Long Nights

July 14th, 2010 - Tyler - permalink

Another slow night in the cab. The streets were vacant, other drivers dropping off the radar like 16 year old sailors. What little money I made from my first trip had to be burned on coffee two hours later.

She was standing alone on her cell phone in the parking lot of Men’s Warehouse. The conversation she was having when she got in told me her ride home expected her to wait there for half an hour. She wasn’t having it.

The young woman in the red shirt had some kind of sinus problem, she snorted heavily through both of the calls she had en route. The second was with her boyfriend.

They played a cheerful game of “who’s mad at who,” back and forth, where-in she tried to explain that she “wasn’t tryin to be on that same shit she was on,” with some other dude. The fact that he couldn’t get that she was no longer on that shit, turned the tables, made her mad at him, again, and consequently, the victor.

The down time was making me so tired I couldn’t even drag pen across paper. Wandering aimlessly around zone 10, back down Sterling Ave to Crusen’s on Farmington Rd.

With the coffee ingested I popped out of the black Scion to smoke a cigarette and felt like I could finally write. That’s when the trip phone usually chirps, after hours of waiting, the moment I’ve settled in and opened a book. Naturally, it did.

The screen revealed my destiny at Circle K on University and McClure, going to the Hurlburt House, slightly in the South End, right off MacArthur. Not a bad trip, but I’d proceed with caution. The last driver who was gunned down picked up at that very gas station.

My customer met me in the parking lot after climbing out of an SUV. The man was wearing red mesh shorts and an old tank-top over his belly.

The smell of his cigarette hit me and I asked him to put it out.
“Wait, wait, wait,” I said, realizing we were surrounded by flammable material. I pulled off to the side and he tossed it in the bushes.

“Hurlburt House?” I asked
“Yeah, but hold up a minute,” he said, fumbling with his phone. He told me it was new and it took a few minutes just to place the call.

“What up? yeah, I’m on my way down. got money to get down there, money to get back–
“Got you $10 til tomorrow, plus I got your cigarettes. Alright, you gonna come down and meet me at the door? You gotta let me in. Aight. You got a can for me? Just look around for an empty can…”

I took it he didn’t like the response. The phone clicked off.

“Nevermind, man, just take me home…ain’t fuckin around with this nigga…” he said. I knew that was bad news.

Home was Parkview Estates, I found out, when he told me to take a right on Gale and pull over…roughly five blocks away. The meter read $4.00. He handed me a five. It was spotted with dry blood. “Just give me a dollar back.” I did.

He began searching his pockets. “Sorry, man, I didn’t mean to have you taking some broke ass trip when you could have been picking someone else up…”

At least he considered that. It was something.

“I’m trying to find you a tip,” he said, organizing his effects on the backseat, and reorganizing them. I heard keys rattling, coins jingling in his pocket, saw two packs of cigarettes, a folded stack of bills and his cell phone…I wondered what exactly he was having trouble finding.

After another minute he said “forget it,” and handed me the one back.
“Thank you, I appreciate that.”
“Sorry again about that, man.”
“Hey, don’t worry about it. Shit happens.”

Including the first trip, I’d booked about $15 in three hours…which meant I’d take home maybe $5.50, after giving the company their half and putting gas in the tank.

I took another drink of my coffee and headed back toward Crusen’s to finish my cigarette. It was going to be a long fucking night.