Need A Cab?!

Yarr Wauchabey

Description

In 'NEED A CAB?!, The Wild Times and Misadventures of a Newbie Cab Driver,' join Monrovian Wuss (Money, for short), a newcomer to the profession, as he whisks and wafts you along the cab-driving journey of one escapade after another, mostly hilarious but a few precarious moments. The character-driven, quick-paced story involves colorful characters and odd, outlandish situations.

Informations

• Publié par: First Edition Design Publishing
• Date de parution: 19 juin 2013
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781622873425
• Langue: English

Extrait

NEED A CAB?!, The Wild Times and Misadventures of a Newbie Cab Driver
Yarr Wauchabey


First Edition Design Publishing, Inc.
NEED A CAB?!
The Wild Times and Misadventures of a Newbie Cab Driver

by

Yarr Wauchabey
Need A Cab?!
The Wild Times and Misadventures of a Newbe Cab Driver
Copyright ©2013 Yarr Wauchabey
ISBN 978-1622-873-42-5 EBOOK

June 2013

Published and Distributed by
First Edition Design Publishing, Inc.
P.O. Box 20217, Sarasota, FL 34276-3217
www.firsteditiondesignpublishing.com



Cover Design by Deborah E Gordon

ALL R I G H T S R E S E R V E D. No p a r t o f t h i s b oo k pub li ca t i o n m a y b e r e p r o du ce d, s t o r e d i n a r e t r i e v a l s y s t e m , o r t r a n s mit t e d i n a ny f o r m o r by a ny m e a ns ─ e l e c t r o n i c , m e c h a n i c a l , p h o t o - c o p y , r ec o r d i n g, or a ny o t h e r ─ e x ce pt b r i e f qu ot a t i o n i n r e v i e w s , w i t h o ut t h e p r i o r p e r mi ss i on o f t h e a u t h o r or publisher .
Chapter 1
Hi, my name is Monrovian Wuss. They call me Money for short, not that I have very much--wish I did--just enough to get through day-to-day pains and pleasures of eking out a living on planet Ho-Hum. I’m not complaining like all the brown-eyed shmucks that think their wonderful: ha!--brown eyes because they’re full of shit. They tell me mine are blue because I’m a quart low, but more on that some other time. Right now, this is a true story about the kind of job I’ve always wanted to try.
There are certain fundamental rules involved in driving a cab, whether you’re driving for a big company with a large fleet or as an individual owner with one cab and one driver--yourself. Rules may be a misnomer; they might be better classified as etiquette--things you do and don’t do, as circumstances dictate. An excellent place to illustrate the obeying of these governors of behavior (or better yet the disobeying of them) is the airport, where you can sit for hours waiting for a ride that may very well turn out to be a six dollar fare. Exciting, huh? Well, before I take you to the airport, let’s start from the beginning--my first time as a cab driver.
It was in December, a few weeks before Christmas, when I was already working as a delivery driver for Alfonso’s Electrifying Pizza (why they called it electrifying I’ll never know; the pizzas didn’t even fizzle as far as I was concerned). While I attended Southern Oregon University in Ashland, I worked part-time Friday, Saturday, Sunday and Monday, so after my last school term, I got bored and restless. I thought of getting a second job because it wasn’t busy enough to drive more hours delivering pizzas--and considering that delivering pizzas wasn’t really work, just riding around listening to the radio and taking food to some of the nicest people in the world while being paid and tipped to boot, I figured maybe I could find an additional driving job.
I looked in Medford Mail Tribune’s classifieds, and toward the end of the employment section, there it was: “Drivers wanted, Regal Taxi, full and part time positions.” Hot dog! As the ad tugged at my eyeballs, I saw myself wearing one of those funny looking golf hats, or one of the suits of the day 300 years ago when golf started in Scotland--though I would never where a kilt and animal skins as they did then…perhaps the knee-high baggy pants of the 1900s…but hat anyway. Actually, I’d seen several cabbies not very suavely dressed, in fact, one with a gut that slumped so far over his belt he could damn near dribble it. I could have gotten him into the Guinness Book of World Records if he’d been able to do a lay-up, but he fell two bites short of it from not enough French Dips.
I brought my completed, in-depth one-page application that might just as well have asked if I could walk, talk and breath. Maybe I couldn’t do all three at the same time, but I knew I could learn. It actually consisted of important information like had I ever been convicted of a felony, barbequed my next door neighbor’s cat, or ogled too long at the girl across the street as she undressed behind the window with a raised shade. I hoped they didn’t ask about my scraped elbows I got from the rough tree bark as I tried to keep from falling off the limb, my mouth drooling from her swaying body.
“Tell me why you’d make a good taxi driver,” asked Tricks, the owner. He was a wiry guy, all skin and bones, with a crackling baritone voice, pretty impressive for standing five foot four. I had no idea how he got the nickname Tricks. His wife, Becky, was pretty and voluptuous, but didn’t look like the kind who’d turn tricks to help him buy the business. He appeared like the crafty ilk who could talk you into eating dog shit after describing it as caviar. Notwithstanding, he snapped me out of reminiscing about peeping tom days.
“I’m a good driver and I like driving,” I laughed.
“Long hours,” he warned.
“That’s OK,” I snorted bravado. “I can handle it.”
“Even working this other job delivering pizzas?”
“I’m made of insomnia. I can handle anything.”
“What schedule are you available for?”
Any, although I’d prefer days, and I read that you had part-time positions, too.”
He rubbed his stubble chin as he continued perusing the application as though it were an X-ray and he was preparing for brain surgery.
“Hmmm. I have a three-day position. Interested?”
“Sure. Sounds good.”
“Twelve hour shifts,” he warned again.
“Have insomnia, will travel.”
“See you at six. Don’t be late.”
At home, reruns of Barney Miller, MASH and The Rifleman filled my brain as it commenced getting sloshed with Gallo Burgundy, the cheapest strong stuff I could find. I’d be fine.
Next morning I prodded myself along the road in my ‘94 silver Saturn, combating my cloudy wine-drenched brain toward my first cab-driving day. I walked in the front door and there sat Pigeon, a slim and trim driver except for his basketball stomach. Sitting next to him was Tom with a mane of red hair that went everywhere. They both had eyelids heavier than cement slabs and took turns vying to yawn the biggest gaping hole the longest…graveyard drivers just ending their shifts.
Tricks walked through the door, followed by Hannah, the main dispatcher, who looked like she just woke up, Kool in one hand, Starbucks in the other. She tossed her cigarette, as Tricks unlocked the office door and went inside. He came back out with some paperwork and handed them to me.
“Go ahead and fill these out, and we’ll get you started. You’re going out with Larry for a few hours. When you get back we’ll see if you’re still interested.”
As Tricks went back into his office, I went outside and found Larry washing our car before heading out.
“We got to wash the car at the beginning of every shift. We’re supposed to vacuum, too, but nobody hardly ever does, except for the night guys who get so bored, they do it just to cut down on their chance of insanity.” Larry had straight black hair down to his collar, wore thick black-framed glasses like Clark Kent, certainly nothing stylish, and was about as mild-mannered as the superhero. He grinned automatically no matter who he ran into or what was said--all around good guy. “Hand me that windshield cleaner over there, would you?”
“Gee, I hope you’re not going to make me your slave.”
“Don’t worry, just while we’re together.”
Neither of us laughed as he hosed off the bubbles and squeaked the squeegee across the smooth windshield.
“OK, hop in. We’re ready to go. I got everything else before you got here.”
I thought it odd that he washed the car even though it was misty--granted not downright raining, but nonetheless moisture in the air enough to coat the car with that just-got-rained-on look. I got into the front seat with Larry and we eased on out of the parking lot. Being close to winter, it was still dark and wouldn’t be getting light for another hour and a half or so, about seven thirty.
“I don’t know how much Tricks told you, so I’m not quite sure where to start. Just stop me if you’ve already heard it. First, you fill up before turning the car in, but you get reimbursed. Actually, that‘s last. Let me start over…”
“Twelve, base,” said Hannah on the radio.
“Twelve,” said Larry.
“Pickup at Tenth and Crater Lake Avenue.”
“Ten-four,” he said into the mike, and then back to me, “Lucky you, you get to watch your first one without having to wait two hours.”
“I don’t know if I like the sounds of that or not. You guys do lots of waiting?”
“By and large not a lot, but there are down times. This your only job?”
“No, I deliver pizzas…electrifyingly.”
“All right. You really work there? You like it?”
“Yeah, it’s all right for while I was going to school. Decent tips most of the time.”
“You get a few tips now and then driving cab, but probably not what you’re used to. Nice thing about it is it’s a sit down job. I got tired of those backbreaking jobs where you’re on your feet all day.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean. It’s also called laziness, but who cares?”
“There he is on the corner. This place isn’t too bad. It’s fairly well lit, not seedy-looking. Sometimes you’ll be sent to a real dump that looks like a hideout for crooks or murderers or something. And when or if you do get one of those places, use your own discretion. You don’t have to take the fare. Drivers have been killed on the job. Not often, but it does happen. Needless to say never argue with a customer.”
Needless to say, my ass. That shit woke me up better and faster than the muddy, shitty coffee I make. I’m going to have to take instructions from somebody some day, or better yet start following the directions on the can. That and I could stop denying myself some decent treatment by not buying crappy coffee because it’s 37 cents a pound less than Yuban.
The fare (customer, in cabbie jargon) looked honest and friendly, waving as we pulled up. He looked mid-t