Rear-ended

I left the house at around 6pm Friday evening. Porkchop—my girlfriend’s dog—was with me in the cab. I was taking him to stay with friends so I could drive the busy weekend nights without having to go back home to feed and walk him while she was out of town. At 6:30pm, just past Hubbard’s Cave downtown, the traffic in my lane stopped suddenly and a second later a BMW SUV rear-ended me. The impact pushed me forward a few feet but not enough, thankfully, to hit the car ahead of me. Then time pretty much stopped for the next few hours.

Porkchop jumped onto my lap as I slowly looked back and around to see what had happened. A young man—Indian or perhaps Pakistani—ran over from the BMW to check if we were alright and to apologize for what he’d done. Over the two hours we’d end up spending together he apologized many times over. Traffic began to flow around us again and he asked me what we should do, that he’d never been in one of these before. I told him to call the police. They told him to pull off the highway and wait for them to file an accident report. We drifted slowly toward the Augusta exit, taking care not to collide with cars trying to fly by us, away from work, toward their Memorial Day weekend. I doubted very much that there’d be much to celebrate in my case.

We came to rest at the bus stop on Milwaukee, just past Augusta. I didn’t get out of the cab, just stayed there with Porkchop on my lap, looking straight ahead, seeing the ruined weekend quite clearly. I texted my friend Nick to cancel the cab ride we’d scheduled then called Ruth to see if she could come get Porkchop, seeing as I wouldn’t be getting to her house anytime soon. The driver of the BMW kept coming up and trying to talk to me with little success. The dog being there probably saved him from a black eye. After about fifteen minutes of sitting there, I watched him hustle a woman in a colorful dress from the back seat of the BMW into a cab. I hadn’t even noticed until then that he’d had a passenger. He came back to me, put down the cell he’d been talking into, and said that his insurance company needed my information. I told him they could wait until we filed the police report.

More time passed. He kept calling the State Police and not getting anywhere. He suggested we go to the police station up Augusta and file a report but I needed Ruth to come pick up Porkchop before I could go anywhere. She showed up about half an hour later. I could hear the BMW’s mashed in bumper scraping against its front left wheel as he followed me to the police station. Upon arrival it took a few minutes for anyone to stir enough to take notice of us. When an officer finally shuffled over, she asked where the accident occurred and immediately said it wasn’t their jurisdiction—interstates are for the State Police—then shuffled away without another word. The State Police had told us to come here and file a report. It’s good to know our law officers know the law this well. All the while BMW guy was trying to make small-talk. I had to tell him as we walked out of the station that we weren’t gonna be friends, that I’d try to be polite but that he’d ruined my whole weekend and he’d be better served to can the chitchat. He backed off after that.

After calling again and determining that the State Police weren’t showing up anytime soon, we exchanged insurance information and went our separate ways. I think he apologized again and I felt proud of myself for not saying what I really wanted to say to him. My next stop was the Yellow Cab garage on Elston. The manager took pictures of the damage and listened to my account of the accident. Because of the holiday weekend there was nothing more to be done until Tuesday. He said to go to Wabash—the company’s headquarters—first thing Tuesday to file the insurance claim, but for now, to go to the cashier and get a replacement cab.

I’d lost about three hours of my Friday night—some of the busiest hours of the week—and between that and the prospect of driving a beater around for who-knows-how-many days while the Scion was in the shop, there was little wind left in my sails. I wandered distractedly around the cab lot trying to match up the numbers on the car keys to the sad, remaining specimens left to choose from. Crawling into a Crown Vic after being spoiled for over a year by the Scion didn’t exactly inspire greatness but I did what I could to salvage the rest of the night and ended up a little over break-even.

I lost several more hours when the Crown Vic overheated Sunday in the 97° conditions. I willed it back to the garage all the way from O’Hare. The cashier wanted to give me a replacement for the replacement but none of the potential candidates looked hearty enough to survive the afternoon so I just sat and waited for them to fix the one I rode in on.

****

 I didn’t know how long it would take the shop to get to #429 because the holiday left them with a skeleton crew. When I stopped by Tuesday to get insurance information to take to Wabash, the shop manager told me it might not be done until the weekend because he had to pull the whole rear-left quarter panel off. It was a twelve-hour job. I thanked him and drove the replacement jalopy to Wabash. The secretary there gave me forms to fill out and then I sat and waited. And waited. Many other drivers came and went with a variety off issues and concerns—some of which were addressed while others were not—before my turn came up. In a cubicle, just behind the secretary’s desk, I was asked to sit down and tell my story in detail. I did so while watching the man struggle to input the words into his desktop. He had to backtrack every third word to correct misspellings and run-ons. It was an excruciating, glacial process. Then, after another hour had passed, he murmured that I was free to go.

It’s likely that the company will take $100 out of my deposit while the insurance companies work their dark arts. I’ll get it back eventually but no one will compensate me for all the work-time lost. An auto accident is ten times worse if you have the misfortune of being a cabdriver. It’s as if now that I’ve decided to quit, the job is reminding me afresh of all that I won’t miss; telling me not to let the door hit me on the way out.

I don’t think that’ll be a problem.

Lockdown City

TUESDAY

I pick up a well-heeled couple from the Chicago Brauhaus in Lincoln Square. The gent has an accent I can’t place but it sounds the way rich people on TV sound. He wears a navy-blue sport coat as naturally as I’d wear an old t-shirt. He’s well into his sixties at minimum. His companion is a few years younger and likely not the wife but, more likely, an assistant or attaché of some sort. They’re charmed by Lincoln Square, calling it a “real” neighborhood repeatedly. They’re headed to the Hyatt McCormick Place so I take Lincoln south to Irving Park and turn east toward Lake Shore Drive.

Looking out the window the man remarks that Chicago is a city that’s alive. I can’t disagree with him. They tell me they’re here from NATO to get everything ready for the meeting at the end of the week. The woman assures me the coming inconveniences—road closures, heightened security, etc.—will be well-worth it for our city in the long run. I don’t say anything to that.

At the hotel I wish them well and watch as they stroll inside, looking like they own the place.



WEDNESDAY

The nearly nonstop news reports about NATO remind me of the yearly Armageddon-type snowstorm predictions which hardly ever live up to the hype. Unlike the snowstorms that I always look forward to, in this case I truly hope the prognosticators are wrong. The last thing anyone needs is another ‘68 Democratic Convention around here.

A businessman in the Loop asks to go to Midway. His secretary advised him not to come back to Chicago until next week to avoid the hassles to come. We talk about the road closures. I reassure him that, indeed, Archer Avenue will take him all the way back to the Loop in case the Stevenson is closed to accommodate the traveling needs of the visiting dignitaries.

At Midway Airport there are more immediate conflicts. The gaunt man who washes windows in the taxi staging area throws down his Windex and newspapers and stalks away from a Carriage Cab SUV a couple rows down from me. I hear his angry voice directed at a driver who’s out of view. A bit later he climbs into the back seat of the Yellow next to mine. I see him telling the driver his story, his hands reinforcing his points. I can’t hear a thing through the two sets of car glass but it’s clear he’s explaining how he’s been wronged.



THURSDAY

I start my day at Midway. The window-washer walks past my cab offering his services and I shake my head no reflexively. A moment later I call him back and tell him to go ahead (if for no other reason than to hear about yesterday.) I watch him work his way methodically from the front window clockwise. When he’s starting on the driver’s side, I get out and ask about what happened.

“Some people, they want somethin’ for nothin’, know what I’m sayin’? I knew when I was doing his windows that he was gonna try to get out of payin’ me. Some people are like that. I get done and he offers me a dollar. Believe that?

“So I throw my shit down and walk away. He’s lucky I’m not waiting at his house when he gets home. Should be thanking me I’m not one of those niggers sticking a gun in his face...”

Just then the Carriage SUV pulls up and its driver—a well-dressed round little man—jumps out and starts hollering in the window-washer’s direction,

“Look at this lazy liar! He won’t even do the inside! Don’t give him any money!”

The washer pays him no mind. He finishes his work and asks for $3. I give him $10 and tell him to forget about that other guy. Some people just need something to be mad about. He nods, thanks me, and walks away down the row of cabs.

****

At the terminal two Northwestern University students ask to go to O’Hare. They’ve missed their flight and the next one leaves from our other airport. I tell them it’s a $65 fare. They act put out but after conferring for a second they get in.

I wonder whether they’re getting out of town to avoid NATO but it appears that they’re grappling with more important problems. One kid wears a ball cap with “drugs.” printed off-center in lowercase letters on the front. He pops snack-size Kit Kats in his mouth until inadvertently smearing his pristine white v-neck t-shirt with one,

“Goddamnit! This is the second one I’ve soiled today. This is the worst damn day of my life!”

His buddy struggles to book a flight on his smart phone, paying him little mind,

“Dude, let’s make a pact not to mentioned the missed flight this weekend, cool?”

The Kit Kat kid agrees, then digs out two battery-powered propeller yamakas for them to put on and soon they’re laughing, all the cares of the world forgotten. They talk about the big music festival they’re going. About what they’ll wear and who they’ll part with. I’m pretty sure they’re going to see the Insane Clown Posse.

My friend Tim calls when we’re two-thirds of the way to O’Hare. His band’s playing at a protest in Grant Park Friday and he asks if I can pick up some of their equipment afterwards. Seems the Park District isn’t letting them pull a van anywhere near the Petrillo Bandshell. I tell him I’ll do it, then hang up to pay a toll on I-294.



FRIDAY

Tim calls to say that he won’t need me, that the authorities are being more reasonable and letting them load out. I’m glad for him but a bit disappointed not to be part of the action (however tangentially.) A couple hours later it becomes a moot point because the city tells Tim that there will be no concert, or any other event at the bandshell, that night. Everyone is confused and frustrated. A lot of people ran around, practiced, and planned for nothing.

The police presence is significant around town. Every highway ramp, as well as most downtown blocks, have men and women in blue hanging around. Off the main drags, unmarked white cargo vans full of cops line up to prepare for the worst. It’s a menacing atmosphere to be working in. As afternoon turns to evening, law enforcement begins to outnumber the civilian population downtown. I only go near the Loop if taken there by a fare. Better to stay in the neighborhoods and avoid the possibility of getting stuck. Everywhere else around town that I go, people get in the cab and ask apprehensively if I’ve been downtown and how bad is it? The populace has been properly spooked by the whole thing, that’s for sure.

On my way home at 3 or 4am, I have to bypass shut on-ramps at Roosevelt and Canalport, finally getting on the Ryan at 31st Street.



SATURDAY

Heading downtown around noon on a Saturday usually involves sitting in gridlock from Sox Park to the Loop on the Ryan. Not this day. With all the closed exits and dire warnings, the highway’s eerily clear.

I have an afternoon meeting in Ravenswood and, as I wait in a coffee shop doorway, a ragtag army marches east on Montrose toward the mayor’s house. A little boy asks his father what all those people are mad about and it’s interesting to hear the man finesse a measured explanation—masking his irritation at having their route home momentarily blocked.

Saturday’s my day to make the money that wasn’t made the rest of the week so, whatever my views on the protests might be, the object is to avoid blocked roadways today and keep the wheels turning. Staying far away from McCormick Place and the Loop does the trick. It looks like a lot of others have the same idea and stay home on this day. If the intent of the mayor and of the other higher-ups was to showcase Chicago for the international set, I fail to see how this heavily-guarded ghost town will impress anybody.



SUNDAY

I don’t intend to work much but can’t resist going down to Wrigley after the Sox sweep the Cubs in their weekend series. At Racine and Addison a man in a Cubs jersey and a woman in a Sox t-shirt ask to go to the West Side. The woman immediately asks my baseball allegiance—letting out a wild whoop when she hears the right answer. Her husband acts outraged and threatens to jump out of the taxi. They’re in good spirits and well-lubricated after an afternoon in the ballpark. He shouts out the window, calling select passersby FAG for wearing the wrong thing. She just laughs at him. He threatens to stick NATO on people for unspecified wrongs that they’ve done him. He rails against “the beaners” and insists he always sticks up for white people, that he likes them. They’re Mexican and perhaps this comedy routine is for my benefit but it’s hard to tell for sure.

We eventually escape the post-game traffic and as we’re passing near Logan Square the woman remarks on how different it is around here than in Wrigleyville. Chicago’s full of different places, that’s one of the great things about it. She’s had it with the city though, she says they’re moving to the suburbs next week. I leave them at a Mexican grocery store to get tacos. She tells me for all his talk about loving everything white people do, he won’t ever eat their food. After driving a couple miles away I notice the cell phone she left on the seat and double back. They’re not in the store but I remember the intersection they originally asked for and catch up to them.

“YOU THE MAN!” he screams in my face as I hand over the phone, “we were just having a big fight about her losing that thing. Thank you so much!”

Returning her phone is the high point of the week. It all could’ve been much worse I suppose, though the radio reports of the violence on Cermak Street really bring me down. What is it that’s being discussed by our overlords at McCormick Place that we’re not allowed access to? Is a society that’s afraid of its own citizenry really free? I don’t see how it could be.

I hope our visitors were impressed but Chicago didn’t make me proud this week. The lockdown made me sad for my city.

Traffic Stop

About a month ago I was taking a passenger home to Lakeview from Midway and got pulled over for speeding. It was 9pm or so and we were on Lake Shore Drive nearing North Avenue. There was a good amount of traffic. The cop lights came out of nowhere. Cabdrivers develop a radar for cops the way dog owners develop a radar for dogshit but this one got the drop on me. Perhaps it was the pleasant conversation with the passenger that distracted me. He was as dumbfounded as I was at the officer’s sudden interest.

The gray-haired officer marched up to my passenger-side window and asked,

“Is there an emergency? Is your passenger going to the hospital?”
“No,” I answered, trying to keep my voice as calm as I could.
“TURN THE METER OFF RIGHT NOW!” he bellowed, though I’d paused it the moment I saw those angry blue lights.

I had my driver’s and chauffeur’s licenses ready, as well as a bond card to hand over so as not to lose my license while the ticket was being processed. He took the licenses but sneered at the bond card.

“Don’t bother. I’m pulling your chauffeur’s license,” he announced and walked back to his cruiser.

The city has a special set of fines reserved for cabdrivers. There’s a room at the traffic courthouse at 400 West Superior reserved just for us. This was where I’d be going in a month’s time. In the interim every time I renewed my cab lease or had to show my chauffeur’s license for any other reason I’d have to show the ticket instead. The shame of it was part of the punishment.

As we sat waiting the guy in the back told me he didn’t understand what was going on.

“You didn’t do anything wrong. In fact this is the calmest, safest cab ride I can remember. Don’t the cops usually give you guys a break?”

I stifled a laugh and explained that cops hate cabdrivers and that when ticket quotas need to be filled we’re the easiest targets. We’re out on the city’s streets 24-7, it’s like shooting fish in a barrel. I was going with the flow of traffic. In fact another car had passed me right before the cop stopped me. He picked out the cab on purpose. The bright paint job and toplight must be hard to resist for the men in blue. I apologized to my passenger for holding him up. Before we were rudely interrupted he’d been telling me how tired he was from his trip and how much he was looking forward to getting home and having a beer. He just sighed and said he was sorry I was going through this.

When the cop came back his mood had lightened considerably. In fact, he was whistling a happy tune as he gave me the ticket and instructed me to turn the meter back on.

****

A couple days ago I went to 400 West Superior for my court date. The queue of sadsacks waiting to take their lumps was good and long by the time I arrived. The city has a lot of leeway with these cabbie infractions. Depending on the mood of the court administrator the charge can be dismissed or it can be upgraded to a suspension. The last time I was here—to pay twice for a lightbulb that had burnt out—the administrator had recognized me from an article in the Sun Times about my book. He asked that I not write about him and that the next time he’d give me a break. I brought a copy of my book in with me so he’d remember. He greeted me warmly and asked about how everything was going, saying that mine was a great story and that I should be on TV. He looked the book over, obviously impressed. I reminded him about his promise but he shook his head sadly as he looked at my ticket, saying there wasn’t much he could do when it was for speeding on Lake Shore Drive.  He still knocked the fine down from $250 to $125. I thanked him and went out to the court room to wait for the judge to make the deal official.

The judge read out my admission of guilt and handed me a document to present to the cashier, who relieved me of $165 ($40 added for “court costs”) and sent me onto my next stop, the Department of Consumer Affairs, to retrieve my chauffeur’s license. About an hour later I was at the Yellow Cab garage paying my weekly lease as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. The cashier took my IDs and cash without comment.

The police harassment and exorbitant fines are just the price of doing business. The city wants and needs revenue and we contribute.

After that morning the dentist’s appointment later in the afternoon was something to look forward to.

Infequently Asked Questions

Do you have a question you've always wanted to ask about the cab industry? Send it my way and I'll do my best to answer it. You can either leave yours as a comment here or email it to dmitrysamarov at gmail.

If there are enough interesting questions I'll include them as a chapter in my second book.

Thanks in advance,
Dmitry

Laundry Night

It’s 11:45pm on a Wednesday and I’m waiting on a fare to come out of a house in Humboldt Park. The Gandalf says, “house in the back” after listing the address. I sit there getting no response from the dispatcher as to when the party might grace me with her presence. In the rearview I see another cab creeping up and stopping. It’s from a different cab company. This is a small side street so there’s no doubt that he’s here for the same people. In neighborhoods where cabs are hard to come by frustrated riders will call every company and take whoever comes first. We don’t acknowledge one another, both waiting to see how this plays out.

A black kid with a flat-billed ball cap level with his eyes and long shorts walks out of the gangway and leans into the other cab’s window. The cab peels out moments later and disappears down the street. The kid turns back toward the house, then hesitates and comes toward my cab.

“If you here for my Ma, you gotta go around back. That’s where the house is at,” he says.

I tell him cabs don’t usually do alleys—it’s a good place to get jumped—but the kid insists that the operator told him the taxi would come around back. I take a deep breath and say Fine. Sometimes I just can’t help wanting to see how a thing will play out.

At the back gate the kid reappears hauling two laundry bags that are almost as big as him. Got more? I ask, and he nods, breathing heavily before sprinting up the unlit passage in back of the house. I look around while he’s gone, noting the elaborately-graffittied viaduct wall at the foot of the alley, scanning for breaks in back gates and walls where unwelcome strangers might appear. Nearly ten minutes pass before a girl in pink pajamas and a boy in a dark blue sweatsuit come out, each struggling with a large trashbag full of clothes. They’re a few years younger than the first kid. They run, skip, and jump back into the darkness. The trunk is now full of laundry. I start the meter and keep waiting.

Fifteen minutes crawl by and the kid reappears, this time with two grocery bags full of detergent and a styrofoam to-go platter of what smells like left over chicken. He puts it all in the back seat. I tell him that I’ve been waiting on his mother for nearly half an hour now, that the first ten minutes were free but that she already owes me $8.65.

“Dang...She coming,” he assures me and runs back in.

I hear screaming back and forth between several voices before a tired-looking, haphazardly dressed woman appears with the two younger children. They’re carrying three or four more bags which we stuff into the back seat.

“Where he at?” she demands of the little boy, “go get him RIGHT NOW!

“I’ll tell you, this kid, goddamnit, I tell him to have all the laundry ready for when I get home from work, I get here and you shoulda seen the place. Clothes scattered all over the place. He piss me off so much...I’m sorry.”

She settles in the front passenger seat while we wait for the kid to show up. When he does she lights into him,

“You know I only got $20 for the cab ride there and back. Who gonna pay for it, huh?”

He crawls into the back seat among the pile of laundry bags silently and we shove off. They’re going to the all-night laundromat on Western next to the Empty Bottle. It’s only about a mile and half from the house but the fare is almost $18 because of all that time sitting in the alley. The kid and I unload all the bags quickly, making a small mountain by the laundromat doors. She doesn’t move a muscle. When I get back behind the wheel she hands me a $20. I give her two singles. She hesitates a moment then hands one of them back.

“That’s for helping with all that,” she says, finally moving to get out of the cab. “Thank you.”

Garrett's Popcorn

A girl with close-cropped hair walks up and asks if I’m available. This is at the corner of 21st and State and I’m checking my email after dropping off a fare at Reggie’s. I nod and she asks me to wait for the rest of her friends to show up. Three guys and one more girl come carrying balloons and small bags of Garrett’s Popcorn. They’re all dressed like they’d been at prom—an off-kilter adult prom at that. They pile in, balloons and all, asking to go to Berlin.

They talk about what people wore. There’s a lot of teasing and laughter, all of which fogs up the cab’s windows as we speed up Lake Shore Drive on this chilly night. A high-pitched male voice from the back announces that the two girls are moving in together.

“How long have you two been together, a couple weeks?”
“Eight months,” one of the girls answers, mock-defensively.
“Have you heard this one: What does a lesbian bring on a first date?   A tooth brush.”

Everyone in the cab’s roaring...

“...What does a she bring on a second date?    A U-Haul!...You can’t be mad at me either. I heard that from a lesbian!”

They all discuss how long it’s appropriate to date before moving in together. The consensus seems to be that eight months is too soon.

“Of course everyone in this cab’s gay so maybe it’s different in the straight world?” one wonders aloud. A moment later they’re asking for my take. I ponder it a moment then agree that eight months is probably a bit too soon. A cheer goes up from the back seat.

All this time the pudgy kid sitting in the front seat hasn’t said much. He’s dressed in a blue blazer that looks like it might belong to his dad and has spent much of the ride either stuffing popcorn into his face or napping. A voice from the back asks him,

“Gustavo, how you doing, girl?”

Gustavo wakes up and mumbles something back.

“Didn’t know you did drag, girl!”
“You haven’t heard of Mel-ahnie Ninja?” Gustavo answers haughtily.

From more of their conversation it’s clear that except for the girls these aren’t close friends but rather acquaintances. They’ve seen each other at the clubs. As we pass Spin one comments,

“I think Spin isn’t dreadful anymore like it used to be.”

One of the girls disagrees, sounding almost horror-stricken. At Berlin it turns out that only a couple of them are getting out. Seems that the girls have to judge a fashion contest at another dance club down the street and one of the boys has work in the morning. A couple of the boys pull all the balloons out of the cab and tidy up the back seat, apologizing for the mess. Gustavo hands me a bag of Garrett’s as he gets out, leaving caramel and cheese-covered popcorn all over the seat in his wake.

We drop the girls at a place further west on Belmont then head toward Uptown. I ask my remaining passenger what event they were all at. He says it’s called the Wonka Ball and it is indeed a sort of prom to benefit gay kids. He’s dressed in a burgundy-colored velvet jacket and ruffled shirt in a pattern I’d have trouble describing. He wouldn’t be out of place in Roald Dahl’s Chocolate Factory at all though. He tells me he does graphic design for the event then asks how long I’ve been with my girlfriend. He congratulates me and wishes me luck after hearing we’ve just moved in together.

His place is on Magnolia, just in back of the Uptown Theater. I drive off, getting to the bottom of that bag of Garrett’s before making it much more than a mile or two.

Saint Patrick's Day

Some snapshots from Saint Patrick’s Day on a Saturday night in Chicago.

• Driving my first fare of the day, a sweating man crosses our path on Ashland Avenue. His eyes are glassy, unseeing, as he stumbles past. Four or five necklaces of green plastic beads cover his wrongly-buttoned shirt and his fly’s all the way down. It’s only 2:39pm.

• Three girls, all in green, try to put one of those plastic leprechaun hats on my head as I’m taking them from Wicker Park to Lincoln Park. I ask whether they’d prefer to walk the rest of the way and the hat disappears. Then I tell them I’ve never celebrated Saint Patrick’s Day and makes them very quiet. They don’t get that at all.

• At a bus stop on Western Avenue a mohawked, shirtless man is doing a sloppy striptease for no one’s benefit in particular. He’s just about danced out of his pants by the time I lose sight of him.

• I pick up a man and three teenagers from Japonais. As we pull away, the kids shout, “WE HATE PIGS!” at the cop car parked out front. They’re headed to the Drake and all along the way the man—the father of one of the boys, I presume—points out women walking by. “Did you get a load of that, boys?” he keeps asking.

• A girl on Fullerton hurls so hard she loses her shoe and bangs her head into the side of a parked car.

• A couple and their big galoot of a pal get in on Ashland in Ukrainian Village. They want to go to the Pink Monkey but first we need to retrace their steps so the big guy can find the credit card he left at one of the last couple bars they visited. The oaf sits up front and asks if I have any Widespread Panic. I say I don’t even know their music which floors him. Apparently that’s his preferred soundtrack for a trip to the strip club. He hops out at Chicago and Damen to look for his card and after he’s crossed and re-crossed the street a couple times, the girl loses it and yells, “If you don’t get back in here we’re going to the titty bar without you!” After he finally returns the rest of the ride is spent debating where to stop for a bottle of booze to take in with them. The Pink Monkey’s BYOB. On arrival the big man asks if I’ve got a card so they can call me to pick them up after. I tell him I’m done for the night.

• After they’ve gotten out of the cab a man announces to his wife, “I’ve gotta hump this cab one time tonight,” then proceeds to do just that, rubbing himself against left rear corner of my Scion. Hope she didn’t marry him for his sense of humor.

• I learn from my passengers’ conversation that Groupon employees get bright green jumpsuits monogrammed with their names or a nickname of their choosing. It must be Saint Patrick’s Day year-round there.

•  In Lincoln Square I pick up a guy who turns out to be a sound man in one of the local taverns. I ask him how his night went. “You’re playing Television in the cab,” he answers, “this is the best part of my night.” He wants to know about my night and I tell him its been a long one. He wants to hear a “crazy” story but I just repeat that it’s been a long night.


• Towards the end of the night—about 4:30am—I’m leaving the Clark gas station at Diversey and Damen when another cab turns in and stops by the car vacuums. The driver gets out and throws all the doors open to air it out. He wasn’t as fortunate as I was; the pukers got him.

That image of that poor man cleaning out his cab is the one that lingers with me from the night. I was so fortunate to’ve dodged his fate.