Nite Cap

It was nearing three o'clock on a Sunday morning, the hour at which bars disgorge their more dedicated patrons. Eastbound on Irving in Portage Park, when a round-faced woman ran out from the Nite Cap calling, "I've got one more inside, will you wait please?" I turned on the meter and waited. The marquee above the door advertised a week's worth of heavy metal cover bands. She came back out with a blond version of herself in tow. "I can't believe I got a cab this quick out here, thought for sure we'd be stranded for hours," she said. "You're our hero!"

They were probably in their early 40s, dolled up for a night out, with makeup showing the strain of many hours' service. The brunette gave a Roscoe Village address and we shoved off. I hopped on the Kennedy to skip a few traffic lights and when we exited on Addison, they asked if we could stop at the White Castle on the corner of Kedzie.

The drive-through queue wrapped around the white, parapeted shack. Undaunted, the ladies passed the time recapping their evening. The blond apparently had been making out with one of the longhairs inside the Nite Cap when her friend dragged her out to the cab. "He was kinda cute, right? I wrote my number across his whole forearm, he said he was still going out, so maybe he'll call later..." The brunette laughed and asked me my name. "We're 80s rock chicks, you could tell, right? You know, we like those metal dudes." The line inched forward and they bitched about what a fortune this cab ride was turning out to cost.

Our turn came, and the blond launched into her order without any bidding. Her friend squealed for her to shut up. She asked if I wanted some burgers and when I said, "Not these..." she conceded that nobody really wanted them and that they'd be paying for this decision before morning broke. Finally prompted by the feedback-laden squawk from the speaker, the blond recited a list that included sliders, fries, chicken rings, fish nibblers, and half a dozen other items, racking up a $25 bill—which at White Castle is quite an impressive amount for two.

The rundown of their night continued as we inched toward the window, "We're not on Taxicab Confessions, are we?" one of them asked. When it was time to pay, the blond read the credit card swipe instructions out loud: "'Slide in and out quickly!' That's what she said! Hahahahahaha!" Her friend asked me how sick of them I was by now. They both tried, with little success, to chat up the kid with the headset in the window.

Fast-food smells permeated the cab as we pulled back out onto Addison. They grew quiet, rustling wrappers, unable to hold off until home, hunger replacing lust. On the brunette's street we turned south and stopped just past the second speed bump. They stumbled out, leaving a trail of wax-paper wrappers in their wake. And so their Saturday night ended with no prince despite a trip to the Castle.