It
was the beginning of the end of an era for me the day my cab license was yanked
by the City. I couldn’t remember why I was in jail that night and I don’t know
how I got out. But I do know I walked all the way back to the hotel and slipped
past the watchful eyes of the desk clerk to my room.
Cab
driving always gave me the independence and pocket cash I needed to keep my bar
tab paid and enough extra for a room at The Virginia Hotel. Driving at night, I
could also stay invisible to a daylight world I wanted nothing to do with. I
had been at a stand-still for several years anyway and hardly cared but for the
easy money.
But
now that was gone.
I
didn’t necessarily want a drink but I most certainly did need one to calm my
nerves. I saw that my knuckles were red and the mirror showed a slight bruise
on my cheek. I dumped my coin jar on the dresser and, with a shaking hand,
separated the pennies from the dimes and quarters. There was enough silver for
a pack of generic smokes and a pint of Popov’s as soon as Jerry’s opened in five
minutes at o-six-hundred.
I
tried to slip back out through the lobby while Lucas sat on his ass behind the
check-in counter reading a skin mag. He was like a spider waiting for its prey
all day without moving, the lobby was his web. When anyone touched the carpet
at the bottom of the stairs he must have sensed the vibration at the counter.
He let me get all the way to the door before he put down his magazine and
called out, “Crash!”
I
froze, “Yeh, I know.”
“I’ve
let you go a week already. The boss…”
“C’mon
Lucas, I’ve always been good. I’m waiting for a shift to open up,” I lied. It
wasn’t a big lie because there was always a chance the Professor would change
his mind.
“You
ever hear from the VA on that appeal?” he asked, rubbing the stub of what was
left of his arm under his shirt.
“Not
yet, but any time now. It’s been three years,” I felt embarrassed. He’d lost an
arm and a leg in Nam and I’d only lost my mind. I went back to the counter,
“How come you never wear your prosthetic, Lucas?”
“Not
unless I have too. I like to air it. Irritates the skin, you know.”
“I’ll
take you to Vegas when my ship comes in,” I promised. I meant it too but three
years back-pay on my VA claim was but a dream. I had a better chance of winning
the lottery.
“Don’t
try to grease my butt Crazhinski.”
“Think
of it, Lucas. The Chicken Ranch and...”
“Okay,
okay, enough Crash. But I want good news from you by tomorrow or you’re out.”
Spiderman
was actually a good guy. He was just doing his job. We were like brothers over
the years. He’d covered me several times in the past but he had to answer to
the boss. I apologized, “Lucas, you know how humiliating it is to beg another
week’s reprieve.”
“Humiliating?
Look at me. I sit here at a dead-end job putting the squeeze on losers like
you. And you whine about humiliation? I probably have only a year or two left
on this pile of shit.”
“Never
looked at it that way, Spiderman. I’ll pay up soon enough, okay?”
“It’s
Lucas, not Spiderman. Friday… no later than five, Crash,” he shook his head,
“and that’s final.”
I
was out the door before he finished. I got my smokes and pint. It occurred to
me I ought to save it ‘til later... After being put on hold every time I’d
called the past week, I knew what to expect. Okay, just one toke before I face
the music. I needed a bit of liquid courage... enough to make the Professor
squirm, mano y mano.
The
company’s offices were over on East Yananoli and South Salsipuedes, now Cesar
Chavez, and not too far a walk if I took the tracks. I could see from a block
away that Doc was in. His blood red Jaguar was parked in its reserved spot
front of the building. I rehearsed what I would say as I crossed the lot. I’d
be humble… ever so humble… kiss-up… agree to anything and admit everything I
couldn’t remember anyhow… and, if that didn’t work, call on the good old times.
I took a swig off the pint before opening the door.
It’s
an uneasy feeling to enter a place where you’re no longer a part of the
business. For several years it was like we were family but overnight I had
become persona non grata. Bob sat in the dispatch office situated behind a
crosshatched wire glass window where anyone entering the lobby could be seen.
He swiveled around in his chair to check-out who’d come in. He lifted a hand
hesitating with a brief parade wave. Next to the dispatch office, the door to
the inner sanctum was open. It was an oversight. Dispatch would normally have
to buzz me in and, as I passed through it, Bob stood as though I had breached
the barricades. The speaker above the door crackled, “Hey, Crash, you can’t
go...”
Once
inside I took a seat across from Jenny’s reception desk guarding Professor’s
office. While she was on the phone I could see why all the drivers used to stop
by the receptionist desk just to be in the presence of her Dolly Parton’s. She
was a freak of nature for sure. When Jenny became Professor’s plaything he
installed the buzzer lock at the door and moved the drop-safe into dispatch
office instead of behind her desk.
I
already knew Dr. Lawrence Spawn was in and, besides, I could see his door ajar.
The professor was one of us; an old cabby that hooked into a widow ten years
before. He was once called driver #75, or Larry, but now he insists we use his
formal name; title and all. He was a now PHD after all and we all knew that in
his case it stood for Piled Higher and Deeper.
There
are four basic characters who drive cab. Number one: There are innocent
students, for whom cabbing is just another job to pay the rent while getting a
sheepskin. Number two: There are others holding down a shift to make ends meet
until they get that big break... a screenplay/novel that gets accepted or a
real acting job. And Number Three: There were realists ...fishermen that can
haul groceries and church ladies all day without losing sight that they are
casting to reel in the big tuna... a widow with enough inheritance to put ‘em
on easy street. Then there is Number Four. We are graveyard drivers whose
ambitions are limited to simply getting through another shift. We try to pass
through the dark night of the soul without the haunts of nightmares and sweats…
and especially without getting noticed by, or dealing with, the front office.
Rachelle
was in her late fifties when the Professor sank a hook in her. He was in his
thirties and movie star handsome when she took his bait... empty promises of
eternal love. He gave her a free ride to Vegas where they got hitched by an
Elvis impersonator, and that was the last time he did anything for her that
came from his own pocket.
Jenny
pretended to be on the phone ignoring me. I got out of the chair and stood for
several lifelong minutes before she acknowledged my presence.
“Hi,
Crash, what can I do for you?” She was warmer towards me the last time I saw
her.
It
was everything I could do to keep my eyes focused on that silver cross hanging
from her neck, “I need to talk to the Professor.”
“I’m
sorry, Crash, Dr. Spawn’s not in…” Jenny held the phone receiver covering that
silver cross between her ample breasts. She kept her dual assets locked up
under a heavy duty bra and a puritan white, long-sleeved blouse. I wasn’t
distracted enough to miss the door gently shutting.
“Don’t
tell me he’s not in. Did a ghost just close his door?”
“You
can come back when Dr. Spawn isn’t busy, Crash,” her tone sealed the
conversation. “Or, I can tell Rachelle you were here when she comes in.”
I
knew the Professor wasn’t busy. He didn’t run the company. Rachelle and Bob did
that. Doc only owned it. He owned it along with Rachelle’s house in Montecito,
a nice boat named A Doctor’s Dream, and the blood red Jaguar, all bought with
the money we dropped in the safe guarded behind the locked door of the dispatch
office and Rachelle’s inheritance.
Doc
was in charge of PR, the hiring and firing, and that was about all. You just
knew he loved hamming it up for spots on late night TV. He wore stripes behind
bars for his pitch... “Leavin’ the bar? Don’t drive your car. Take a cab.” He
followed these with Dr. Spawn’s Bail Bondsman ads, “Drop a dime and I’ll save
you time.” Jenny would bounce in on cue, “You’ll be out before you can shout,
Dr. Spawn Bail Bonds!”
Professor’s
wife knew about Jenny but looked the other way. Divorce was not an option for
other than religious reasons. Professor had a grip on the bank account she’d
signed away when the romance was hot.
I’m
really not a breast man but my eyes couldn’t help themselves. I alternatively
gave Jenny the once-over before nailing her eye to eye. I planted both hands on
her desk and demanded, “Jenny, don’t give me any shit.”
Bob
came out of dispatch with one of those 18-inch cop flashlights in his hands.
“Get
back in there, Bob.” I turned to face him, “The phone’s ringing.”
Bob
stood a minute and considered whether there was anything he could do. We went
back a few years. There was a time when he could have mopped the floor with me
but he’d grown soft in the office and wasn’t about to take me on now.
I
passed Jenny’s desk and opened Professor’s door. Doc was standing a few feet
back. He reached out to shake hands. His gesture wasn’t reciprocated.
“Crash,
good to see you. I was just going to tell Jenny to let you in,” Professor backed
behind his desk and sat, “Have a seat, Crazhinski.”
“Cut
the shit, Professor,” I was brief with him. Behind Doc, on the wall above his
head, hung a certificate nicely framed. It was his Doctorate of Philosophy
diploma. A few of us knew about how the Professor got his degree. It was a con
like everything else in his life. He had somehow incorporated, formed his own
college, and turned in a thesis. It was filed where doctorates are filed and
amounted to little more than a list of stats about cab drivers: their gender, education,
marital status, military service, race, and so on. He had a no more than a
dozen drivers to fill out a survey form from which he expanded the numbers to
hundreds for the sake of a thorough sampling.
“Doc,
I need a break. I know you always need a graveyard dispatch.”
“Crash,
you know I can’t re-hire you so soon after.”
“And
you know damned well I wasn’t busted on the job...” my protest was weak and I
knew it.
“It
just doesn’t look right, Crash,” Doc pulled out a green sheet of a carbon
copied police report from a folder, “Possession for sales.”
“Yeh,
like I’m a big drug king-pin living in the flea-bag hotel.”
“The
city still pulled your license and sent me this report: Drunk in public;
creating a nuisance; possession of a controlled substance; assaulting a police
officer...” Doc read from the list, checking off each item. When he finished he
flipped a pencil in the air, missed the catch, it bounced off the desk and
rolled to the floor.
“They
dropped all the charges ‘cept drunk in public and misdemeanor possession,” I
picked up the pencil and handed it to him, “Besides, I wasn’t in my cab!”
The
professor started chewing on the pencil. I couldn’t take my eyes off it hoping
he would choke on the eraser. The pencil caused him to talk through his teeth,
“I can’t do anything right away. The town’s changing. You’re becoming a
relic... things of the past. We can’t be cowboys out there now.”
“That’s
an excuse Doc and you know it.” I approached his desk, “I’m not asking to be
out there. Dispatch has always been where drivers go that get their licenses
yanked. Who else would want the job?”
That
was the truth too. Dispatchers get paid minimum wage. They supplement their
income by milking tips and a taste of cola from drivers. No tip... no good
fares.... all’s fair on the streets where money is concerned. Some, like Bob,
make out real well that way. It isn’t a job for anyone with some humanity,
principles, or dignity left. Years of driving cab does that to some of us.
“Look
Crash, all the cab businesses have to clean up now. Times are changing and
Sergeant Lopez is getting on all our asses. The City’s leaning on him too. Go
to Schick/Shadel… to a rehab… or AA. Let ‘em know you got sober... get it on
paper when you graduate... get your license reinstated and maybe we can get you
back on...”
“A
rehab, you’ll help me with that?”
“Our
insurance doesn’t cover…”
“It’s
all bullshit, Professor. You and I know damned well you ain’t so clean
yourself,” I was so pissed I lost everything I’d rehearsed on the way over.
“That
was my past, David. But since I found the Lord...”
“Don’t
give me that Lord BS, Doc,” pointing to the wall I threw his crap back at him,
“You found the Lord up Rachelle’s vagina. You can get widows and schoolgirls to
wipe your ass with that paper but it won’t work with me!”
I
was on a roll and knew I got his goat but had no idea the implications went
beyond the obvious. Doc’s face turned from pasty white to beacon red. He
screeched, “Crazhinski, if you don’t leave now, I’m calling nine-one-one!”
I’d
never heard the smooth talkin’ con-man yell like that. Professor stood from his
chair holding the receiver away from his ear with his fingers on the keys of
the phone.
Bob
must have had his ear to the door with the flashlight in hand. He opened the
door, “You need help Professor?” He lifted the flashlight as though he was
ready to use it.
I
slammed my body against Bob and shoved him out the door so hard he landed on Jenny’s
lap with one of her bullet breasts inches from his mouth. I was out of the
building and never did see him rise from Jenny’s lap. I suppose I did him a
favor landing him there.
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