by Jack Clark
Violations of the following Rules and Regulations are Major Offenses: Solicitation; Refusal of Service; Deceptive Practice; Assault; Abusive Behavior; Operating Under the Influence; Reckless Driving; Failure to Surrender License; Bribery; Driving While License Suspended or Revoked; Failure to Display License; False Report of Lost License; Unlicensed Operation; Unlicensed Vehicle; Unsafe or Unclean Vehicle; Overcharging; Leased Vehicle Driven by Other Than Lessee; "Diving" - O'Hare; Unattended Cab - O'Hare.
City of Chicago, Department of Consumer Services, Public Vehicle Operations Division
Even with Ace's words ringing in my ear, I couldn't stay out of the old city. He was right, I knew. Once you got away from the trendy lakefront neighborhoods, much of the city was garbage. But sometimes I felt more at home in the shabbier parts of town, cruising streets that reminded me of the city I'd known as a kid.
I was on Fullerton near California when an old white guy peeked out of a doorway, then raised an arm into the air. I pulled to the curb and he hobbled over, opened the door and leaned inside.
"A nickel to Logan Square?"
"It's gonna be a little bit more than a nickel." I waved him into the cab.
He was a little old man, shriveled with age. It took him a while to get in. First he backed up to the seat then he lowered himself slowly while holding the door for support. He lifted his legs, one at a time, and pulled them into the cab by hand.
Logan Square, where Kedzie and Logan Boulevards meet Milwaukee Avenue, was less than a mile away. The boulevards were tree-lined streets with broad parkways on either side. Large houses and stately two-flats were left over from another era.
This was one of the neighborhoods that real estate agents tried to promote as the next Lincoln Park. This was the great Chicago dream. Any crummy neighborhood might
become the next Lincoln Park, where fortunes could be made buying buildings cheap from people like my father.
There was $2.20 on the meter when I stopped in front of a neat frame house, stuck between dilapidated apartment buildings. It didn't look anything like Lincoln Park. It looked like the next San Juan.
The old man dropped a five dollar bill over the front seat. "A nickel," he explained.
I killed the engine, grabbed the keys and the five, and walked around the cab to help him out. He went through the same routine with his legs, lifting them out one at a time. I held my hand out. He reached up, and I pulled him out of the cab.
He stood there breathing hard, holding the door for support. "Never get old, young man," he said after a while. "Never get old."
I reached into my pocket and pulled out two singles. "Here," I said. "You gave me too much."
He waved it away. "Keep it," he said. "Hell, I got plenty of money."
"Why don't you find somewhere else to live?"
"I've been here my whole life. Where would I go?"
A few doors down, a couple of punks were lounging in the doorway of a run-down apartment building. If the old man was lucky they would never hear about all his money.
I headed to Milwaukee Avenue and then turned southeast. Just past Logan Square, a guy in a fancy yellow jacket jogged across the street and stuck out an arm. I slowed to look him over. He had three strikes against him. He was skinny, which meant he might be a junkie. He was young, the age of most cab robbers. And he was Puerto Rican in a neighborhood loaded with Puerto Rican gangs. Everybody had guns.
But he was well dressed and he'd waved in a nice casual manner. I stopped a couple of car lengths past and he hurried up and opened the door.
"Thanks man," he said sliding in. "Thanks a lot."
"Where to?"
"California and Chicago."
"I'll drop you right on the corner," I said as I turned south on Sacramento. He looked okay but that didn't mean I wanted to take him down any dark side streets. And there were some very dark side streets just around the corner from California and Chicago.
"That's cool," he said.
"You making any money out here?" he asked a few minutes later.
It was one of those questions I hated to hear. "I just started," I said evenly, and I slid the canister of mace out of the ashtray and set it on my lap.
"Why you guys all so afraid?" he asked in a near whisper.
"Who's that?" I asked, and suddenly I could feel the blood pumping through my veins.
"Just seems funny that every time I get in a cab the driver just started."
"Maybe you're asking the wrong question," I told him.
"Okay, Mr. Cabdriver, what am I supposed to say?"
"Why don't you just sit back and enjoy the ride."
"Man, I've tried that. Just makes 'em more nervous."
"Well, when you get in a cab," I said, and then I stopped because I'd never really thought about it.
" 'Cause it's a real drag sitting back here and the driver's thinkin' I'm gonna rob him."
"You're not robbing anybody," I said as hard as I could.
"That's what I've been trying to tell you."
"I knew that before you got in," I went on with the show.
"How can you be so sure?" he whispered, and he leaned over the back of my seat.
I stretched my right arm out and dropped it on top of the guy's arms. He pulled them out from underneath and dropped back in the seat.
"I've been doing this for twenty-five years and nobody's robbed me yet." I was lying on both counts. "They've tried but they haven't pulled it off."
"Twenty-five years." He whistled. "You must be like Super Cab."
"That's me all right," I said, and he finally shut up.
A minute later there was some movement back there. I glanced in the mirror and the guy was completely turned around, looking out the rear window. There was nobody behind us and one lonely car two blocks in front. We were in the middle of Humboldt Park.
The last time I'd had a passenger look out the window like that, he'd turned back around with a knife in his hand.
I was doing about 45, 15 over the limit. But where were the cops when you wanted them? I goosed the engine a bit and positioned the mace in my left hand, but it wasn't going to do much good if the guy had a knife or a gun. The trick was to keep rolling and not slow down. If we turned left at Division Street, I'd be heading out of the park.
The guy turned back around and then he just sat there. I couldn't figure out what he was waiting for.
Division was just two blocks ahead. This was the heart of the Puerto Rican neighborhood. It wasn't the safest part of town. But there was a 24-hour gas station at the corner of California. There would be cars and people. It would be the perfect place to throw him out of the cab.
A block before we got there I looked in the mirror and the guy seemed relaxed as hell. He was sitting back there watching me, with just the hint of a smile on his face. It was like he was waiting for me to throw him out. As if he could read my mind.
The light turned green in front of me, and just like that, I figured out the game. "How many free rides you get with all this bullshit?" I asked as I turned right. I looked in the rearview mirror and he broke into an easy grin.
"Oh, you know, sometimes it works," he said.
"You must get bored awful easy."
"Stop right here," he said.
I angled towards the curb, a half mile short of where he'd told me to go. "Three-twenty," I said, and I turned with my right arm up on the back of the seat, the mace ready in my left hand.
He handed me four singles.
"Keep the change, guy," he smiled, and then sat there with the door open, one foot on the pavement. "One guy shit his pants, man," he said. "I could smell it. You believe that, man? He shit his pants."
I didn't say anything. He got out and closed the door.
"Yo," he called.
I turned and he stuck out his hand like it was a gun, pulled the trigger and broke into laughter. I held up a middle finger, made a U-turn, and drove away.
I headed east towards the lakefront. It was the one
part of town where--day or night, rain or shine, good times or bad--someone always wanted a cab.
I was on Diversey in Lincoln Park, when a young couple, clean-cut and white, stepped out of a 24-hour drugstore. The guy was wearing extra-large shorts and a flowered shirt. He was trying to pretend that he wasn't cold. The girl had been smart enough to wear a jacket. She lifted the hem of her skirt several inches and stuck out her thumb.
The guy held the door open and the girl climbed in. "Hey," she said in a low, raspy voice. She had blond hair and a nice smile.
"Hudson and North," the guy said. "Go through the park."
"Be cheaper to go the streets," I said.
"Yeah, but I got my baby with me," he said in a low voice. "The park's more romantic."
"Oh, baby," she whispered, and she fell into his arms.
I headed east, then followed the curving lanes south through Lincoln Park. We passed the zoo. None of the animals made a sound, but I heard the guy say, "A bed is a very personal thing."
I looked in the mirror. The girl smiled back. "That's why I love him," she said. "He says the dumbest things."
"This girl doesn't have a bed," the guy let me know. "You believe that? She spent every last dime to buy a house in the worst neighborhood in town and now she doesn't have enough left for a bed. We have to sleep on a couch."
"Why don't you tell him why we go to my place?" the girl challenged him.
"Oh, I think he can figure that out," the guy said.
"I get the picture," I agreed.
"We go to my place because his apartment is such a mess we can't go there," the girl explained. "I mean, he's got dishes that haven't been washed in months. The place smells like the inside of a laundry hamper. There's dirty clothes everywhere, and," she paused dramatically, "he's got roaches." She whispered the last word.
"Now why'd you tell him that?" The guy sounded honestly hurt.
"Oh, he doesn't care," the girl said.
"As long as you're not my neighbor," I said. "You guys getting out at the corner?" I asked as we got close.
"That's great," the girl said.
"Fuck that," the guy said. "Turn left at Sedgwick and come in off Blackhawk. I ain't walking around out here."
"It's not that bad," the girl said.
"It's all fucking black," the guy disagreed.
"Not for long," I said as we turned. The south side of North Avenue was still mostly black, a buffer zone between Cabrini-Green and the white world. North of North Avenue the neighborhood was mainly white and wealthy.
"See, that's what I've been telling you," the girl said. I made two rights and we drove up a block of small houses and two-flats. "They won't be here forever. Besides, most of them are very nice."
"Right here," the guy said.
"You're just a big bigot," the girl let him know.
"Four-seventy," I said as we stopped in front of a small brick house. The guy handed me six.
I worked the late bars until they closed and before long even the bartenders were home.
I was on State Parkway, just past the Cardinal's mansion, when a big, healthy-looking guy with a head full of thick, black hair and a puzzled look on his face, staggered out from between parked cars.
He stumbled over to the driver's door, drunk as a skunk, and smelling about as bad. "Christ, this is so stupid," he said. "I'm looking for my car."
"Where'd you leave it?" I asked.
"Somewhere 'round here," he mumbled.
"You got any money left?" I asked.
He searched his pants first, then his sports coat. After a while he found some bills in an inside pocket. He said something I didn't understand and waved the money around.
"Well, why don't you give me some of that and we'll drive around and see if we can find it," I suggested.
He peeled off a twenty and held it out tentatively. I snatched it out of his hand and then reached back and opened the door. It took him a while to get in, and then a while longer to close the door, but finally he was all settled and I started driving.
State Parkway was a street of swanky highrises and old stately grey stones. It was the kind of neighborhood where a parking space would probably rent for as much as my apartment.
"What kind of car we looking for?" I asked.
"Red," he said.
"Well, that narrows it down some," I decided. "You gonna know this thing when you see it?"
He didn't answer.
I glanced in the mirror. He was sitting crooked. His feet were still over by the left door but his head was all the way on the right side, flopped against the back of the seat. His eyes were open but they wouldn't be for long. "You can't sleep in here," I said.
"Huh?"
"Come on, sit up straight." I reached back and tried to straighten him up.
"What're you doing?" He shook me off and straightened up a little on his own.
"I'm trying to find your car but you won't tell me what it looks like."
"Red," he said again.
"You're a big help, pal." I lowered all the windows, hoping the cold night air would keep him awake, then drove slowly down the street.
We passed plenty of red cars, and the old Playboy mansion and the Ambassador Hotel, but the guy never said a word. At Division, I turned right and drove past the bars, all closed for the night.
"You wan' a nightcap?" the guy mumbled.
"They're closed, pal," I said. "They're all closed."
I made the right on Dearborn and cruised slowly up to the end of the street which put us just west of where we'd started. "Where do you live?" I asked.
"Cleveland," he said sadly, and I knew he didn't mean the avenue.
"Too bad," I said, and then something occurred to me. "Wait a minute," I said, "is this a rental car?"
"Hertz," he said.
"Oh, fuck them," I said. "Call 'em in the morning and tell 'em somebody stole it. Where you staying?"
"Hyatt," he said.
"Which one?"
He hiccupped. "O'Hare."
"That's perfect," I said, and I switched the meter off and back on and started out North Avenue. There was hardly any traffic. Most of the drunks had made it home and the day people were still snug in their beds.
Just before the river, a tall, black hooker, in white short-shorts and a shiny white vest, was leaning against the brick wall of a shuttered factory. As we approached she opened the vest wide, exposing two enormous breasts.
I tooted the horn.
"Sweet, Jesus," the guy moaned. "Get a load of those tits."
"She's got a set alright," I said as we headed over the river, past the old Procter & Gamble plant, now closed and FOR SALE.
"Wait a minute," the guy said. "Stop!"
"Huh?"
"Go back."
"You out of your mind?"
"I want some nigger pussy," he said with a bizarre southern accent.
I didn't slow down. I made the light at Elston, barely slowed for the light before the expressway, made a right on red and hit the ramp leading towards O'Hare.
"Where the fuck you going?" he shouted.
"I'm taking you to your hotel," I said.
"Asshole," he said. But then he relaxed. We were doing 65. What was he going to do, jump?
"Christ, did you see those tits?" he asked after a while. "I mean were those tits or what?"
"She had a set," I had to agree. "She definitely had a set."
Nobody said a word for a while. We cruised along, out there in cabdriver heaven, no traffic, no stop lights, not a word from the back seat. The meter was pumping like a heartbeat, twenty cents every few seconds. Little flashes of red adding up to a buck twenty a mile. Better than seventy-five dollars an hour at this speed. If I could just find a way to stay on the highway and keep the damn thing turning all night long.
"Three days," he said after a while. "You believe that?"
"Whatever you say," I said.
"I used to be out for weeks," he said. "I don't know how I did it."
"Jesus, Mary and Joseph," the guy said softly.
"Sixteen forty," I said, when we pulled up at the hotel. The twenty was to look for his car. The trip to the hotel was a separate matter.
He went searching through his pockets again and finally found the roll. He looked from the bills to me, to the meter, back to the bills.
"Sixteen forty," I said again.
He still looked puzzled. "What happened to the car?"
"You decided to call Hertz in the morning," I said. "It's sixteen forty."
He pulled another twenty off the roll and held it out. I grabbed it. "Sixteen forty. Out of twenty," I said. But I didn't move to make change.
He looked at the bills again and dug through and found a five. I grabbed it before he could change his mind.
"Thanks," I said. I got out and opened his door. "Welcome to Rosemont."
It took him a while to get out, and all the while he was struggling I was watching the floor where a couple of bills were getting trampled under his feet.
"Three fuckin' days," he said as he staggered towards the lobby.
I waited until he was through the revolving door then I reached into the cab and picked up the bills. Two singles. Well, it was hard to complain. I'd gotten forty-seven bucks for a twenty dollar trip.
I know there are people who would say I was a thief and they could probably make a case. But I didn't hit him over the head. And I didn't let him get behind the wheel of a car. And he didn't end up face down in an alley with all his money gone and a case of AIDS to boot.
I was a cab driver. I did my job. I got him home.
A chauffeur shall thoroughly search the interior of the vehicle for lost articles immediately at the termination of each trip.
City of Chicago, Department of Consumer Services, Public Vehicle Operations Division
I was on Lake Shore Drive and there was Lenny, out in the left lane, driving with no hands. Something moved and I spotted a black guy hiding in the darkness of his back seat.