I shall never forget the sight of Anya peering into the crate before she nailed the lid shut. She smiled bravely, leaned down and kissed me, her lips like rose petals. I wanted to pull her into the crate with me to hold her, keep her safe, but one of us had to remain on the outside to make sure we both safely boarded the train. When she closed the lid, I caught one last glimpse of her, the brave smile cracking at the last moment, revealing what I already knew, that she was frightened, which, to tell the truth, was no different from what I was feeling.
The word “bid” broke through my musing. Dale’s pointer touched the button to the far left on the bottom row of buttons, the top row containing eight compass designations for the eight geographic zones in which the city was divided.
“This is the most important button on your radio,” Dale said. “Your bid button is the one that makes you money.”
As Dale related, the bid button holds the exalted place at the far left of the radio, closest to the driver’s hand, not buried in the middle of the row of buttons like those designating the statuses of empty, acknowledged, destination or 10-7, which means on break.
When the bid button is pressed, the number marking one’s cab on the dispatcher’s computer screen lights up, signaling a driver’s desire to be considered for one of the available calls “on the board.” Dale said calls are given to the closest cab, that is unless the dispatcher determines there is need to shift the entire fleet in the direction of where there happens to be a glut of calls.
A lengthy dissertation followed concerning how to bid, when to bid, why to bid. How, when and why to bid with packages. How to use the question buttons and the difference between a “HiQ” and “LowQ.” Dale even discussed the simple matter of how to handle the cab radio, certainly an exercise in the obvious; I had had quite a bit of radio experience during World War II working with the French Underground. Indeed, perhaps organ-grinder monkeys might actually be able to do this job, that is, if they were allowed to drive.
It all seemed rather simple, actually, and after Dale concluded his highly repetitive explanation, the expressions worn on the faces of the other trainees seemed to relax, as if they were relieved that a new topic would be broached. Like the others, I found it a Herculean task to maintain my attention, even possessing a mental discipline superior to these children.
Dale placed a new piece of posterboard on the tripod. “This is a waybill,” he said. “Waybill being the standard industry term for the piece of paperwork cabbies use to keep track of what they do during a shift.”
I rolled my eyes. Or did my eyes begin to roll up into my skull. Before I knew it, I was once again staring at Nicole.
Fists pounding on wood broke through my slumber. I heard a crash and Anya’s agitated voice. Then, she screamed.
I could not even lift my arms.
I lay paralyzed, only able to listen to Anya’s screams, to the sound of a body loudly striking the floor and walls, the sound of tearing fabric, of smashed furniture.
By the time I could lift my arms and break open the crate, the garret was silent. Anya lay on the floor on the other side of the garret, her clothes tattered rags, her body a mess of bruises and abrasions, her lovely flesh ripped and torn asunder, her throat cut.
Bending down to close her lifeless eyes, my gaze shifted back toward the crate from which I had just risen. On the floor, next to the crate was her white lace tablecloth, a bouquet of roses, the shattered remains of a vase and a puddle of water, quickly spreading across the polished oak floor.
She had disguised the crate as a dining table, just to be especially sure the Germans would not inspect the contents for booty, covering the crate with an heirloom passed from mother to eldest daughter for two dozen generations.
No conscious thoughts directed my actions for the next several hours. Suddenly, I was no longer in the garret, having rematerialized in front of a quartet of German soldiers.
Then, I was kneeling on a soldier’s chest, ripping open his shirt, tearing flesh all the way down to bone, cracking open his sternum and sinking my fangs directly into his heart as his fellow soldiers watched in horrified paralysis.
I have no way of knowing how many German soldiers died that night, but accounts of my exploits were published in newspapers as far away as England, where the citizenry reading the more plebeian newspapers were entertained by accounts of “The Prague Mangler.”
Suddenly, I realized Nicole was staring at me. Or rather, she was staring at me staring at her. I quickly averted my gaze.
Dale explained how to take the beginning readings from the taxi meter and showed where on the waybill to record that information. It seemed he realized he was droning on a bit, that perhaps all this information was obvious; a certain sarcastic tone was apparent in his voice as he explained trips and units, the former being the number of times the meter is turned on, the latter being the number of additional “clicks” recorded through mileage and time not-in-motion.
He then walked us through a mythical shift and showed us how to balance our waybills at shift’s end. Oddly, though his tone was sarcastic, his countenance seemed to attach a high degree of importance to the general topic of paperwork. Perhaps, it was the “bean-counter” aspect of his being which caused him to do this.
Mercifully, Dale concluded his presentation and allowed us to take another ten-minute break. When we returned, he turned off the lights and showed a defensive driving film.
“This covers the basics,” Dale said. “We have an in-house defensive driving course that you will all be required to complete before passing probation. It’s about eight hours over a two day period.”
My fellow trainees groaned loudly. I heard myself groan. Dale smiled, making a show of shaking his head sadly. “Now, we do want you all to drive safely.” More sarcasm in tone, but obviously not intention. “Remember, an accident can and will ruin your day.”
When the training session ended, I departed as quickly as possible, but upon reaching the bottom of the stairs, my sensitive ears heard Nicole speak to the quickly emptied room, to no one in particular, thinking no one could hear her: “Where’d he disappear to so quickly?”
———
Three nights later, I sat waiting for my on-the-road trainer, in what they call “the driver’s room,” a cozy chamber full of chipped formica tables with a pair of adding machines on each and dented steel chairs in the vicinity of each table. The walls, once white, were a dingy gray. A stack of lockers stood against one wall, on top of which was an amazing collection of coffee cups, glasses, silverware and seat cushions. A small refrigerator and microwave oven were stacked in a corner next to a coffeemaker. Newspapers were strewn everywhere.
A pair of drivers, both heavy-set, sat at a table, balancing their waybills. They ignored me as I sat, idly thumbing through my training notebook, my trainer late. Finally, a tall, gangly fellow walked in whom I recognized; it was Kern from the Hiring Committee.
“The Count!” he exclaimed. “The Count. I get to train the Count. Hey, Bob, John, you gotta meet this guy. He’s the Count.”
They turned and stared at me, disinterest quite visible in their eyes. “Why do you call him ‘the Count,’ Kern?” one asked as he folded his waybill and slipped it inside a Manila envelope along with charge slips, call slips and cash.
There are no shadows. Vampires must hide in plain sight.
“Why do you think they call me the Count?” I replied, speaking in my best Bela Lugosi voice, staring at the driver with faux menace. Kern laughed loudly.
“Yeah, when we asked him the movie star question, this guy answered, Frank Langella. What’d you say, Count, that he brought ‘unprecedented sensitive sensuality’ to the role of Dracula? The committee got a good laugh outta that.”
Wonderful. Still a mere trainee, and I already had a diminutive variation of my name. However, despite the vulgarity, it seemed in my best interest to let them have their amusement.
“That so?” John or Bob asked.
�
�That is correct,” I said. “Actually, my name is Al. Al Farkus.”
“I’m Bob, this is John.” I shook hands with both.
“Whatever Kern tells you,” John said, “do the opposite. If you want to know how to do things right, just ask me.”
“Don’t listen to them, Count,” Kern said with a smile. He brushed his long, thinning hair out of his eyes. “Get trained by me, you’re learning from the best.”
Bob and John howled with laughter. “You so good, Kern, why you still driving nights?” Bob asked, heavy sarcasm in his voice.
“I make money at night,” Kern replied. “Don’t need to get spoon-fed to make my money, not like you day-jerks.”
“You make your money competing with rookies,” John said. “You wouldn’t make dick on days, competing with real cabbies.”
A few more barbs were passed back and forth, then Kern finally decided to commence my training.
“I’ve already punched in,” Kern began, “for both of us.” He swept his long arms in a slow circle. “This is the driver’s room. Our home. But this isn’t like in Taxi , the TV show. You shouldn’t be spending much time here. Drivers who spend too much time in this room aren’t making money. You make money only one way, being in your cab, ready to take a call.”
Kern gave me a short tour of the driver’s room, pointing out the bulletin boards. One bore announcements of committee meetings and meeting minutes, another displayed general information about the cooperative, as well as a lurid photograph of a crumpled cab with the heading, “Accidents will ruin your day.”
“This is Democracy Wall,” Kern said, pointing to a third bulletin board full of typed and hand-written letters. “You got a beef with anyone or anything, feel free to put it here.”
I attempted to read one of the missives, something about drivers who leave their cabs unattended by the gas pump, blocking access for anyone wishing to refuel their vehicle. The author seemed rather miffed though it was hard to tell, the childish scrawl barely legible.
Kern pulled me by the arm and dragged me toward a steel cabinet. “In here’s all the different forms you’ll need. Waybills, charge slips, leave of absence request forms, vehicle maintenance request forms.” He made a big show of taking a deep breath. “And accident report forms. But you won’t ever be needing to fill one of those out, right?”
Kern seemed to await a response to what surely was a rhetorical question. “Right,” I said finally.
“Okay,” Kern said. He strode toward the dispatch office, explaining that when reporting for work, you get a cab from either the dispatcher or one of the phone answerers, unless they are not yet giving out cabs. Then, you are put on the waiting list.
A dispatcher sat in front of a glowing green monitor. He stared intently at the half-dozen slips of paper that lay on the table before him, head cradled in his hands. “Nothing works,” he said. I was unsure whether he was talking to a driver or to himself.
I followed Kern around to the other side of the table where the phone answerer sat drumming her fingers on the tabletop next to the phone. “Ready for a sled?” the wispy young woman asked.
“A sled for two,” Kern replied. “Nothing too nice. Got a trainee tonight.” He turned toward me. “Rookie drivers usually don’t get to drive the nice cabs. But, hey, all cabs are good cabs. Yellow’s my favorite color.”
“Yeah, Kern,” the woman said in a perfunctory tone, rolling her eyes, “and all calls are good calls.”
“Al,” Kern said, “this is Sharon, phone answerer and dispatcher extraordinaire. Sharon , this is Al. The Count.”
“Why do you call him the Count?”
We repeated the previously played game—Kern’s game, but it seemed the height of rudeness to not play it as well. Besides, would a nickname not make me seem more “human” in the eyes of my fellow workers?
He plucked a key from the desk. “Sixty-six. You’re going to like this one.”
“Better not take that one,” Sharon protested. “Frank Nelson is working tonight, and he’s got a real jones for that sled. Don’t know why, it’s a real piece of shit.”
Kern rolled his eyes, dropped the key on the desk and picked up one in its place. “Seventy,” he said.
Sharon nodded and rapidly punched the keyboard in front of her. “Seventy,” she said, “another good cab for a trainee. Okay, you guys are logged and ready to go.”
“Thank you,” I said, then followed Kern into the parking lot as he went in search of our cab. “Always a problem, working later night shifts. Makes it hard to find your cab in the dark.”
Harder for mere mortals, I thought, having already spotted the cab in the back corner of the lot. “Over there,” I said, pointing toward the cab. Kern grunted with consternation.
He folded his tall frame behind the steering wheel and moved the bench seat nearly all the way back—he was a good head taller than me, and to think I was once considered tall— then immediately started the cab and turned on the heat. “This time of year, you gotta get the heat cranked right away. Cab’s colder than shit when you first get in.” He shivered. “We’ll be using my waybill, officially that is, but I want you to keep track on your own, as if this was really your shift.”
Kern showed me how to take beginning readings from the digital counter on the meter which kept a permanent record of total trips and units. The mileage reading came from the car’s odometer.
“First thing you should do,” Kern said, as we drove to the petrol pump, “is inspect the outside of your cab.” We parked at the pump, and I followed Kern as he walked around the cab. “She’s in good shape. No fresh dings or dents left by someone else for us to be blamed for.”
There were plenty of imperfections on the body of this behemoth. “How can you tell if a dent is fresh?”
Kern chuckled. “Fresh dents don’t got rust on ’em.” He pointed at the petrol pump. “Now, this is our refueling, inspection and cleaning station. There’s mirrors to check your lights. It’s well lit here, so you can inspect your cab. We got wiper fluid, which you wanna make sure you got plenty of this time of year. Also, we got solvents for special cleaning in case someone pukes, pisses or shits in your cab.”
“Charming,” I said, suddenly thinking about the cab’s rear-view mirror and trying to quickly conjure a contingency plan. My passengers would be able to look at the mirror and not see their driver!
“Now, we’re ready to rock and roll,” Kern said, after we had checked our supply of charge slips in the glove compartment, made sure headlights, tail lights, brake lights, backing lights, hazard lights and all turn signals were operational, washed the windows and filled the windshield wiper fluid reservoir.
“Remember, don’t leave the lot without bidding on a call, unless there’s nothing to bid on.”
“How can I tell?”
“Listen to the radio.”
I cocked my ear, but there was nothing but silence. “We are clearly bored,” the dispatcher finally said, the transmission clear, but crackling, a loud squawk nearly bursting my eardrums when he closed the channel.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“Clearly bored. That’s slang for a clear board, meaning there’s no calls. Let’s roll. Put on your seat belt.”
I complied, and Kern drove out of the parking lot, turned a corner, then turned onto a large thoroughfare with three lanes on each side, separated by a large median. A street sign read “East Washington Avenue .” Ahead, at the summit of a gentle rise, the Capitol glowed brightly. It was a lovely and majestic sight.
“Not much going on,” Kern said. “Let’s go check out some med-labs. Chances are you won’t be doing many deliveries driving late nights, but most of the nighttime deliveries are lab deliveries.”
Kern maintained a steady speed as he climbed East Washington, weaving around the occasionally car. He began to explain the process of bidding for calls. “All of your radio transmissions must be concise,” he said. “We use a lotta slang. Check the slang glossary i
n your manual. For instance, when bidding, you don’t have to say East Washington Avenue or West Washington Avenue . You can just say, ‘the Ave.’”
“How will the dispatcher know if it is East or West Washington?”
“They’ll know by your cross street. For instance, that street we just passed, Patterson? We’d call that, ‘Pat and the Ave.’ Same thing with some of these other streets. West and East Johnson is John. East Gorham is Egor.”
Kern caught me shaking my head. “Don’t worry,” he said. “You’ll pick it up before too long. The key is eliminating unnecessary words. You don’t have to say ‘street’ or ‘road’ or ‘avenue.’ The name of the street will be enough. And you don’t have to say ‘going to.’ ‘To’ is enough by itself.”
We circled the Capitol and turned onto West Washington. Kern pointed a couple blocks ahead. “The first med lab on our tour. The Meth. That’s the Methodist Hospital .” Kern reached down and pressed the 10-7 button. The dispatcher quickly responded, and my trainer explained that we were commencing a tour of medical laboratories.
After he showed me the Methodist Hospital laboratory and pharmacy, we were almost out the door on our way back to the cab when a security guard came running toward us, a plastic bag in his hand. “Got one for you,” he said with a smile.
Kern flashed a toothy grin, accepting the bag which held a vial containing yellow liquid, along with a pink piece of paper. He explained that the piece of paper was a voucher that should be stapled to a completed charge slip and handed in with the waybill at the end of the shift.
“Cool!” Kern exclaimed once back inside the cab. He pointed at a flashing red light illuminating the lower right corner of the radio. “See that? The dispatcher’s been looking for us. Most likely because he wanted to assign us to pick up this package. But we’re one step ahead of him. Now, when you return to your cab after being out of it, always check to see if that light is flashing. If it is, it means the dispatcher hit your call button, and you should immediately hit your HiQ button.” I reached down and punched the HiQ button. Kern smiled at my initiative and lifted the microphone from its cradle.
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