Vampire Cabbie

by Fred Schepartz

  “Seventy,” the dispatcher said.

  “Right here,” Kern replied. “If it’s about the package to GML, we already got it.”

  “Ten-four,” the dispatcher replied.

  “But hey,” Kern said, “we got a trainee here. How ’bout you nuke us again?”

  “My pleasure,” the dispatcher replied. A few seconds later, a loud series of beeps filled the cab.

  “Thanks,” Kern told the dispatcher. He replaced the microphone. “Dispatchers will also use the call button to get your attention if you’re not paying attention to the radio when they’re looking for you. You don’t want them to have to nuke you during rush hour. They get pissed if you do that too often, and if you get that kind of bad rep, the dispatchers might not see your bid light as quickly as more attentive drivers. But hey, don’t lose any sleep over it. A co-op is willing to work with people. Hell, I remember back at Yellow Cab, if you didn’t answer up right after a dispatcher called your number, they’d pass right over you.”

  I put on my seatbelt and watched as Kern did the same. Instead of moving toward our destination, he turned on the interior light. “Before we leave, we need to figure out the rate for this delivery so we can fill out a charge slip. Gotta keep up with that paperwork. So, gimme a rate from here to GML.”

  I shook my head.

  Kern snorted loudly, then explained how to calculate a rate from the delivery-zone map. His tone was patient, but he seemed to bristle slightly when I was unable to find GML on the map. Once he explained that there was a list of accounts, including addresses and the zones where they reside, it was easy to determine the proper rate. I retrieved a charge slip from the glove compartment and began filling it out. “How did you know it was going to the General Medical Lab?”

  “This delivery always goes to GML. Besides, that’s what it says on the voucher. Of course when you’re assigned the call, the dispatcher will give you all that information, but if you need to filter out some information, you can feel free to not hear the destination ’cuz ninty-nine times out of a hundred, it’ll be on the package. It’s the origin that’s important.”

  I completed the charge slip and handed it to Kern for inspection. He nodded thoughtfully, then crossed the name Farkus from the top of the charge slip and replaced it with his own.

  “Already thinking like you’re the one in charge here,” Kern said. “I like that.” Finally, he shifted into gear, and we were on our way.

  It was good that we went to GML because it seemed doubtful I could have found the lab on my own. At night, one has to park in a garage across the street and cross an enclosed sky-walk to get to the lab.

  After departing GML, Kern took me to a half-dozen other laboratories, concluding with the Red Cross where I was once again the butt of one his half-witted attempts at humor.

  “I saved the best for last, Count,” he said, as we drove past the sign with the large red cross. “We deliver a lot of blood, but remember, they don’t like it when drivers deliver boxes full of empty packets.”

  You may laugh at the irony of this, but be assured that underneath my feigned laughter lay no thoughts of how nice it would be to enter a blood bank with impunity. Did I not have a job to do? Was I not doing this for money? Kern had mentioned that sometimes we deliver food to customers. Certainly, if a human driver could complete such a delivery without eating the food, why would I not be able to deliver a box of blood without ingesting the contents of those nice little packages? Besides, chilled blood is as gauche to me as chilled red wine is to a human connoisseur.

  “Time to learn how to make money,” Kern said, after we left the Red Cross. He had me punch the empty button. As he had said, we were now “10-8,” ready to take calls.

  “Hear that?”

  “I am sorry. Apparently, I missed that last transmission.”

  “Okay, just listen.”

  A moment later, I heard the dispatcher’s voice crackle over the radio: “Odana and Grand Canyon.”

  “Ever use a radio before?” Kern asked, as he lifted the microphone from its cradle. I nodded. “Great.” He punched the bid button and handed me the microphone. “Remember, you need to know what you’re going to say before you say it. And we’re in cab seventy. I’ll make it easy for you.” He promptly pulled the cab over to the side of the road.

  The dispatcher called our number before I could read the street signs before us. I opened the channel and paused a moment before finally stating our location.

  “Seventy,” the dispatcher replied immediately, “the Radisson. Comes up.”

  I looked at Kern. “What is our assignment?”

  “Seventy,” the dispatcher said, “did you copy?”

  “I got it,” Kern said. “Just say ten-four.”

  And so I did, excited that we had finally gotten a call. But where was the Radisson? I knew it was a hotel, but the location and how to get there was a mystery.

  “Update the radio,” Kern said. “And you didn’t have to say ‘at the intersection of Blackhawk Road and University Avenue .’ Just Blackhawk and U.”

  I pressed the acknowledge button, then paused and consulted the radio zone map, but it was all gibberish. I hastily flipped through the training manual, found the listing of hotels, acquired the address of the Radisson, then matched it with the city map, again consulted the radio zone map and finally pressed the northwest button.

  “How do we get to the Radisson?” Kern asked once I had finished shuffling through my papers. He snorted as I reopened the map.

  “It’s at Grand Canyon and Odana,” I said after quick study. “We can get there from Mineral Point Road .”

  “How do we get to Mineral Point Road ?”

  “That is a good question, Kern.”

  “Well, check this out. Cab driver’s shortcut.” He took a sharp right and drove like a madman down a stretch of particularly bumpy road and past a cemetery. “This is Franklin . Franklin runs unabated from University to Speedway . Speedway turns into Mineral Point. Pretty cool, huh? No stop signs. No lights. A key to cab driving. Gotta keep moving. Remember, moving wheels mean big deals.”

  Big deals for whom? Was he not getting his usual commission plus an extra hourly wage for training? I felt pushed and was not completely certain it was all for my benefit. But I had successfully turned words into money. By the false bliss of heaven, I could do this. If someone like Kern could do it, if all these children I had seen around the cab company could do it, certainly I could as well.

  Shortly, we arrived at the hotel. As we pulled up to the front entrance, Kern continued his dissertation.

  “It’s what I call ‘the fine art of loading calls.’ It changes depending on time of day, whether the pick-up is a house, an apartment, a hotel, a bar or a restaurant. It’s always easiest when they’re right out there waiting, but you can never count on that.”

  Except there they were, waiting right in the lobby. I immediately pressed the destination button.

  “Very good,” Kern said with a laugh. “Of course, these guys, for once being ready to go when we got here, they’re not making my job easier.”

  The two men, quickly chilled by the night air, practically sprinted to the cab.

  “Howdy,” Kern said. “Where to tonight?”

  “State Street ,” one said.

  Kern shifted into gear, maneuvered out of the parking lot and turned on the meter. “Which end of State?” he asked. “Down by the campus? At Lake Street ?”

  “Just get us close to the bars.”

  “No problem,” Kern replied. “Oh, by the way, we’re training tonight.” The men grunted, then began speaking among themselves. I consulted the radio zone map again. I could find State Street and was pretty sure it was in the downtown zone, but wanting to be absolutely sure, I consulted the city map. Kern shook his head.

  “We’re moving, so we should be listening to the radio closely,” he rebuked. “Now, we’re a ways from the downtown, so we shouldn’t bid until we get much closer because the
re’ll be plenty of cabs already in that neck of the woods that’ll beat us on pretty much anything. If, on the other hand, we were going from the downtown to the Radisson, I would say bid on anything west.”

  “What if I hear an intersection called, but I am uncertain where it is?”

  “When in doubt, bid. The dispatcher might make fun of you over the air, but fuck ’em. And remember, if you get a call every time you hit the bid button, you’re not bidding enough.”

  It was becoming clear that Kern was quite the mercenary fellow, but who better to learn from?

  “Are you paying attention to our route?” Kern asked.

  “I am trying.” Mineral Point had become Speedway , curving around that lovely cemetery before turning into Regent Street at a queer five-way intersection where three different streets converged. “From here we would take Regent all the way to Park? Where we dropped off that specimen at GML?”

  “Not bad,” Kern replied, “but it’d be better to take Regent to Monroe, cut over by the stadium, then turn north onto Randall and east onto Johnson. Going downtown to deep west is pretty easy. Just three basic routes. Regent to Speedway to the Point. Monroe to Odana. Or straight out University, though you might want to take the Old Middleton cut-off. Remind me to show you that one.”

  My head spun with the names of all these streets. Fortunately, Kern quieted as the dispatcher called a cluster of intersections, some of which I actually did recognize as downtown and campus. Extensive mnemonics would be necessary.

  “Would now be a good time to bid?” I asked. We were much closer to the destination. Kern handed me the microphone. “State and Lake,” I said aloud to no one in particular, just an exercise, then I pressed the bid button and watched for street signs. Momentarily, the dispatcher took our perfectly executed bid.

  “Seventy,” the dispatcher said a moment later, “get the Six-oh-two for Peggy.”

  I acknowledged the call and held my peace until we dropped off our passengers. The fare was nine dollars. They smiled and handed Kern a ten and two ones, then wished me luck.

  “Where’s our next call?” Kern asked.

  I had written it on a piece of scratch paper. “The six-oh-two,” I parroted, “whatever that is. Wherever that is.”

  “It’s a bar, the Six-oh-two Club at six-oh-two University Avenue, also known as ‘The House of Sparkling Glasses.’ Great place. Year after year gets voted best dive bar, but that’s a lotta bullshit. Just ’cuz it’s not all glitzy and full of students, they think it’s a hole, but it’s the most intellectual bar in town.”

  My kind of place, I thought. “And where is it?”

  “Frances and U, right at the corner.”

  I promptly searched my city map for that intersection. Kern sighed loudly. I knew what he was thinking, but if it was necessary to look up every point of origin and every destination, so be it.

  “The fine art of loading calls, part two,” he said. “When you pull up to a bar or restaurant, give it about a minute, just to see if they’re watching. If not, we go inside and dig the person out.”

  A minute passed, and I followed Kern inside. The small bar was crowded and dark, made darker by the forest green walls. Bordello-red upholstery on the chairs, stools and booths glowed luridly in the dim light. Dust coated artwork covered the walls, giving the place a definite Bohemian feel to it. Kern edged his way through the crowd. The bartender seemed to know him.

  “Hey, Kern,” the bartender said, brandishing a glass goblet. “Schooner?”

  “Nah, I’m working. Unfortunately. Somebody call for a cab?”

  “Yeah.” He turned to his right toward a woman who was quietly smoking a cigarette. “Peggy! Cab’s here.”

  The woman turned toward Kern. “I’m right outside,” Kern said, then he turned and fought his way back through the crowd toward the cab.

  “The fine art of loading calls, part two, sub A,” Kern resumed once back in the cab. “Some drivers go into a bar and start yelling at the top of their lungs. You can do that if you want. I think it looks bad. Also, some drivers will stand over the passenger until they leave, then escort them to the cab. Again, you can do that if you want, but I’d just as soon do it this way so the person doesn’t feel so rushed. You probably get a better tip this way.”

  Shortly, the woman emerged, and we took her to her near-southside home, off Fish Hatchery Road , just past where it splits from Park Street . Once at the destination, he took the woman’s money and made change. The dispatcher recited a few intersections, and I heard the name “Fish.” Fish Hatchery? I hit the bid button, and by the time Peggy had left the cab, we had another call.

  “Very good, Al,” Kern said. I had not thought he was paying any attention to what I was doing. “Now, do you know where Martin Street is?”

  “No, but I can find it quickly on the map.”

  Kern shook his head. “Forget about that for now. You seem to have the radio down pretty good. I think it’s time for you to drive.”

  “Drive? Now?”

  “Sure, why not? I can see you know how to handle the radio. I can also see you don’t know where anything is, but there’s nothing I can do about that. Now, I wanna see you behind the wheel.”

  “Whatever you think best.” The moment of truth had arrived; something had to be done about that infernal rear-view mirror. I dallied for a short moment, snapping on my seatbelt, moving up the bench seat, which caused Kern to groan and surely wish for vehicles with bucket seats.

  “I hate short trainees,” he said as his knees pressed against the glove compartment, bending him into the fetal position. “Okay, for now, I just want you to drive. I’ll tell you exactly where to go, and I’ll handle the radio. I want you to concentrate on nothing but driving.”

  Momentary panic thundered into my being. Kern would not allow me to stall much longer, but then I noticed a small lever at the base of the mirror. Pulling the lever forward caused the mirror to tilt upward, giving me a view of the cab’s ceiling, yet the back window was visible.

  “Anti-glare position,” Kern said.

  “Ah, excellent,” I replied, shifting into gear and feeling the car drift forward. I turned right, coasted toward Fish Hatchery and when there was absolutely no traffic coming from either direction, gingerly pressed the accelerator. The vehicle responded, but not with the aplomb of my beloved Bentley and certainly not anything like my last Jaguar. It struck me as inconceivable that anyone could lose control of one of these relatively tame creatures.

  “Martin’s coming up on our right in about a half mile,” Kern said, “right before the Starvin’ Marvin’s. That’s a convenience store, locally owned by the Marvin family. They make great sandwiches, a nice thing to know if you get hungry.”

  The brightly lit convenience store glowed in the distance, but it seemed unlikely I would buy sandwiches there. At the appropriate street sign, I flipped the right directional indicator, slowed, braked and made the turn. Kern nodded his head after each small action.

  “Here’s the fun part,” Kern said. “Finding an address on a dark street. How’s your night vision?”

  “Not bad,” I said, proud to have drifted into the vernacular and doubly proud when I found the address with greater ease than Kern would have expected. He grunted, then grudgingly complimented me as we watched, only to see no one emerge from the apartment building.

  “The fine art of loading calls, part three. If it’s daytime and you pull up in front of a house, if you don’t see somebody coming out right away, you might blow your horn. You can do that at a small apartment building, too. But we don’t honk after dark. So, we hit the HiQ button, and when the dispatcher answers, we ask for a phone call. Also, it’s a good idea to say the address to double-check that you’re at the right place.”

  I reached for the HiQ button, but Kern stopped me.

  “Wait at least a minute before asking for the phone call. If the person comes out right after you ask for the phone call, make sure you tell the dispatcher.”
r />   “Another HiQ?”

  “No, just break right in.”

  A minute passed, and I requested the phone call. The passenger emerged shortly thereafter. His destination was Baird Street . I reached for the street directory, but Kern stopped me.

  “I’ll show you the way,” he said. “For now, I just want to see you drive.”

  This was just as well. Kern’s labyrinthine path toward the destination was far from readily apparent on the map, a classic demonstration that part of what makes Madison a complicated place to drive is the dearth of streets meeting at right angles.

  “That will be two dollars and fifty cents,” I said at the end of the ride. The passenger tried to hand me some bills, but Kern intercepted them.

  “We’re training,” Kern said. “I’m the bag man.”

  The man smiled. “Keep the change, but make sure he gets the tip.”

  “No problem,” Kern said. After the passenger left, my trainer pointed at the street sign that stood before us. “I want you to look up this street in your street directory.”

  Kern wore a knowing smile when I turned to him, perplexed after finding the street in the directory. “I don’t know any of these streets that are used as points of reference.”

  “I didn’t think you would. The street directory is useful because it’s quicker than reading your map, but it doesn’t do you any good if you don’t know the referenced streets. The map gives you a clearer picture, but it’s cumbersome and doesn’t really tell you the best routes. What might look like a real good shortcut may not be.”

  “May I assume that there is no replacement for knowing the city like the proverbial back of one’s hand.”

  Kern nodded. “Feel free to ask your passengers for help if you don’t know where something is. Generally, they’ll be perfectly happy to give you directions. Hell, it’s in their best interest. If someone’s gonna be a jerk about it, fuck ’em. To keep from looking like too much of a moron, you can say something like, ‘do you have a favorite route?’ That usually works pretty well. But also, play up that you’re new. That works pretty well for sympathy tips. Besides, no matter how well you know the city, always remember that you do have to go the way the passenger wants. After all, the customer is always right.”