We go west, slowing at alleys for no apparent reason, on a hunt with rules beyond my comprehension. Occasionally he barks out at passing men, their faces hidden in oversize hoodies—“Hey, where D? Know where he at?”—with no satisfactory answers forthcoming. After about twenty minutes, I tell him that I’ve got places to be, that rolling around with him all night’s not an option. He seems to understand and agrees to just go to the hospital and grab another cab back. “Let’s just check this one place first.”
That “one place” is another slum a couple miles southwest of where we’d been straying. Pools of broken glass collect near the curbs and reflect the headlight beams as we turn from one broken-down block to the next. Past unmarked squad cars out for bigger game, past pedestrians likely out looking for some elusive prize, past loiterers leaning on vehicles stilled for good. Protesting again about time lapsing, I manage to get us steered back homeward. Just then, he sees some invisible sign in the sidewalk that commands him urgently down the next unlit street. “This is it, I swear!”
We pull up to a two-flat, and he rolls down the window, summoning a man from the rocking chair on the porch. After some whispered negotiations, the new guy gets in and gives the street corner they want. Cop cars and paddy wagons whiz by at breakneck speeds. “Somebody got they asses shot for sure” is the verdict from the backseat. We turn off California a block from where all the sirens have come to rest. Here, a group based on the stoop of a boarded-up brownstone is doing a brisk business, passing baggies in exchange for bills to all comers. The loudly marked taxi causes the young entrepreneurs a bit of pause, assuaged quickly by the crumpled fives passed through the rolled-down rear window, and then we’re off.
After splitting their purchases, we drop his partner off and head back to his place. The trip to that hospital is no longer necessary; in fact, he wants to double back for another hit of the medicine doled from the stoop. He doesn’t protest much when I refuse. We end up back at that courtyard, same fellas still hanging around, apparently unable to meet my customer’s discriminating needs. On his way out, in appreciation, he offers, “You’re the type’a guy, people can’t help but like ya!” and with that he creeps away, hugging the bricks back to the entryway to his abode. That oxygen tank won’t be needed now.
Veteran
Outside the Continental at 2:30 a.m., he pulls up behind me. “Anybody in there?”
Waiting for the late-night revelers on a Tuesday night can be a test of endurance. Luckily, my newly arrived compatriot is willing to part with a smoke in exchange for a dollar, marking the occasion by also lighting up.
“Been driving cab since ’73 and’ve never seen it this bad,” he offers, his scraggly white beard yellowed around the mouth from nicotine. Thick glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose reveal watery eyes. Despite the mild temperature, his winter coat is buttressed by a vest, sweatshirt, and untold other hidden layers. “Had one radio call since 9 p.m., I owe ’em $20 for last night. Tomorrow I gotta go to the doctor, but I might blow it off because there may not be enough for the bus fare. I need to feed my animals too . . .”
He’s been writing science-fiction stories on a manual typewriter for years, though with no luck getting anything published. The latest involves a human-size insect who’s also a detective. This insect-detective discovers the remains of a person’s arm, chiseled to the sharpest point ever detected on his planet. “The ‘e’ has given out, and I don’t know if anybody can fix it. Used to have an old guy, whole house filled with typewriters; gone now. Wanted to sign up for computer classes at the Senior Center on Lawrence and Damen, but the waiting list is five months long.”
He swings the door out, followed by a cane from the passenger’s seat, and puts a foot on the ground. Just then, the Gandalf dispatch system emits a sustained beep, alerting him that a fare is waiting; he reverses the steps with deliberation and a lack of breath, then pulls away, saying, “Norwegian Hospital” by way of a good-bye. Two satiated patrons finally emerge from the Continental, and I drive them to a downtown hotel. An hour and half’s worth of purgatory is quickly converted into $12.50.
WEDNESDAY
This day can go either way: you can rake it in or struggle just to make your expenses. A wild card of a day that can push the rest of the week into the red or the black depending on how it breaks.
Breakdown
I get to the garage at 6:30 a.m., hoping to beat the rush. All my cab needs is for the AC to get fixed—it is just blowing hot air. How long should a job like that take? An hour or two, right? Wrong.
They start right away, and I spend the first couple of hours painting a picture of cabs inside the garage. By the third hour, I periodically wander over to look toward my cab, which is being attended to by a kid who looks to be about twelve. Sometimes it’s raised on the lift, other times back down. Other mechanics come by to consult or offer encouragement. When questioning the shop manager, no definitive answers can be gleaned.
In case of breakdowns, the driver is instructed to inform the cashier and to give them the cab’s meter, thereby putting him in line to get the next available cab or to be compensated for lost time. Of course I didn’t do this, figuring it would be a quick job, so when asking the manager if there might still be a few pennies thrown my way, his answer isn’t much of a surprise. Cab companies make sure the driver gets the short end of the stick; it’s practically in our lease agreement.
At the fourth hour, the mechanics break for lunch, my cab remaining in the same spot with the hood up. By then, I’d positioned myself with a clear line of vision trained on my teenage tormentor and his seemingly futile efforts. At hour seven, the manager takes mercy and after a stern talking-to about proper procedures, issues a shop credit. Shortly after that I’m back behind the wheel.
Fifteen minutes after turning on the AC, the car is overheating and there’s a new squeaking sound coming from the vicinity of the front right wheel. Without the AC on, it runs OK, about the same as before it was ever brought in.
The Voice of America
I pick him up at the bar on the corner of Damen and 18th, the one with the model trains in the window. “What’s the dollar extra for?” he asks after lumbering into the backseat.
“Gas surcharge,” I say, spurring a look of disbelief and a response implying: $3.25 just to sit my ass down!?!
“There ain’t no gas shortage, just a lot of greed, and these politicians are in on it . . . If McCain wins, nothing will change, and the other one’s a monkey, in more ways than one . . . It’s not the same America anymore, more like the United States of Zimbabwe . . . I used to drive in New York, and I’d get into fights with ’em just for fun, the Africans and the Arabians.”
We stop briefly at a service station, where he gets out and peels off some bills for a mechanic in the garage, then huffs and puffs before settling back into the passenger seat.
“Know any good Indian restaurants near Union Station?” he asks, then consults the White Pages he has with him, settles on an address, and directs me onward. “Most places by me are all grease. If it was up to me, they’d blow up all the McDonald’s, so when I’m downtown I figure I’ll try something different. I own a coupla tow trucks—let others do the driving—but maybe I’ll get my license back one of these days . . . Trying to start up an Internet thing too, drop-shipping—electronics and baby supplies, they’re pretty hot these days.”
We pull up to his Indian restaurant, which turns out to be a Jewish deli. Doing his best Pakistani accent, he conveys his appreciation for having an American cabdriver for a change, slowly gathers his belongings and proceeds out to have his “ethnic” meal.
You Know Where I’m Going
I pick him up at the Gas For Less station on Lincoln. He is overweight and a little disheveled but otherwise doesn’t seem unusual.
He gets in and says, “You know where I’m going.” I don’t and tell him so. What follows is a back-and-forth lasting a good five minutes; he can’t believe it; he is convinced I know .
. . Meanwhile the meter is running as we drive west on Irving Park for want of a more precise destination. Finally, he makes peace with my ignorance and launches into a rambling account of his life story; our friendship sealed by the $20 he gives me. He tells me about how his family has been in Chicago a long time, pointing out buildings they’ve owned along the way. We’re heading south on Pulaski now. He says that he’s had some problems, has been living in Indianapolis, but is back in town to perform his one-man show impersonating Chris Farley at Second City. Periodically through this saga he would ask how much money he’d given me, growing more satisfied each time I repeated the same answer; we’re now best buddies. By and by, he breaks down and tells me where he wants to go.
We pull up in front of the Lathrop Homes projects at Diversey and Damen. It’s after 5 p.m., rush hour, and the guys hanging out front are doing a brisk business. My friend hands me another $20 and tells me to wait, running out in the direction of the young men. After a bit of back-and-forth, he’s pointed toward a window at which he proceeds to scream at the top of his lungs, “GIVE ME DRUGS!!!!!”
The two guys look over at me with a look that says, What have you unleashed on us? It’s about then that I decide there had been enough entertainment for the evening and tear out of there without looking back.
Wrong Moves
A middle-aged suit-and-tied black gentleman gives directions from Ukrainian Village to River North. Two blocks from his destination, we detour to the CITGO for cigarettes, where he chats up a young woman who is loitering outside. From the cadence of her voice, it’s clear that she’s either a junkie or a mental defective, but most likely a bit of both. They return to the cab as intimates, their hushed talk continuing en route. They get out near a motel, his eyes not meeting mine as he gives an overgenerous tip.
They recap their evening spent playing Rock Band in giddy tones. Two guys in their twenties, drunk but not hammered, clearly loving life. “Shit. She asked me to pick up double-stick tape, but they only had Krazy Glue—you think it’ll be OK?” one of them wonders aloud; apparently his fiancée asked him to run the errand, and it had slipped his mind. They debate whether she’d care or not, seeing as their wedding is tomorrow; is it a deal-breaker? “Don’t worry about it, dude,” his friend concludes. “She loves you, and there’s practically no difference between the two.”
A young man in aviator shades flags me down at 23rd and Western. His buddy was locked up for a DUI, and he was there to bail him out. The charges were upgraded because the genius had floored it right in front of a police station, so there would be no walking out today. In his despair, he’s decided to get wasted at a Mexican joint, leaving $50 on a $20 tab. As we ride down Western, he tells me to stop at a liquor store, his pal’s plight overwhelming him. He invites me to go to the movies, saying a bucket of buttered popcorn would go great with Ketel One Vodka, but though I’m a fan of both, I have to politely decline. His girlfriend calls then, asking him to come over and bring some condoms, so I’m off the hook.
They shove her in the backseat against her wishes. She’d been in the middle of the street outside the Continental, yelling at passing cars and dancing drunkenly. They’ve had it and ask that she be taken home. It is somewhere less than a mile away, which is as specific as it ever gets because all my questions are met with silence or incoherent babbling; the word address is answered with phrases like “I am address, NO . . . why are you mad at me? I don’t want it.” Asking for her wallet for clues, she produces her makeup case instead. There’s no choice but to go back to the bar where her friends welcome her with less-than-open arms.
Customer of the Month
Mounds of plowed packed snow narrow the street to one car’s width, so when the headlights near in the rearview mirror, it’s necessary to pull up to the cross street to let them pass. A little guy appears as I’m reversing the cab back to the address, follows alongside, and gets in as it comes to rest. “Twenty-first and Michigan,” he says, then returns to a very much out-loud inner monologue.
Moans and retching sounds punctuate his oratory; the feeble radio talk show volume can hardly compete. Mental images of vomit on the backseat cannot be kept at bay. The cleanup and confrontation to follow feels like a dread certainty. “The Jewel on Roosevelt and Clark,” he commands, interrupting the demons midsentence.
It is really at the corner of Wabash, so after making it clear that was what he wanted, we pull into the grocery store’s lot. “I’ll be right out,” he yells, getting out on the driver’s side into oncoming traffic and bolting through the automatic sliding doors.
An examination of the rear seat turns up no mess, only a scattering of his belongings. An asthma inhaler placed into the handle of the door, crumpled singles (immediately confiscated with foresight), a stocking cap, two clear baggies containing little white pills, a shopping bag with a key ring and used napkins, and an occasionally vibrating cell phone.
Twenty minutes crawl by, the meter ticking away as late-night shoppers run in and out of the store, and no sign of the guy. Finally he appears, at the tail end of the only open checkout line. Moments later he’s being half-dragged/half-carried by the scruff of the neck, in the paws of the hulking security guard, who’s trailed by a displeased cashier.
Gathering his crap, I head inside, knocking on the unmarked door into which they’d disappeared. His screamed protests supply the soundtrack, as I hand his belongings over to the cashier. “He don’t have no money for no cab,” she kindly offers, before wishing me a good night.
Deluge
I pull up to the 7-Eleven, driving a guy on a mission to get Ben & Jerry’s. Lightning lights up the night as rain alternates with hail, pelting the cab and making visibility barely a hope. The couple stands cowering in the doorway, obviously stranded by the deluge. I roll the window down enough to tell them I’ll be back, as my fare is only going a couple blocks farther.
I maneuver around downed light poles and trees, through newly formed lakes, and back to that store; they huddle together as before. His stop is first, and they kiss for a minute or two before he runs to his door. She apologizes for the necking as we pull away, to which I reply that as long as the backseat is left as they’d found it, there is no problem. First date? Of course it was. They’d remember it too, as the day the sky fell to earth.
She’d known him for three years and suspected that they’d both harbored a secret crush for that long. She’d been reading a Russian novel called Three Seconds’ Silence about a sailor in a storm. This inspired her that day to bite the bullet and ask him out. Without turning back to look, it is obvious that she’s glowing; it had gone so much better than she imagined. “We were wondering if we’d even make it home, could’ve stayed in front of the 7-Eleven making out all night.”
She pays and runs across Halsted to her place. I go on. Through blacked-out city blocks, windshield wipers failing to keep up, squeals issuing from the soaked undercarriage of the cab, the night a bit brighter despite all evidence to the contrary.
THURSDAY
This is the start of the weekend for some. The bars won’t be as full as on Friday or Saturday, but there’s often steady work from the afternoon on. Some begin their celebrations early; others wait until the wee hours. Thursday is the day the search for companionship (or just a warm body) begins in earnest.
Ohio House
The man asks to be taken to the Westin Hotel off Michigan Avenue. He talks about living here years ago in that nostalgic way that hints at wild times and freedom long since traded for comfort. As we wait for the green at Ohio and LaSalle, he looks out the window at the northwest corner and says, “My uncle used to own that place in the ’70s before selling it to the Archdiocese of Chicago.” He’s pointing at the triple stack of diamonds comprising the sign of the Ohio House Motel.
“That coffee shop’s one of those greasy spoons that you leave actually covered in grease,” he jokes, before abandoning the subject.
I drop him off, but his story lingers. Who knew whether
it was truth or tall tale? A ’50s-era motor lodge overshadowed by the supersize McDonald’s to the east and other chain eateries assaulting the eyes in every direction, the Ohio House would be a better fit on some secondary roadway far outside of town. Yet there it is on the Ohio feeder off the Kennedy Expressway, waiting for vehicles slowing to surface-street speed. To the tourists trapped in the bottleneck, it whispers of seedy doings from long ago, its perpetually half-filled parking lot suggesting that business is somewhat less than booming.
Before the old owner’s nephew, my last fare to remark on the place had been four frat boys gloating about the stripper they’d stashed in a room there as part of a bachelor party weekend. The timid ritual transgressions of their last hurrah seemed third- or fourth-rate, older even than the roadside landmark that hosted them.
Those flattened diamond shapes, echoed multiple times along the roof and elsewhere in the design, burn onto the retina and repeat, fading into the back of my brain without ever truly disappearing.
Love Hotel
I pick them up in Wrigleyville after another Cubs loss. An average-looking couple, probably in their early thirties; they want to go to Union Station, so off we go. No more than a minute in, the girl’s head disappears from view, followed by some rustling around, movement, and adjustments. Three-quarters of the way there, the girl pops up and asks if they can go to Downers Grove instead of the train station. After that, the guy surfaces to ask whether it’s OK if they “play around,” to which I wonder aloud why he’d ask now, seeing that they were pretty far along already. As long as they leave the place the way they found it, I’m fine with it. Hearing what he wanted to hear, he goes back under.
As we get on the highway, a flip-flop-clad foot appears in my rearview mirror. It moves along the ceiling trying to find the right spot, eventually settling on the rear window of the cab. Thereafter, various body parts flicker in and out of view. I try to concentrate on the White Sox game on the radio.
Hack: Stories from a Chicago Cab Page 5