanistan before?”  “Many times,” he answered.  I continued my line of questioning, “Do you think we should get out?”  “Yeah. We have no business being there any longer,” he replied.  “Don’t you think the Taliban will take over once we leave?,” I asked.  He laughed and said, “They already have.”

“Have you been to Iran?.” I asked.  “Often.  Not a nice place. The people are really suffering,” he said.  What about Syria,” I went on.  “Been there too, same thing,” he said.  I responded with, “It seems like the military would to take over, especially considering the latest sanctions.”    “One thing you have to understand about Arabs and Persians, they’ll follow their leader no matter what.  They’re not like Latin countries where there is a long history of military coups,” he said.

My curiosity was screaming, “Are you really going into the mountains in Afghanistan?”  “Yep.  We have the best military in the world but they’re restricted from this sort of thing,” he replied.  I was dying to ask him what he was going to do, but I knew he wouldn’t tell me or if he did, he probably would have had to kill me.

Taxi 25

New Year's Eve 2011


I love driving on this night.  It’s always non-stop action until past daylight.  This year I raked in more than three times the average from a day shift.  But that’s not the only reason I enjoy New Year’s Eve.

Most of my passengers are young and in a party mood.  They actually engage me in conversation unlike many of the Silent-Bob types during the day.  Plus, they’re dressed to the nines, which is a pleasure to see, especially the mini skirts.  What a great invention.  At least half the young women must have received the same memo.  Legs, legs, and more legs.  Oh, are there men on the streets too?  I think so.

On this night I feel like I’m part of the action without having to fend off the crowds, a vicarious spectator peering through the periscope as I roll through downtown in my yellow submarine.  At my age, enjoying life while seated and on wheels has its benefits.

At first, I didn’t think I would be able to drive tonight.  I had planned on working from 4:30 pm to 4:30 am.  At four, I called the taxi supervisor to see if any vans were available.  No luck, so I asked if he had any good cabs on the lot.  “Only four left, Mr. Tucker.  Better get down here if you want one,” he advised. “Hey, man,” I was ready to plead, “I’ll give you five bucks to hold one for me.”  “Can’t do it, Mr. Tucker.”  Damn!  The company has added several new drivers which increases the competition for everyone.  We not only compete for business, but for cabs as well.  So I got my stuff together and rushed down there, breaking all the speed limits, and clenching my sphincter so tight I could have cracked walnuts in my pants.  I was in luck.  I got a nice Impala that looked new in spite of the 227,000 miles on the odometer.  Our shop does a great job keeping these cars running, and they’re quick to respond if you have a problem before leaving the cab yard.

I like Impalas because I can plug my iPhone into the car’s radio and play my tunes through the car speakers.  Sometimes I try to match the music to the passenger, except I don’t have any hip hop.  One day, when I dropped off a middle-age black woman, as she got out of the cab, she said, “K-97,” in an apparent critique of my choice of music.  K-97 is a black radio station.  In fact, I designed their logo in 1979.

After leaving the cab yard, I headed home where my wife had a thermos of hot tea waiting.  The tea kept me going all night without having to stop for coffee.

I didn’t stay in midtown because there were already nine cabs in this zone, so I headed downtown where I was signaled to pick up a young couple at a house on Mud Island.  As we rode along Island Drive next to the river, headed for Beale Street, the young woman said, “I’ve never been in a cab before.”  I shot back with, “Well hell, let’s go to Little Rock.  I can get you there in two hours.”  They laughed until I turned onto the bridge, (just kidding).

My next trip was taking a woman and her two kids from the MATA bus terminal on North Main to their house in the Raleigh-Frayser area.  I didn’t want to get stuck in this part of town with more trips, but sure enough, I was signaled for a pick-up in the area.  It turned out to be a no-show, so I rushed back downtown.

As soon as I got near zone 102, Mud Island, I had to go to another house on the island where eight people were waiting for two cabs.  As I pulled up, I saw the other cab was already there.  The driver asked me to do a callout because his computer had been shut down.  I didn’t know why he just didn’t call the office and have it re-booted.  So I did the callout, which is entering a code into the computer which sends a phone call to the customer letting them their cab has arrived.  So we waited, and waited, and waited.  I did another callout, and waited, and waited.  Did a third callout, and worried that they had already left.  After several minutes, I went up to the house and knocked on the door.  A young woman answered.  “Do you still want a cab,” I asked.  “Yes,” she said, “sorry to keep you waiting.”  I explained that we were real busy.  Well they came streaming out, four in my cab, four in the other.  In mine were three very attractive young women in their mid to late twenties, and all dressed up.  There was also a young man who wasn’t dressed as nicely.

Two of the women are attorneys, and the guy is in advertising.  When I told him I used to be creative director at Archer Malmo Advertising, it was like opening the faucet to his mouth.  He began talking non-stop about who he knows and what he does, and who did I know, etc., etc.  And he was trying to talk over the women’s conversation which actually sounded more interesting.  He was a real go-getter type.  He would have driven me nuts if I had to work with him.  He also tried giving me directions until I said, “OK junior, I know my way around.”

They wanted to stop at Silky Sullivan’s to buy wrist bands, and then I took them to Molly Fontaine’s on Adams.  I told them about this blog, and the Memphis Flyer cover story about it.  They all got excited, and asked if I’d be in the area around ten because I was so cool.  I told them it’s a busy night and I couldn’t promise anything.

After dropping them off, I drove to the Peabody Hotel where I picked up a nice middle age couple from Cincinnati who were in town for the Liberty Bowl game.  “Have you enjoyed your stay here?,” I asked.  “Yes, but we were disappointed with the ribs at The Rendezvous,” she answered.  "Yeah, well, their ribs are dry and a little spicy,” I said, “but they have great barbecue pork shoulder.  I just like the atmosphere”  They asked if I had been busy so far.  “Non-stop,” I answered, “I usually don’t drive at night except for New Year’s.”  I guess it can be dangerous,” the woman said.  “I’ve never had any problems, but I carry a taser just in case,” I replied.  “Do they let you carry a gun?,” her husband piped up.  “They discourage it.  Besides, I don’t want to kill anyone.” I said  He laughed, and said, “I’m retired law enforcement and I carry pepper spray.”  “Do you make good money doing this?,” he asked.  “Are you kidding?,” I joked.  “I’m actually a graphic designer, but the recession hit me, so I drive part time for pocket money. I can make more in an hour designing than in a day driving a cab.  But it’s fun, an adventure.  I never know where I’ll go or who I’ll  meet, plus I write a blog about it which many people seem to enjoy.  I dropped them off at their hotel near the med center and wished them a happy New Year.

I headed back downtown, and was sent to Riverside Tower.  It’s an upscale condo hi-rise overlooking the river that used to be a hotel where my wife and I stayed one night in 83.

A well-dressed, middle-age man and his squatty date got in the cab.  They wanted to go to Beale Street.  “How do you like living at Riverside,” I asked him.  “It’s great,” he answered.  I asked him what line of work he was in, and he told me he was retired, and is now going to law school.  I let them out at Beale and Second where there was a very long line.  Turns out the police were checking everyone’s id before allowing them onto Beale.  People were lined up for blocks.

I’ve always been proud of our police department and support their efforts to prevent crime, but I feel they went overboard this year with regard to Beale Street.  Not only were they checking ids, but they parked their cars down the middle of Beale which created more congestion.  Then, around eleven, they blocked all major thoroughfares into downtown at the intersection of Danny Thomas.  Fortunately for me they allowed cabs to pass.  Some of my out-of-town passengers complained about having to stand in line and having their ids checked.

Got a young couple at some condos on West Carolina.  They weren’t in the mood to chat, so I voted them out of my chat room at Beale and Third.

I pulled into the Peabody driveway where two guys walked up to the cab.  Once the drunk one made contact with me, the other one walked back inside.  “Can you take me to 3706 Sherwood in Midtown?” he slurred.  “Man, I don’t think there is a Sherwood in Midtown,”  I said as I entered it in my GPS, which displayed, no such address.  “No such place,” I told him.  “Yeah there is.  I’m not retarded,” he insisted, “It’s off Graham.”  “Graham isn’t in Midtown,” I pointed out,  “Spell Sherwood.”  “S-H-I-R-W-O-O-D,” he said.  So I entered that spelling.  Still no such address.  At this point he was in the cab.  “It ain’t there, dude,”  I said.  “Yeah it is.  I ain’t retarded,” he shot back.  “No, you’re drunk,” I said, thinking this guy has no idea where he’s going.  “It’s my friend’s house.  I’m staying with my friend, he replied.  That was good news for me because it meant he wasn’t going to spend the night in my cab.  “What cross street is it near?,” I asked.  “It’s off Union,” he said.  Sheesh!  Now it’s off Union.  “Call your friend and let me talk to him,” I said.  Turns out the street is Shirlwood in the Highland Heights area.  As we got near Midtown, he asked if I’d stop at a drive-thru.  “Do you like McDonalds or Krystal?,” he asked me.  “Not hungry,” I answered, so we went through McDonalds.  He gave me a twenty to pay for his order, and insisted I keep the eleven dollars change.  “Man, you’re a great cab driver for taking me to my friend’s house,” he spit out between bites.  “Glad to help,” I said.  On Shirlwood, I asked him which house.  “It’s the one with my big bad-ass truck in front,” he said.  Found it and out he went with a “Thanks, man.”

In Midtown, I got a signal to pick up a woman at the MED.  She said this was a voucher trip which means the hospital pays, but voucher wasn’t indicated on the computer instructions.  Last time this situation came up, I was ripped off for nineteen bucks.  I radioed the dispatcher who said the voucher would be at the office with the taxi supervisor.  I took her home in the Raleigh_Frayser area where I started the night.

On the way back to downtown, I noticed the red light on the computer indicating that the radio had been switched from data to voice.  I tried several times to switch it back to data so I could be notified of trips, but it wouldn’t work.  I called the taxi supervisor on my phone and told her about the problem.  She said the computer and radio systems were down.  She gave me a trip before she hung up, and I picked up a guy on Vance near Cleveland.  He needed to meet his fiance at the Peabody before midnight, fifteen minutes.  When we got downtown we ran into gridlock everywhere so he hopped out at Fourth and Union and walked the rest.

Instead of calling in for a trip, I decided to troll downtown.  Bingo!  It was like shooting fish in a barrel.  There were people everywhere trying to flag down a cab.  I was approached by a group of two men and a woman and another group of three miniskirted babes.  Naturally I pointed to the three skirts, but the other three got in first. These people either had a bad night or were just void of any sense of humor. They didn’t crack a smile when I said, “Hey, why don’t yall give it up for those good lookin’ girls?.  “Aren’t I good lookin’?,”  the woman asked.  Well yeah, for a lizard, I thought. “Yes mam, you’re very attractive.  Glad to have you in my cab,” I uttered, just hope you don’t give me any warts.   They were here from Biloxi for the Liberty Bowl, and needed to go to the Marriott Courtyard near the airport.  I was glad to unload them.

I make it back downtown and I’m flagged by a couple who appeared to be in their late forties­ – Rita Sue and Hal.  He reminded me of Junior Samples, and she reminded me of a country music singer because of her shiny, tight pants and blond hair. They needed to go to a trailer park in Oakhaven, about seventeen miles from downtown.  He was chubby, loud, and drunk and she was attractive, in a trailer park sort of way.  I had been listening to one of my favorite albums, Queen Latifah singing jazz ballads.  As we neared the interstate, he blurted, “Change the music.  Sounds like a lounge.”  So I turned on the radio to an oldies station.  “I’m gonna hit you,” he said to her.  I looked in the mirror and was ready to pull over if he started any trouble.  “Yep, I’m a gonna hit you,” he laughed.  “Oh shut your cake hole,” she admonished him.  This banter when on for a while, but I didn’t pay much attention.  Eventually we reached the corner of Tchulahoma and East Shelby Drive – the boondocks.  The sort of neighborhood where you could actually be caught dead.  We stopped at the light when Hal spotted a McDonalds across the street.  “I want to go to that McDonalds,” he blared.  “Eddie, pull through that McDonalds.”  “Look at the line, Hal.  I don’t want to wait in a long line,” she declared.  “I gotta have McDonalds,” he said.  As we waited in line they argued over what he wanted to eat.  When he mentioned an item she would say either “too much butter,” or “too much fat.”  But he was determined.  We finally get to the speaker and she explains to the clerk this complex concoction of food he wants, to which the clerk says, “We’re no longer serving dinner, only breakfast.”  Great, I thought, we’ll be here another twenty minutes while he decides.  They had stopped serving dinner at three.  It was now three-o-four.  At last he decides, she translates, and we go to the window to pay, and to the second window to wait for the order.  And wait we did.  “Eddie, can you believe we’ve been married for twenty-three years,” she asked.  “Twenty-three years,” he confirmed, “and we ain’t never hit each other.  It just ain’t right anyway, to hit each other.  “Twenty-three years,” she said again.  I asked, “ So how many years have you guys been married?”  “Twenty-three,” he reminded me.  “And we got a married twenty-year-old daughter,” she said.  “And we ain’t never hit each other,” he said, again.  As the time passed ever too slowly, he asked me,”Ain’t this weird Eddie, having to wait like this?”  “It’s on par for McDonalds,” I replied.  This went on for the full half hour we had to wait, and the meter was just adding up the whole time.  Eventually, I pull into this huge trailer park, with streets lined with pick-ups and gawdy Christmas decorations.  After turning down a couple of streets, she says, “It’s the one with the new Corvette out front.  That’s my daughter’s car.”  The total fare came to fifty-two dollars.  He gave me sixty.  They went inside and I took a leak in their yard.

Happy New Year!

© 2012,  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 24

A compilation of four day shifts.

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

© 2011,  Eddie Tucker.  All rights reserved.

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

Taxi 23

Two Shifts

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

Friday was a good day.  Grossed over two hundred.

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

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

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

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

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

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

© 2011,  Eddie Tucker.  All rights reserved.

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

Taxi 22

Day Shift

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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


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

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

© 2011,  Eddie Tucker.  All rights reserved.

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

Taxi 21

Day Shift

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

Taxi 20

Two Day Shifts

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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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

© 2011,  Eddie Tucker.  All rights reserved.

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