red and headed south on LaSalle.
"Hey, where're you going?" the guy in the sweatshirt wanted to know.
"The Sheridan Plaza," I said.
"Why didn't you go straight to the Drive?"
I lifted my hand in a too-late-now shrug and turned left on Maple.
The meter read $5.70 when we pulled up in front of the Sheridan. "I'm getting out here too." The guy in the sweatshirt broke my heart. He handed me six dollars and waited for the change, then slammed the door.
I cruised north, thinking about Rollie.
Maybe I didn't remember picking him up because I'd never seen him before. It didn't take a genius to figure out I was a cabdriver. Not when I'd pulled up to the front door of the 24-Hour Pantry behind the wheel of a Sky Blue Taxi.
And if Rollie really did get off work at midnight, that's right when he'd need a cab. A few minutes to clean up, a few more minutes to bullshit with the overnight shift, and right about then Lenny would be walking through the door to pick up a newspaper, or maybe a six pack of beer. "Hey, Polack, remember me? I'm the guy who bought you that cup of coffee last week. You mind giving me a ride home?"
It would be hard to say no.
I exhaled, as if I'd been holding my breath all day, then relaxed in the seat. Maybe it was just a crazy theory but then again, maybe it wasn't.
Maybe the reason Rollie had decided not to drive a cab was because he'd figured a way to get the same money without the bother of actually getting behind the wheel.
At Division and Dearborn, a Yellow was angled towards the curb, picking up passengers. I was going around when the light changed. I stopped halfway into the crosswalk, a couple of inches over the center line.
An American-United Cab, making a left, was having a heck of a time trying to fit through the space I'd left. The driver, an old white guy with long, stringy hair, and the face of a heavy drinker, finally managed to line the cab up, then he crept forward slowly with both hands tight on the steering wheel. He had about a foot and a half to spare on either side.
As he pulled abreast, he looked my way. "Typical A-rab," he said, and he continued past.
All my relaxation went right out the window. "Hey, fuck you, you senile motherfucker," I shouted. "I could put a Mack truck through that hole."
His cab came to an abrupt stop and then started to back up. I grabbed the mace. A limousine, following the cab, laid on the horn.
The cab stopped, the driver still a couple of feet beyond me. He stuck his head out the window. "Who you calling an old motherfucker?" he shouted. Brother, this was one ugly cabdriver.
"Who you calling an A-rab?" I asked.
"You drive like one," he said.
"And you drive like an old motherfucker, pal. You better find a new line of work."
I saw he was warming-up to spit, but I had the green light by then so I stepped on the gas and got the hell out of there. "Dumb motherfucker," I said to myself.
I went up Dearborn until it ended at the foot of Lincoln Park, then switched over to Clark Street and continued north, the park on my right.
The cab business was not the business to get old in, I knew. I wondered how long the old guy had been driving. Thirty or forty years, I guessed, and now his reflexes were shot. His vision was almost gone and his judgment had taken the same one-way trip. He probably got robbed once a month and had passengers run out without paying every other night.
It was a glimpse of my own dim future, I decided. If I didn't figure something else out soon, or if someone--like my new friend Rollie--didn't shoot me first. Was that his game? I wondered. Was he setting me up with small talk and free coffee?
I kept driving but my heart wasn't in it. I couldn't keep my mind off Lenny, Lenny and my new friend Rollie.
I hardly saw my passengers. They were just people heading home from work, or out for the night. People complaining.
"Driver, shouldn't we have turned back there?"
"Driver, wasn't that a twenty I gave you?"
"Driver, where the hell you
"Hey, where're you going?" the guy in the sweatshirt wanted to know.
"The Sheridan Plaza," I said.
"Why didn't you go straight to the Drive?"
I lifted my hand in a too-late-now shrug and turned left on Maple.
The meter read $5.70 when we pulled up in front of the Sheridan. "I'm getting out here too." The guy in the sweatshirt broke my heart. He handed me six dollars and waited for the change, then slammed the door.
I cruised north, thinking about Rollie.
Maybe I didn't remember picking him up because I'd never seen him before. It didn't take a genius to figure out I was a cabdriver. Not when I'd pulled up to the front door of the 24-Hour Pantry behind the wheel of a Sky Blue Taxi.
And if Rollie really did get off work at midnight, that's right when he'd need a cab. A few minutes to clean up, a few more minutes to bullshit with the overnight shift, and right about then Lenny would be walking through the door to pick up a newspaper, or maybe a six pack of beer. "Hey, Polack, remember me? I'm the guy who bought you that cup of coffee last week. You mind giving me a ride home?"
It would be hard to say no.
I exhaled, as if I'd been holding my breath all day, then relaxed in the seat. Maybe it was just a crazy theory but then again, maybe it wasn't.
Maybe the reason Rollie had decided not to drive a cab was because he'd figured a way to get the same money without the bother of actually getting behind the wheel.
At Division and Dearborn, a Yellow was angled towards the curb, picking up passengers. I was going around when the light changed. I stopped halfway into the crosswalk, a couple of inches over the center line.
An American-United Cab, making a left, was having a heck of a time trying to fit through the space I'd left. The driver, an old white guy with long, stringy hair, and the face of a heavy drinker, finally managed to line the cab up, then he crept forward slowly with both hands tight on the steering wheel. He had about a foot and a half to spare on either side.
As he pulled abreast, he looked my way. "Typical A-rab," he said, and he continued past.
All my relaxation went right out the window. "Hey, fuck you, you senile motherfucker," I shouted. "I could put a Mack truck through that hole."
His cab came to an abrupt stop and then started to back up. I grabbed the mace. A limousine, following the cab, laid on the horn.
The cab stopped, the driver still a couple of feet beyond me. He stuck his head out the window. "Who you calling an old motherfucker?" he shouted. Brother, this was one ugly cabdriver.
"Who you calling an A-rab?" I asked.
"You drive like one," he said.
"And you drive like an old motherfucker, pal. You better find a new line of work."
I saw he was warming-up to spit, but I had the green light by then so I stepped on the gas and got the hell out of there. "Dumb motherfucker," I said to myself.
I went up Dearborn until it ended at the foot of Lincoln Park, then switched over to Clark Street and continued north, the park on my right.
The cab business was not the business to get old in, I knew. I wondered how long the old guy had been driving. Thirty or forty years, I guessed, and now his reflexes were shot. His vision was almost gone and his judgment had taken the same one-way trip. He probably got robbed once a month and had passengers run out without paying every other night.
It was a glimpse of my own dim future, I decided. If I didn't figure something else out soon, or if someone--like my new friend Rollie--didn't shoot me first. Was that his game? I wondered. Was he setting me up with small talk and free coffee?
I kept driving but my heart wasn't in it. I couldn't keep my mind off Lenny, Lenny and my new friend Rollie.
I hardly saw my passengers. They were just people heading home from work, or out for the night. People complaining.
"Driver, shouldn't we have turned back there?"
"Driver, wasn't that a twenty I gave you?"
"Driver, where the hell you
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