“I have heard that saying before.”
“Well don’t forget it, Count. The customer is always right, that is, unless they’re a raving psychotic.”
That last remark gave me pause. Raving psychotic? Just how psychotic might a raving psychotic be?
Finally, I shifted into gear and eased forward, retracing our previous steps and moving north toward the downtown. Kern pointed out a strip of bars along Park Street , saying we get many calls from those establishments. He pointed to his right as we passed the intersection of West Washington and Park, saying it’s called “the five points” in cab slang. We reached Park and Regent, which brought an earlier association that was somehow helpful in painting an internal geometry; Regent also crosses West Washington. This whole area is one big triangle.
“We call this Spaghetti Corners,” Kern said. “Before urban renewal, this was a Italian neighborhood, Sicilian mostly, but the city tore it all down. Prejudice mainly. Hell, contrary to the movies, most Sicilians are not actually in the Mafia. The ‘Tenderloin’ may not have been the prettiest place in the world, but it was a real, honest-to-God ethnic neighborhood.”
“Where did these people go?” Hulking medical buildings loomed on either side, shrouding in long shadows the apparent remaining businesses, Josie’s Restaurant and Fraboni’s Deli.
“The suburbs. Wherever they could afford. Supposedly, during that particular urban renewal period, the Italians were paid considerably less for their homes than their Northern European counterparts. Anyway, that’s just a little Madison history from someone who’s lived here his whole life. So, what should we do now?”
The radio was silent. I would have thought that with the cold weather, there would be more people calling for cabs. “I do not know.”
“Finding a cab stand wouldn’t be a bad, but I have a better idea. Can you find your way to the airport?”
“I think I know where that is. Shall we go there?”
“Ahead, warp factor seven, Mister Sulu.” Kern laughed. “Y’know, there’s an amazing mental process that goes on when you get assigned a call. It’s kind of like having a little Starship Enterprise inside your head.”
So, it was a twenty-year-old television show to which he was referring. I have watched the show on occasion and found it mildly entertaining, though it seems astounding that these humans are so fascinated with outer space, where none of them will ever go, while there are so many mysteries on this planet that they take for granted every day of their lives.
“You get a call, and it’s like there’s a little Captain Kirk who orders a little Mister Chekov to plot a course. Then, once the course is plotted and laid in, a little Mister Sulu takes you where you want to go.”
“Fascinating,” I replied. Kern laughed at that. He seemed well at ease, hopefully due to my performance. It did occur to me that Kern might have the power to say he did not think I would be suitable for the task of driving a cab. My radio acumen was satisfactory, and my driving was more than satisfactory. Obviously, my knowledge of the city was limited, but had I not passed their geographic test? How much would they expect?
“I’ll say one thing,” Kern said, practically reading my mind. “You drive well. Don’t think I haven’t been watching. Of course, some trainees I’m almost scared to watch, but you drive very sanely. You use your turn signals. You seem comfortable behind the wheel, and you’re never in too much of a hurry. That’s good. Very good.”
“I have been driving quite a long time.”
“Too bad you’ve been driving in Madison only a short time.”
“You are concerned?”
“Yeah. If you knew the city, I’d have to say you’d make a great cab driver, but you don’t, and it worries me. We’ll talk about that later. For now, just get us to the airport in one piece.”
“Aye aye, Captain.”
At the airport, Kern pointed out a circular area which he said was the taxi-loading area. There are six parking spaces there, he said, and only six cabs are allowed in the stand. Additional cabs must sit in the adjacent overflow area or risk getting ticketed by airport security.
“They love writing us cabbies tickets,” he said. “It’s bullshit. They need us, but they treat us like shit. You know, the guy who runs the airport was one time actually quoted as saying that cabs at the airport are like fleas on a dog.”
The ready stand was full, and a few cabs sat in the overflow area, but there appeared to be no one inside waiting for baggage. I wondered if we would stay and speculated what value the cooperative would garner from paying Kern an hourly wage just so the two of us could sit at the airport, but my trainer had altruism on his mind.
“Slow time,” Kern said. “Let’s head back uptown. I’m not much of a trainer if I let us just sit here and shoot the shit for an hour waiting to load.”
We left the airport and ran about a half-dozen calls before Kern announced that our training session was complete. His announcement felt abrupt. Had he decided my training was adequate? Or had he felt that no amount of training could make up for a total lack of geographic knowledge? As we drove back to the office, I glanced furtively at his face, trying to read an expression that was totally enigmatic.
Kern showed me how to refuel the cab and take the ending readings. We parked the vehicle and gathered up all our belongings, then returned the cab key to the dispatcher, who, in turn, removed the calls slips from the appropriate hook on the large peg-board next to him, stapled the stack together and handed it to Kern.
Kern sat me down in front of an electronic adding machine and walked me through the process of balancing a waybill at shift’s end. He counted his money and handed me a five-dollar note—my share of the tips. After we completed the paperwork, he seemed impressed, then plucked an evaluation form from his rucksack and began filling it out, explaining each point as I watched.
“Driving, I’ll give you a five.” Categories were each judged on a numeric scale from one to five, five being the best. “Radio skills, another five. You were shaky at first, but got it down pretty good. Paperwork, a definite five, but when you’re anally retentive, paperwork comes pretty easy. Customer relations, another five. That Old World charm should work pretty well, especially with the women.” He winked at me.
The last category was “knowledge of the city.” I held my breath as Kern wrote a two on the form. At the bottom, a line read, “should this trainee be hired?” Kern paused, tapping his pen back and forth between the box that said “yes” and the one that said “no.”
“Your knowledge of the city is not good, not good at all, and I am very concerned about that, Al. Now, there is something you have to understand. Just because the Hiring Committee decided to hire you, that doesn’t guarantee you’ve got a job here. All new drivers are on probation when they start. They have to pass probation before they become members of the cooperative. As of right now, you don’t have any of the rights a member has. You could get fired tomorrow and have no right to appeal.”
I held my peace, held my breath, waiting for Kern to complete what the Americans would call his pregnant pause.
“Also, I want you to know, as a trainer, I can recommend that we not hire somebody. Management is free to ignore me if they want, but the few times I’ve said, ‘don’t hire this person,’ they have listened to me.”
Another pregnant pause. What was Kern implying? I wished he would just say whatever it was he wanted to say. How typical of these commoners. They crave power, and when they finally get it, all they can think of is how to use it against their betters.
“With seasoning, I see absolutely no reason why you can’t eventually become one hell of a cabbie. You’re smart, you do everything else well. Your knowledge of the city will come in time. I am therefore recommending that we hire you. And, considering that you’ve mastered everything else, and that you’re simply going to have to get to know the city on your own, I’m concluding your training, as of now.”
“That is wonderful!” I grabbed Kern’
s hand and shook it vigorously. “When may I start?”
“You’ll have to talk to Kevin about a schedule. Give him a call tomorrow. He’ll set you up. Just remember, take it slow. No one’s gonna expect too much from you right away. As long as you don’t crack up any cabs.”
“I will remember that.”
“Also remember, we will be watching you, Al. Granted, I’m telling you to take it slow. I’m telling you we never expect too much from rookies right at the beginning, but do not forget, you are on probation, which means you can be terminated at any time. It also means that if you’re not cutting the mustard, your probation may be extended past the standard guidelines.”
“I understand.” My tone quickly shifted from enthusiastic to solemn.
“Bottom line, everybody’s gotta pull their weight. We have the interests of the entire membership to keep in mind. You’re allowed to work through problems, to make mistakes, but only up to a point. We need drivers who make money. We don’t need drivers who cost us money just to have them on the road. Capiche?”
I nodded soberly. “Yes. I understand.” Quite fully.
Chapter 5
Working For A Living
The most remarkable aspect of my first night driving cab was that the weather was downright balmy for early December, death to a business dependent on inclement weather. However, this was a determination made only in retrospect, the basis for normal weather not within my lexicon, though it did indeed become quite aesthetically pleasing when the first snowflakes began to fall.
But for that first night, it proved quite the inauspicious beginning. No matter, had Kern not said to take it slow in the beginning?
He also had said, “We’ll be watching you.”
I shall never forget my first cab, though, with luck, maybe the memory will fade over the next several centuries. She was not a pretty sight, the exterior covered with dents and mottled with rust—the phone answerer who had given me the keys described the cab as, “rusty but trusty.” Indeed! The upholstery was torn and stained, and the driver’s seat bore a huge indentation from too many obese drivers. As I settled behind the wheel, a spring pressed into my buttock. I sank down a few inches, making it difficult to see over the cab’s hood. Though the night was warm, it took several tries to successfully start the vehicle before it finally whimpered to life, belching a cloud of black smoke. And the cab did not ride any better than it looked. The acceleration was sluggish, and the shock absorbers were virtually non-existent, causing me to wonder if human drivers of this cab would pass blood when urinating.
What had Kern said? All cabs are good cabs? But some cabs are better than others, and over time I did get to drive much nicer vehicles than this. Unfortunately, rookie drivers often find themselves driving the worst cabs in the fleet, partially because, when they select, they lack the knowledge of what cabs to seek and what cabs to avoid. Also, rookie drivers often end up driving what no one else will drive, not wanting to appear too choosy, thus giving themselves the reputation of a prima donna.
Nor shall I ever forget my first call. The cab had been inspected inside and out, all variety of lights checked, mirrors adjusted, windows washed, windshield wiper fluid reservoir filled, charge slips all in good supply, seat belt clasped in place, the microphone in hand and there were calls on the board. I hit the bid button and waited for the dispatcher to respond.
“Fifty,” the dispatcher said after what felt like an incredibly long time.
And now for my very first bid. I trembled with excitement. “Back lot.”
“Head up, fifty,” the dispatcher replied. Either the business was uptown or the dispatcher suggested an improvement of my existential outlook.
“Ten-four,” I replied, then shifted into gear and moved with controlled alacrity toward the calls. The dispatcher called off the board, and again I hit the bid button.
“Fifty,” he said after calling a few other cab numbers.
I keyed the microphone and spoke, watching for the next intersection. “East Washington and … Patterson.”
“Fifty, reading the streets signs, the Paradise.”
“Say again?” That was what Kern had said I should say if I did not understand a dispatcher’s transmission.
“The Paradise Lounge.”
“Where and what is that?”
“Mister Farkus, the Paradise is a bar. Just off the Square, at Carroll and Main. Do you copy, Mister Farkus?”
“Ten-four,” I said, momentarily annoyed that he had seen fit to use my name twice in one transmission and was using a rather impudent tone. Are these people so insecure that they feel the need to humiliate their betters whenever they get the chance?
Still, excitement filled me because this was my first call on my first scheduled shift, my first chance to actively participate in the rebuilding of my fortune. My first chance to relearn how to fend for myself. Kevin, the operations manager, was kind enough to honor my request to work during the best money-making shifts, while allowing for my “special needs,” providing a schedule of 6 PM to 4 AM, Tuesday through Thursday, and what they call “circle shifts”, 8 PM to 6 AM, Friday and Saturday.
Having consulted my street directory, I proceeded toward where my call should have been only to find impediment in an angry red sign reading “DO NOT ENTER” at the intersection of Main and Carroll. After circling the Capitol Square again, I found the other end of this block and yet another truculent sign bearing an arrow pointing to the right with a line through it, the lettering underneath reading, “Except bikes, buses, cars and police-authorized vehicles.”
The traffic light at my intersection turned green, but I did not move. What in the name of all the false gods of heaven was meant by that sign?
The light turned red, then when it turned green once again, I threw caution to the wind and made the turn, noticing a restaurant, Crandall’s, a bar, with big letters just above the front door, The Shamrock, a glass door, with steps leading upward, The Rising Sun, which I suspected might be some sort of house of ill-repute. Next to that establishment was a plain wooden door, which bore no lettering that I could see, and the door after that was another bar, with a large, green neon sign in the front picture window. Clancy’s. I promptly hit my HiQ.
“Where is the Paradise?”
“Carroll and Main.” The dispatcher responded to other questions before even waiting to hear my acknowledgment. I hit the HiQ again.
“Yes, Mister Farkus. What can I do for you?”
“I am at Carroll and Main, right around the corner from the Inn on the Park. Where exactly is the Paradise?”
“Right in front of your nose, fifty. The door immediately west of the Rising Sun. And, Mister Farkus, try to make your transmission more concise.”
“Ten-four.” Had I not been reasonably concise? This dispatcher seemed not a nice fellow, but I shoved that thought to the back of my mind, then backed up a few feet and parked, the Rising Sun directly to my left. Just west was that plain, wooden door, with no window, no neon, no brightly painted signs. My gaze moved upward. Three-quarters to the top of the two-story tan brick building hung a plain black and white sign, so dingy that the lettering seemed to blend in with the background. “Paradise Lounge.” This was the correct place.
The fine art of loading calls. That is what Kern called it. He said we go inside bars and restaurants to “dig out passengers.”
No one waited in front of the bar. No one emerged. After about a minute, I went inside. The bar was dark as a cave, the wood paneling absorbing almost all the light. The air reeked of cigarette smoke and stale beer. Though the darkness was certainly comforting, the bar itself was a bustling beehive of humanity, and that is something that has always seemed queer about these mortals—their incessant need to crowd amongst each other and then perhaps complain about how the bar is so crowded, causing them to depart to yet another crowded bar.
“Someone call for a cab?” I quietly asked the bartender.
He was a cadaverous fellow with deeply-s
et eyes and greasy hair. It almost made me wonder if he perhaps was the one who had dined on the college student who had so kindly provided me with sustenance less than two weeks ago. “Yeah. Granny! Cab’s here.”
“Granny” looked up from her perch at the end of the bar, a drink in front of her.
“I am right outside, ma’am.” She nodded at me, and I turned to leave. Shortly, she emerged, her clothes hanging loosely over an emaciated body. When she neared the cab, I got out and opened the back door for her. She smiled at the gesture. Do cab drivers not exercise common courtesy, let alone chivalry? A lady is a lady after all!
“Good evening. Where may I take you?”
“Twenty-five forty-six East Johnson.”
Ah, that would be east of the Capitol, presumably 25 blocks east. And Johnson runs parallel to East Washington, to the north, if mnemonic-enhanced memory was to be considered correct.
“Do you have a favorite route?” I asked. Then, remembering Kern’s advice, I added, “you are my very first passenger.”
“Ohhh, well, I’m just kitty-corner from Steven’s Restaurant. Know where that is?”
“My apologies, ma’am, I do not.”
“Well, just take the outer loop around to East Washington, go to sixth and hang a left. Uh, yeah, it’s after six, so you can do that. Hang a left on sixth, turn right on Johnson, and I’m right at the end of the block. On the left hand side.”
“Right away, ma’am.”
Kern’s words—be nice, and make conversation—echoed inside my skull. “I trust you have had an enjoyable evening?” I asked.
“Oh, yeah. Not bad. Just a couple cocktails. Been going to the Paradise near a quarter century. Used to go there after work when I worked at Rennie’s. Remember Rennie’s?”
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